Dance. Dance. Dance.

It’s been a while since I last sang out loud in a football stadium, by which I mean sang and really meant it. It was a lot of fun to drone along with the 80’s synthesizer beats of Milan, sempre per te last November. My Spanish and Catalan really don't reach beyond Atleti Atleti and the first verse of the Barcelona Hymne, respectively and quite frankly, they don't have to for me to have a great time. I’m not a singer. I hardly ever clap and I am too damn awkward to do anything that even remotely resembles dancing in the stands.

I have never done any of this, or not overly exuberant in any case, because the last time I did I was kindly asked to knock it off. I was in Waalwijk, watching a Roda away game, when I mustered all the courage my seven year old body could muster and I started questioning, in song, the whereabouts of the stadium in which the game was taking place. After two lines, I was politely, yet urgently asked to sit down by an RKC fan. I did, and I haven't gotten up ever since.

Today I clapped. I sang. I jumped. I even extended my arms heavenwards and clenched my fists occasionally. After Roda went down 2-0, at times I was the only one in my section singing along with those in the crowd to whom singing louder than the opposing fans seems as important, if not more important, than the result itself. My throat is sore. I am typing this without the use of the ring finger on my right hand, which I injured earlier this week and which I’ve completely numbed down today by clapping. I’ve travelled 600 kilometres in the past two days to see my team lose. But when I look at the balance over the whole weekend, I may have lost a cup final and possibly the permanent use of my now slightly off-coloured finger, but I feel a little closer to a club which sometimes seems like half the world away.

And if that’s too damn sappy for you, then here are some match reports which bring you the cold, inescapable reality.

I would walk 500 Miles - just to see the Dutch Cup Final

It’s been just under a year since my last posts on this blog, and I cannot say much has changed in the world of Dutch football. Another ho-hum season, made only very slightly exciting by another too-little-too-late effort by Ajax, which was never a particularly formidable threat to PSV’s fourth straight championship.

Despite of the replica of last season sans the actual final-day excitement, there has been plenty to write about. I could give you tons of reasons why I haven’t, none of them particularly false or true, but let us not dwell on past mistakes or year-long absences. Fact is, a few people have encouraged me to pick this blog up again, for which I should probably thank them as well as hit them over the head with a blunt object, because I intend this blog to start taking up a considerable amount of my precious time once more, as it did when I first started it.

Their personal encouragements alone, however, would possibly not have been enough to make me to go through the embarrassing ritual of restarting a blog and falling down on my knees and beg you to start reading a blog written by someone who apparently can just take off for a year. It is the enormous contrast between the last two posts I’ve written and the one I could write today that brings me to actually write it.

In the previous two posts, you’ll find an account of my first Dutch cup experience. This Sunday, I’m about to visit my third Dutch cup final, as my team, Roda JC, have weaselled themselves through the backdoor into the apotheosis of Dutch Cup football. I could write about how miraculous it actually is that my team has even made the final; I could write about the explosion of joy and disorientation I felt when our goalkeeper scored in the dying seconds of an early-rounder to send it to extra time. I could write about the entire feel-good story which has led my team to the cup final. But I’m not going to.

For this is the first Dutch cup final that I will attend in which Roda plays the occupant of the stadium in which the game is annually contested, Feyenoord. In an effort to mimic the English tradition of hosting the Cup final in the same stadium every year, the Dutch Football association apparently considered the fact that Wembley-stadium is not home to one club in particular to be but a minor detail. There is, however, no national stadium in the Netherlands, so the site for the Dutch cup final was set in what is, without a single doubt, the prettiest stadium in all of Holland; de Kuip, in Rotterdam.

Effectively, this means that whenever Feyenoord reaches the Cup final, they play a home game. This simple formula is not acknowledged by everyone. Many will point out that a far greater number of fans from the other team is granted access to the stadium than during actual regular season home games. This much is true. The ticket allocation is even, with an even number of tickets going to the fans of both teams. The fact that the third part of the tickets, which does not go to the fans but is sold to Sponsors and such, will inevitably find their way to Feyenoord fans as well, is seldom mentioned. Theoretically, there is equal opportunity for fans of both teams to attain those tickets. Fans of the team which Feyenoord face, would, however, be seated in a section filled almost to the brim with Feyenoord fans. Sadly, this is still not a safe option in this country, a situation which, by the way, is not exclusive to Rotterdam.

So theoretically, this is not an away game for my team. I would, however, like to ask all of you to consider the number of times in which you could only get a ticket for your club’s home game, if you also bought the mandatory transportation ticket. Thousands of Roda fans have only been able to secure a ticket if they bought the so-called combi-ticket; this includes a ticket for the final and a ticket for the bus or train, which leaves from the south of Limburg to Rotterdam and returns there when the game is finished. This trip, which is completely escorted by police, is mandatory. If a fan wants to make this trip by himself, say, by car, he will not be able to get a ticket to the game.

This irks me in particular, because I don’t actually live anywhere near the city in which my club plays. In fact; I live about 150 kilometers closer to the site of the final, meaning I have to travel to Limburg, then by mandatory train to the final in Rotterdam and back to Limburg, and then back home again, which is positively the furthest and most elaborate I have ever travelled to see a game which is supposedly not an away game. Meanwhile, Feyenoord fans can go however they damn well please.

All of this, obviously, is a far cry from the previous Dutch cup finals I visited. Yet all I can and will do is rant about this right here and travel over 800 KM to see a game that takes place less than 45 minutes away from my house. Not an away game, indeed.

- So there it is: my first post in just under a year. Check back Sunday morning (this Sunday that is, not the one a year from now) for an extensive account of my pre-game nervous breakdown and Sunday evening for my post-game reflection. In the meanwhile, you’re welcome to discuss the current Cup hosting situation, over here or wherever really, in the comments section.

The Day of Reckoning is Here. Finally.

Here is just a quick look at a couple of scenarios for today, the final day of the regular season of the Dutch football league.

Championship, and the automatic Champions League qualification that goes with it.

1 AZ 33 21 9 3 72 81 - 28
2 Ajax 33 22 6 5 72 82 - 35
3 PSV 33 22 6 5 72 70 - 24

AZ - AZ can win their first title in twenty-five years. They play away at lowly Excelsior, who's spot in the relegation play-offs is already a sure thing, so they are likely to rest some starters. A win, barring a blowout in Tilburg, will ensure AZ the championship, the first one since their last one twenty-five years ago outside of what the Dutch call the Traditional Top 3: Ajax, Feyenoord and PSV.

What to expect - You can never be sure about these things, and I've already told you I loathe making predictions, however I will say this: If AZ win the title, expect Louis van Gaal's head to increasingly turn purple, and ultimatly explode.

Ajax - Only two people in this world remain confident Ajax will win the title this afternoon, and those are Henk ten Cate and a crazy homeless guy on a corner somewhere in Amsterdam. Ajax plays away at Willem II, whom they have never had a particular problem with beating, and who's season, for all intents and purposes, is over. However, in case of even the most minimal of AZ wins, a 0-1, Ajax needs to score nine goals. They were well on their way to doing so last week, untill Ten Cate had the genius plan to sub a defender for an extra striker after twenty minutes while already being 3-0 up, and they quickly conceded two.

What to expect - Expect Ten Cate to frantically list every time either the field or a referee decision cost them points, Danny Blind-style. And guess what? They fired Blind. Just saying.

PSV - Were up eleven points months ago. Dropped those points. Idiots. In case of an AZ win, need to score at least ten. Not going to happen. They will score three, Koeman will bring a twelve year old for Farfan and that's all she wrote. In case AZ drops points, they still have a chance to provide the worst meltdown in Dutch Football with the fairytale ending Cocu deserves.

What to expect - Expect Cocu to publically ignore any and all 'tactical' plans by Koeman. Expect whoever is in charge in Eindhoven this week - seriously, they have like a new president every week! - to fire Koeman on the spot, making him the first Koeman to be fired this year, but certainly not the last.

Fifth Place, and the automatic UEFA Cup Goodness and ticket for the CL qualifiers playoff that goes with it.

I'll admit it, hardly anybody cares about this but me. Why? I'll show you.

5 Feyenoord 33 15 8 10 53 55 - 61
6 SC Heerenveen 33 15 7 11 52 55 - 42
7 Roda JC 33 14 9 10 51 40 - 36
8 FC Groningen 33 15 6 12 51 54 - 52

Feyenoord - Koeman decided to drop as many points in one season as he could without getting fired, and I must say, a job well done. Feyenoord plays Heerenveen away and needs a win to clinch the position. But Feyenoord hasn't won in a loooong time. A draw might also suffice, but only if Roda and Groningen don't win.

What to expect - Tears, and the first time in the history of football two brothers will be fired on the very same day.

Heerenveen - Also need a win, which would take them over opponents Feyenoord and into europe. They have two advanteges over Feyenoord. 1: they play at home. 2: they aren't a complete farce of a club.

What to expect - A goal by Brazilian striker Alves, at the very least.

Roda JC - Needs a draw between Feyenoord and Heerenveen and a win a bigger win at home against Heracles than a possible Groningen win against Utrecht. Roda's goal difference is better than Feyenoord's, so it would ensure them of fifth place. Hey it can happen! Heracles is done, safe, which means it hasn't anything more to play for and that could be why Roda will mess this up.

What to expect - No draw in the north and a win down south. A frustrated blogger.

Groningen - Can also by-pass Feyenoord and Heerenveen in case of that elusive draw in Heerenveen, but in case of a Roda win also needs to work on it's goal difference against Utrecht, which still has alot to play for.

What to expect - Everything that loves Groningen to curse the decision to insist on playing the final 43 minutes of their game against Ado, which was ended prematurely because of riots. Groningen hoped to work on the aforementioned goal difference in those final 43 minutes after having gone up 0-3 in the first 47 minutes, but instead conceded one goal and scored nill.

Anyways, that's it for me for now, I'm off to Tilburg to work at Willem II - Ajax. I'll weigh in tonight on some of the consequences todays games will have, so check back later! Unless Roda does actually make fifth place, in which case I will check in whenever my hangover wears off.

Smite The Romanian Heathens

To modern man, our ancestors’ behaviour can be quite puzzling at times. Sure, we understand why one would have a sea whipped if it would be disobedient. We can even imagine the need for crossing a mountain on the back of an elephant. But armed with 20/20 hindsight and a set of archaeological tweezers, nothing confuses us more than our predecessor’s relationship with their respective deities.

From being struck with lightning for doing a stand-up impression of a certain Greek King of Gods, to being nibbled on by an Egyptian underworld god for not having the correct weight of heart, much like the virgin Mary, pre-modern man took it all lying down. Exactly why some gods felt it was necessary to change people into forests at random, nobody knew. Because nobody asked, as odds were pretty good you’d be turned into shrubbery yourself.

Marco van Basten, for all intents and purposes a bit of a deity to a lot of neurotic oranges, fortunately cannot turn people into foliage. He would have quite the time on his hands if he could. Because unlike a few thousand years ago, when people knew better than to question their lord after a load of frogs came raining down, the otherwise extremely disloyal Dutch subjects are now carefully raising their hands and apologetically want to know the answer to one of the major religious questions of our time:

Why field Denny Landzaat?

As I prepare myself for another 90 minutes of resignation to our saviour’s unwillingness to play anybody else than the Wigan midfielder (known for his occasional powerful shots from distance and bland sideways passing), my mood dampens at the prospect of yet another game hopefully won by two, maybe three moments of brilliance somewhere in the 63^rd, 71^st and 79^th minute. Three moments that generally come completely out of nowhere and are in no way or form the result of the run of play. Those moments are all we've got, and their sporadic nature is enough to bring any person to the brink of disinterest.

Sure, it’s three points. It’s a win. Over a rival, even. I’m spoiled. I should be glad the team even wins. Do I know how many countries there are who don’t win as often? The team is young. We’re top of the group. Our God is a just God. Do we understand?

We don’t. Excellent. We’re not supposed to, now are we?

Everytime I Think I'm Out, They Pull Me Back In

Kaalheide is just one of the many names on the list of football stadiums that have been deemed obsolete in recent years. Considering the fact that over the past decade many stadiums in the Netherlands have been rebuilt in such a fashion, they now warrant millennium proof names such as Gelredome and ArenA (note the second capital, as Arena itself is obviously not a particularly new name), it seemed the only logical decision Roda JC could make. Downsides? None, whatsoever. A bigger budget to structurally compete with the top clubs. A proper stadium would be needed if the club was to play on a European level every year, as it had done in the past few.

Kaalheide was many things, but a proper stadium, in the eyes of the men in charge at the time, it was not. And indeed it does not say much for a stadium when someone who has been there as often as I, cannot immediately identify on the television whether his club is playing the first leg against a Ukranian opponent at home or away. The similarities between the stadiums in Donetsk and Kerkrade were enough for even me to realize that perhaps, indeed the time had come to make the move.

Others may have followed the placement of any brink on another with their complete and undivided attention, but I hadn’t. Football was, at the age of fifteen, not what was dominantly on my mind. Subscription to the football magazines had long been cancelled. Visits to my grandparents, which I had always loved as they had meant a visit to Roda, were to be avoided at all costs. My developing need for independence meant having to prove I could handle my money myself, which of course I could not. Going to the games by myself was therefore not an option. The ticket I could have managed, but the train would have been a different story. And even if I could have paid for the two hour train trip (one way), I very much doubt my parents would have even let me go on my own. But all the financial problems in the world didn’t matter, because I simply didn’t want to go anymore. And then, in the midst of this growing disinterest, I made up my mind and quit playing myself.

My father looked at me incredulously. He had heard me mention it before, but had always managed to, for whatever reason, make me reconsider. But he must have seen it coming. There were numerous reasons, and I knew he couldn’t shoot down all of them.

- “No time to work on Saturdays”.
More allowance.

- “More time for school.”
“Since when do you care about school?”

Touché.

- “Bad knee.”
Silence.

And that was it. As much as he would have liked me to keep on playing, he was not about to try to convince me my knee was fine.

- “Are you sure?”

I was. Neither of us harbored dreams for any sort of a football career, so that could not have been the cause of his disappointment. I think he genuinely felt bad for me. He had seen how much I enjoyed it. But there were so many good reasons to quit playing, only one of which is given above. The other reasons, both to my father then and to you right now, are not entirely relevant. So I quit, slept in on the first Saturday morning I was off and desperately tried to be done with football altogether.

All of this, though, would most likely not have mattered had I lived in the actual vicinity of the construction site. It would have awed me, much like it swept away the management in a binge of unbridled optimism. But I did not live near the new stadium. In fact, I have never lived anywhere closer than 130 kilometers away from the club. In a densely populated country as the Netherlands, that means I lived closer to virtually every other club in the Dutch league, with the exception of the northern teams but including all of the traditional Dutch top clubs. Those 130 kilometers also meant I thought I could ignore the club and everything around it if I wanted to. And I really, really wanted to.

Later I found out that the physical distance I was removed from where my club played did not matter at all, as both the distance between us and my emotional attachment to and involvement with Roda increased sharply. But I did not see that coming when I was fifteen. I honestly hoped I did not care anymore, and that I would not care again. So Roda JC advanced to the final of the Dutch Cup. And I, once again, stood in the stands with my eyes closed for the full 90 minutes.

Keep Your Eyes on the Road, Your Hands upon the Wheel

I don’t remember exactly what year it happened. But there was a time when the Fruitella-filled trip in the backseat of my parents’ car to where I was actually going was one of the highlights of the entire vacation. Fights with my sister over pillows, nagging my parents over what music should be played, running around the sunny French or German stops along the route. All of it seemed even better than the two-week stay at some Austrian or French campsite itself. And all of it was always accompanied by the same old tune.

’We zijn er bijna, we zijn er bijna, maar nog niet helemaal’

Which translates to

’We’re almost there, almost there, but not quite yet’

But when I grew up, I didn’t feel like singing it anymore. I wanted to get out of the car as fast as possible. I wanted to be there already and swim. The fact that I was almost there but not quite yet didn’t seem like cause for celebration and singing anymore.

Two years ago, both PSV and AZ crashed out of their respective European competitions in the most dramatic fashion possible. They had been almost there, but not quite yet.

Everyone grows up eventually. PSV and AZ have stopped singing.

Magpies Crash Out in Holland [Skysports]
Gunners Bow Out in Alex Show [Skysports]

Cruel Irony, Orange is thy name. And, incidentally, thy Citrus Fruit of Choice. Fancy that.

It is one thing being Dutch. It is quite another being Dutch and having an attention span of less than five seconds when it comes to anything but football. And some other sports. Maybe... This would be a far less agonizing state of affairs in, say, Finland. The Finnish, I imagine, have by this point not given up every hope of a better future in football. Why would they? They have hardly achieved anything when not hurling themselves down a slope on skis, so the best, for them, could very well be still to come.

This does not, however, hold entirely true for the Dutch. At this point, I’m trying frantically to think of anyone/thing who/which experienced such an amazing tumble from grace and – and this is the important part - eventually got back up again. Icarus certainly didn’t, nor did the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Eighties or Nottingham Forrest. They are currently a dead Greek, either Austria or Hungary, the decade style forgot and a third or forth league (and rate) English side, respectively.

The irony, then, is that nobody seems really willing to give up on the Dutch like they have given up on glitter hair and dual monarchies just yet. And they claim not to for good reason. Because of the Dutch insistence on showing promise and failing to deliver upon that very same promise, our current irrelevancy is seen by some as, if anything, nothing more than a temporary lapse in greatness. It is seen not so much as a fall from a pedestal as it is seen as a slight wobble of that pedestal. Dutch football, some may think, has experienced one of those moments where you sleep but dream you fall. It’s a polite step down from grace, if anything.

But what if it isn’t? Everybody from Kiki Musampa to Rafael van der Vaart has been dubbed the new saviour of the national team, and none of them have up to this point. I wonder what it takes for an analyst to get up in the morning, shower, go to work and proclaim on television that whatever Dutch talent of the year is ‘the New Cruijff’. Aside from Brazil and Argentina, is there any other country in which one particular player is continually used as a measuring stick for any eighteen year old talent who cannot possibly live up to these expectations? France will suffer the same fate in the near future, when every young player will face the harsh and unfair comparison to Zidane. But Italy? Germany? England? Spain? All of them had greats in the past, but I’ve never heard anyone proclaiming Aaron Lennon to be the next George Best (Northern Irish, I know). Now some of you who may be better acquainted with the English game than I am will tell me that that is the case because in no way, Aaron Lennon is actually going to be the next George Best. I know this. But there’s no way either in which Hedwiges Maduro of Ajax is going to be the next Beckenbauer (we Dutch don’t feel the next Beckenbauer necessarily needs to be German), and yet that is a comparison often heard during the summer of 2005.

Fact is, there will, most likely, never be a new Cruijff. Lightning tends not to strike twice. So let’s keep our expectations low, be realistic and let us all hail the new Bergkamp. Because if it weren’t for Robin van Persie, I could very well see the Dutch National team go the way of Sissi, Pacman and that rather high-and-mighty looking Greek fellow.

An early Demise of Aspiration

This is the first post of this blog. Announcing this to you means the premature demise of the hopes I actually cherished for it. These hopes were, in no order of importance:

Anonimity

Credibility

Objectivety

Some sort of favourable reputation

Out the window, just like that. Let's have a look at the reasons why these hopes were shattered, shall we?

Anonimity - by me taking it upon myself to announce to you that this is the very first post of this blog, I have already let you in on who I am too much to truly remain anonymous. I have, by announcing this post, already made you realize I am someone who thinks what he thinks matters to others. Seeing as how you already know I am that kind of a person, I might as well fill in the gaps and tell you some more about who I am.

I am Joep Smeets. I like many things in life, but I enjoy precious little of it as much as football. Considering my possibly unfounded belief in and high opinion of my ability to express my love of it, this means I intend to bother you about football through great lengths. This may lead you to believe I am some obnoxious git with a rather misplaced arrogance, but I hope you'll believe me when I say I am not. I have, in fact, already told you with the title of this blog that I am a very neurotic person. Example: I fear my ever-increasing use of the word 'have' without any actual knowledge of English grammar. Neurotic Orange, then, refers to a person of neurotic nature with a Dutch passport. Both apply to me. Of course, a blog by someone so deluded by his sense of self-importance could only be named after its author. So bring on the self-consciousness. This is all you need to know about me right now. I'll bother you with some other personal traits later on.

Credibility - I can be very clear on this: I have none. I have no credentials whatsoever when it comes to writing about football. No more than you, in any case, and quite possibly less. So if you read any of this and think "Who the hell does he think he is?", I can tell you right now I won't have a good answer to that question.

Objectivity - Like every opinion ever expressed by a football fan, some horribly crude and others heavenly articulated, my opinions are deeply drenched in bias. I have no problem admitting this, as you would have probably found this out yourselves rather quickly anyways.

Some sort of favourable reputation - Ok, I'll admit it: I still have a slight (again, possibly misplaced) hope for this one. Therefor(e?) I shall go on with this blog. The style isn't really yet what I hope it will be in time, but I'll get to that when I have the time. Meaning I will let somebody else handle it.

As a sign of goodwill, I'll tell you a little about what this blog is going to be like. It doesn't matter that some of you may know me personally, I'll be as honest - and personal - as I'll possibly dare. So if you don't feel like knowing me any better than you already do, I understand. Don't read this. If you do feel you want to see this side of a person like me, and hopefully of more people like me, please do read this, and do comment on it. It is going to be a place where anyone can write freely about football and their love for it. If you've got something related you feel like sharing but are too lazy to start a blog, send it in. If I think it is any good, I'll gladly post some background on you and your story.

I'll leave this here now and come back to it tomorrow. If I haven't suffered complete embarrassment because of all the above by then, I'll consider posting some more about me and this blog. So please join me, as I slowly track down and brutally kill any of my last remaining aspirations for this blog post by post.