Witnessing the metatarsal of all battles

GARY NEVILLE broke his metatarsal bone four years ago — shortly after David Beckham suffered an almost identical injury in the build-up to the last World Cup.

The frenzied, foaming at the mouth British media splashed pictures of their captain’s foot on the front and back pages of newspapers in the run-up to the tournament while Uri Geller led the nation in an exercise of positive thinking in an attempt to heal the fractured bone.

It is said Neville arrived the following morning at Manchester United’s Carrington training ground on crutches, feeling quite sorry for himself, to be greeted by a team-mate. The veteran player shouted across the car park, “Nev, did you see what the papers are after writing about your foot this morning?”

“No,” Gary replied quickly, perking up a bit, “what?”

“Absolutely f*** all”, came the cruel answer.

While all the proper journalists are off at proper football games, like England v Sweden, I’m haggling through the cracked window of a minibus with an extremely inebriated Polish woman for a ticket to the football match equivalent to Gary Neville´s metatarsal: Poland v Costa Rica.

Could anyone care less? Both already have packed their bags and are ready for the sad trip home. However, I always liked Gary Neville and this is two teams we need to tick from our list.

We’re now one-third of the way to the target but with the grains of sand slipping quickly through the FIFA endorsed hourglass, it’s starting to feel like even Jimmy Magee on an increased dosage of medication couldn’t manage to see all the remaining nations — even if the memory-man was offered another 11 World Cups to do it in.

The atmosphere around Hanover was, though, loud and fun, more like Community Games week at Mosney than a final group match. However, while it was played against the impressive backdrop of the new AWD Arena, it might as well have been jumpers for goalposts up the back field.

After dining out on the cordon bleu performances of Luis Figo and Andriy Shevchenko over the previous two days this was like stopping off in Eurospar on the way home from a Michelin-starred restaurant for a Wibbly Wobbly Wonder.

Once again the touts were my salvation. A humourless German lady happy to get something settled on €80 for a €100 ticket. With my train costing €26, the rest of our €150 budget would go on the price of an overnight inter-city express ticket to Bavaria.

The main factor which made my jaunt around Hanover, pestering shoppers for a ticket, a little sweatier was the presence of the Americans. When the Yanks arrive en masse in town it means two things; queues in McDonald’s and higher ticket prices.

I hate to see fast food restaurants packed with tourists from the US while they ignore the rich culture of the country they’re visiting. Your correspondent got a beer with my Big Mac. That’s culture, my friends.

Mostly students in board shorts, baseball caps and t-shirts with military slogans, the Americans debate sagely and vociferously the nuances of the beautiful game over a milkshake. “Our guys are, like, soo tight in the D and I also, like, think we can put the ball in the onion bag and beat those terrorists, man.” Dude?

The game itself was only enlivened by events in the stands. With both teams already eliminated, an end-of-term feeling pervaded a soporific non-contest. But on the terraces a raucous Polska contingent looked and felt like the biggest stag party this side of Temple Bar.

Some were goose-stepped into the fresh Hanover evening by jackbooted police while thousands of German fans scattered throughout the crowd goaded and cheered as their positive score line was announced continually.

That’s now 11 teams down; 21 countries still in the crosshairs of my slightly deficient scatter-gun. And while it was relatively quiet on the western front yesterday, my tour of duty continues.