Oranje Crush

I love the Dutch.

There’s really no other way to put it.

As an American soccer fan, it’s almost unquestioned that there has to be a second team. One day, that won’t be the case. But for now, somebody has to fill the gap each time our collection of futbol neophytes is excused from competition in yet another painstaking fashion.

In times past, those teams have been Mexico (for their passion) and Italy (for their brilliance in finding ways to win). And while I’ve been as devoted as any polygamist could be to his second wife, there have been numerous realizations that seem to cool the flames of fandom rather than stoke them. Namely, in the case of Mexico, the facts that their fans love to throw cups and bags full of urine and vomit on American players. During the game. Or, in Italy’s case, the fact that they seem hell-bent on turning The Beautiful Game into a diving competition. Put any of those 10 field players on springboard in London two years from now and we’ll be cueing up the Italian national anthem after they take the gold medal.

In short, the second marriage has been… lacking.

I am the world’s worst cheater.

Enter the Dutch – with their ostentatious color scheme, remarkable fans, beautiful soccer, fantastic nicknames and general all-around sexiness.

I’m smitten.

Start with the orange – or oranje, I should say. The color is beautiful to behold en masse. It’s garish and jolting. My first experience with it came from the Winter Olympics years ago. The Dutch clearly drew the short straw when sporting dominance was being distributed. America got baseball, Brazil got soccer, India got cricket, New Zealand got rugby, Canada got hockey. The Dutch have long track speed skating. Bless them. But there they were in Nagano, Japan, filling the entire arena in a giant orange wave, blowing horns (no, not those), waving flags, and generally raising hell that should never be raised in such a venue, especially more than 5,000 miles away from the motherland.

That particular party was thrown to watch competitors skate 25 laps on an icy track, two at a time. Imagine a soccer game on the world’s biggest stage, in a place that they used to own. (No, really, look it up. They owned Cape Town. Sore subject there.) It’s wild, to say the least. They’re the fun of Brazil minus the Samba, Mexico minus the piss balloons, England minus the bitching and moaning. Paaaaaarty.

And then there’s the nicknames, an infinite array of possibilities. The simple Oranje, the Americanized Orange Crush, Orange Alert and Clockwork Orange. The Flying Dutchmen. There are the cheers – “Hup Hup!” It’s all beautiful. The player names are equally glorious, with more vans than a pedophile convention. Van Bronckhorst. Van der Vaart. Van Persie. Van de Wiel. On and on… wonderful.

Lastly, the on-field product has an interesting – baffling, really – history. The Netherlands showed up at the second and third World Cups (ready to party, no doubt) and didn’t make it out of the first round either time. From there, they missed out on the next six tournaments, until the mid-1970s, when they played the best soccer anyone has played in the history of the game. Total Football, as it was called, relied on the 10 field players (minus the keeper) being able to rotate to any position at any point in the game. The Dutch mastered it, and in today’s world of specialization, nobody will ever play it as well as they did during those years. Unfortunately, they ran into the dirty little secret of the World Cup – the home team wins. In 1974 and 1978, they lost in the finals to the hosts – West Germany first, Argentina second. They promptly fell back off the face of the Earth, failing to qualify for the next two editions.

However, they are currently in a revival of the glory days, having made the semi-finals in 1998 and the knockout stage in 2006. They deserve the star above the crest that comes with World Cup glory more than any other country without one. If they beat Spain, they’ll be the first team in the history of the Cup to make it through seven games undefeated and untied. It will be a monumental achievement.

Nike began the Cup with a Write Your Story advertising campaign. It featured their star teams and players – Brazil (bounced by the Dutch), Ronaldinho (didn’t make the team), Ronaldo (one goal), Rooney (goalless). The Dutch are a Nike team. Nothing. Not one second in a three-minute commercial.

Here’s hoping they write their story today.

Tomorrow’s headline – Hup, Hup Hooray!