I admit to this: when I was trying to finalise the date upon which I was to travel back to England, I had half an eye on the World Cup fixtures. I had to coordinate a flight plan that would minimize the chances of me missing the key matches I wanted to watch. In the end I decided to sacrifice the South Korea vs Togo and France vs Switzerland clashes because neither of the four teams were any of my favourites, and if I played my cards right I could catch bits and pieces of the Brazil vs Croatia game. I'm never excited by Brazilian opening games the Samba Kings often start slowly and only turn on the heat as the progress, inevitably, to the finals.

This is the first time I will be catching the World Cup abroad as an adult. What makes it more special is that I will actually be in a country that qualified for the tournament; and the fact that it happens to be the national team I support adds jam to an already buttered toast (I like both jam and butter on my toast, in case you're wondering). There will be football parties everywhere; and the general love of the game would make it easy to find non-alcoholic venues to watch the game on the big screen. You know, like the mamaks, but sadly, without the maggie goreng.

Wither goes Malaysian football?

Because for all the football craze hitting KL this past month I was home, nothing beats the hollow feeling that we don't quite have a football team to be proud of. There is no team that is supported by default; we choose the teams we fancy the glory hunters' choice of Brazil, the women's favourite of England or Italy, the football pundit's Argentina, Holland or France; or most, like myself, cast an eye on a few teams, perhaps to maintain interest once the favoured team gets knocked out (this happens to me very often). I for one would like to one day watch a World Cup game where Malaysia might be mauled, but I would be able to stand proud in my yellow jersey and proclaim I support them because I am Malaysian.

I watched Mexico '86 in England, but I was barely 9 years old when Diego Maradona broke my heart with his hand. Of all the other World Cups since 1986, only in 2002 was I able to watch the games at reasonable hours although admittedly, that did involve rushing off home from work at weird hours when the boss wasn't looking, or driving to Bangi from Pahang every Friday pretty early so I could catch the 3pm kickoffs (rest assured, I did make up for the hours I skipped by staying back late on other occasions).

And so, with every World Cup comes the post-match stupor I find myself in; which involves a very groggy person trying to function with minimal sleep and maximum caffeine intake. This year, with my newly-acquired brother-in-law in tow, the football watching 'horde' increased in number. Sadly, the female cohort still stands at the solitary one, although Angah seems to be keeping hubby company during some games, while making the odd classic geographical faux-pas to keep us entertained.

Sleep deprived

I managed to catch the first four days' games at GMT+8, which I think irked my mom somewhat I wouldn't be up at the crack of dawn to see to breakfast and pasar shopping. I was just glad I wasn't part of the working forces who, having watched Argentina almost outplayed by Ivory Coast, had to stumble into work the next morning.

I am not quite sure where I got my football addiction from, because my dad is not a football fan. He watches the odd game, but that's only if there is nothing else on TV and Cerekarama (local Malaysian programme) is showing yet another pointless rerun. He is more apt to say, "Kalau stay up buat solat sunat kan bagus" (If you stayed up to pray, it'd be better) more than "What's the score?" the morning after.

I know I infected my two brothers, somewhat, by fuelling their interest with carefully smuggled football magazines (my dad operated a strict Dewan Siswa / Masyarakat / Pelajar only magazine regime while we were growing up) and waking them up for late night Premiership games when I was home. All three of us have grown to support the same football club (and brother-in-law makes four), but the different allegiances during the four weeks of the World Cup makes the watching even more exciting; especially when chores change hand when results don't quite go the way someone intended.

I have struggled to explain to my non-football fan friends (of which there are many, honestly!) the appeal of the game in general, but I know what makes me love the tournament so much: the fact that a team's success and failures cannot be bought by money. Club football these days see stars flocking to where the money is (very loud hint: Read Real Madrid and Chelsea) but at the end of the day, Didier Drogba has to play for Ivory Coast at the World Cup, and Michael Essien can't follow the scent of money: Ghana's colours are what he is to don. Of course, some exceptions to the rule naturalization has seen the hapless but much Sven-loved Owen Hargreaves turn out for England; Freddy Adu turning out for the USA rather than his African homeland, and the odd Brazilian or two playing for Japan. But on the whole, even if they ply their trades abroad, World Cup players turn out for the country in which they were born and bred.

And that's what makes it special. It's skill and the luck of the draw and even if your country could buy the best coach in the world, it's the players at your disposal that make things happen (although bad coaching can full well turn a solid team on paper into losers). Sure, Brazil seems to dominate the World Cup, and no side from any other continent apart from South America and Europe have lifted the trophy as champions: but times are a-changing.

Japan and South Korea come to Germany wanting very much to prove that their excellent run in the previous championships were not a home advantage fluke. Australia want to stamp their mark after being left out for so long; and the inclusion of African nations Angola, Ghana, Tunisia, Ivory Coast and Togo signals that African football isn't just about Nigeria and South Africa. And for all its superpowers, American can't quite shine in the game they call soccer. It's a great game for romantics, and let's face it, what is football if not a whole world of romance that reduces big strong men to tears.

Of course, the downside of this is that whenever a rare talent emerges from a small country that is not a great footballing nation, that player would rarely grace the world stage. Cases in point include the late George Best who was Northern Irish, and former World Player of the Year George Weah, who was Liberian. And unless wingers can still ply their trade at the top level at 36 (and provided they qualify), we will never see Ryan Giggs running down the wings for Wales.

The love for footie

The appeal for football isn't restricted to sports fans either. Many a politician, democratic or dictator, take a keen interest in the game. Mussolini was famed for his love of the game; and Italy's Serie A was created by his fascist government. Libyan leader Colonel Muammar Gadaffi, seen as a tyrant by the Western World, is a massive fan, and one of his sons turned out for a Serie A side at some point. And let's not even start on the role of politicians in Malaysian football, although it still intrigues me as to what extent that is driven out of their love for the game.

What is it about football that make children and despots sigh with frustration and leap with delight in the same way? I think the appeal of the game lies in its simplicity: there is no need for real equipment you just need space, something round that resembles a ball, and some form of markers for goalposts so the score could be kept. The point of the game is to kick the ball into the opposition's goal. There are no hoops required (basketball), no nets or equipment (tennis and badminton), no bats or mitts (baseball and cricket), and no list of three million rules (netball).

As much as it is seen to be a universal game, however, not everyone views football in a the same light. In Mogadishu, Somalia, the Islamic courts have banned watching the game totally; describing the game as unIslamic; (ironically, Saudi Arabia and Iran the hotbed of Sunni and Shia' beliefs respectively, are fielding teams in the tournament). Chain emails I have received from well-meaning friends in recent months include 'A Guide to How to Survive the World Cup Month for Suffering Wives Everywhere'; something I forwarded to the other half, who despite his lack of love for the game, resented being referred to as a 'wife'. There is the Stop the World Cup movement originating in the Netherlands, but now with branches in the UK, Spain and Germany. It's women only, though, so I don't know if they allow men who hate the game or the World Cup to join (sorry, boys). I also remember reading somewhere of a London hotel offering total World Cup refuge, although I have yet to see a mamak stall advertising a football-free zone.

I know and I am well aware that not everyone loves football, but you know, the rest of the world should kasi chance lah. As I said to my mom, it's one month out of every 48. To which she replied, "Yeah.. and then there's the Premiership, the Spanish League, Italian Football..". Ah well. At least my mom knows about the football leagues.

IDLAN ZAKARIA cleverly left not one but all three of her England football jerseys in Malaysia, and is now faced with no appropriate shirt to wear when (when, not if) England hoist the Cup given England's chances, she knows she has ample time to swim home and get them.