World Cup 2010 Finals Predictions

As much of the world gears up for the World Cup Final on Sunday, there appears to be no shortage of superstitions coming to the fore: apparently there is an octopus in Germany that is on quite a role and has predicted that Spain will win. A local TV station over here supposedly had a parakeet that picked the Netherlands, so who can say? But it does appear that live animals making sports wagers does seem to be a 21st century sporting superstition that has a bit of legs. Most Canadians would point to TSN's Maggie the Macaque's astonishing NHL Playoff predictions back in 2003.

Of course, here at What Sister Ray Said we've been musing about the death of 20th Century Superstitions, and so hold out the Spain-Netherlands Final as their last chance to hold any currency for this new century. Specifically, we are rooting for The Monkey Paw, a superstition based on a 1902 short story in which a stuffed monkey paw is said to grant wishes, but always with awful results. It's been the subject of close to a dozen movie adaptations, as well as numerous spoofs, most famously (to my generation) on The Simpsons. You can read an excerpt from the original short story at the bottom of this post.

So, in our case, the Monkey Paw refers to the fact that no defending European Champion has ever won the World Cup. Spain won the European Championships in 2008 and so, theoretically, are doomed to lose in this tournament -except of course, that they keep winning and look fantastic doing it. Further, no team has lost their opening game and gone on to win the World Cup, so in fact Spain has two 20th century superstitions against them.

What Will Happen

Spain will come out and play the same brand of possession football that has given them so much success. If the Dutch try to play their typical counter-attacking style, as the Germans tried to do, they will lose. As a fan of numerous counter-attacking Italian teams, the premise of the counter-attack is that the offensive team will eventually lose patience, commit a mistake that will allow you to gain possession, and then you run down the field and score. It presupposes that you are more talented than your opponent. At best, Holland and Spain are a dead draw, with most people easily willing to give Spain the edge.

If the Dutch are to win, and I want them too (because I want to believe in the Monkey Paw), then the Netherlands need to attack the Spanish in midfield. van Persie and van Bommel are taller than their Spanish counterparts, and I'm hard pressed to think of someone on the Spanish side as physically challenging as Arjen Robben. The only one who comes close is defender Carles Puyol, who the Dutch need to attack relentlessly on account of his age and lack of speed. Many commentators also feel that Capdevilla is attackable. Add in the fact that Sergio Ramos is keen to play out of position, and Holland ought to have every reason to take the ball to the Spanish net every chance they get.

Fernando Torres is out of form, and there's a rumour going around that David Villa is hurt or sick. Spain still has plenty of weapons though, especially when their ball handlers Xavi and Iniesta are given time to move players into position. Again, hoping to sponge up Spain's offensive pressure will only result in the Dutch losing. Attacking in midfield is the key. Netherlands ('cuz the Monkey Paw said so)

Tomorrow's Game

The only team that wants to play the Runner's Up Game tomorrow is Uruguay and therefore they'll win. Somehow. The Germans are already talking about the next World Cup and turning down offers for a parade in Berlin. Germany is the better team and ought to take it easily, but I doubt how many German players are going to show.

THE MONKEY'S PAW (1902)

from The lady of the barge (1906, 6th ed.)
London and New York
Harper & Brothers, Publishers

by W.W. Jacobs

---

I.

WITHOUT, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

"Hark at the wind," said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

"I'm listening," said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "Check."

"I should hardly think that he'd come to-night," said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

"Mate," replied the son.

"That's the worst of living so far out," bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; "of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway's a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn't matter."

"Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next one."

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.

"There he is," said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, "Tut, tut!" and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

"Sergeant-Major Morris," he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.

"Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. "When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him."

"He don't look to have taken much harm," said Mrs. White, politely.

"I'd like to go to India myself," said the old man, "just to look round a bit, you know."

"Better where you are," said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

"I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers," said the old man. "What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris?"

"Nothing," said the soldier hastily. "Leastways, nothing worth hearing."

"Monkey's paw?" said Mrs. White curiously.

"Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps," said the sergeant-major off-handedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absentmindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.

"To look at," said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, "it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy."

He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

"And what is there special about it?" inquired Mr. White, as he took it from his son and, having examined it, placed it upon the table.

"It had a spell put on it by an old fakir," said the sergeant-major, "a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it."

Click here to read the rest of the story, courtesy of Mount Royal University