Winston Aldworth: We've all gone a little like Maradona

Deputy sports editor Winston Aldworth played no games for the All Whites and will be on the sofa for much of this World Cup

Major sporting events bring out the worst of idiocy in people.

Take Diego Maradona, for instance.

With no coaching experience to speak of, the Argentina legend cheerily leapt behind the wheel of his nation's World Cup qualification campaign as it careened towards a CHiPs-style car crash, the wheels off, the bumper flapping loose and flames emerging from beneath the bonnet. With a merry toot of the horn and a wave to the waiting emergency services he swerved amid the debris and somehow emerged in South Africa, courtesy of a 1-0 win over Uruguay and a few more dents in the panelwork.

No wonder El Diego suffers from a God complex. But his maddest deed could be yet to come.

"If we win the World Cup," he intoned to his countrymen a couple of weeks before the tournament kicked off. "I will run naked around the El Obelisco in the centre of Buenos Aires."

Was this a vow of unfettered commitment to the cause? Or a terrorist threat to public health?

At time of writing, you can take a flutter with Centrebet at $7.50 on the prospect of Buenos Aires been treated to the sight of Maradona's fleshy mass in all its sweaty, post-party glory. Enough, surely, to make even the most patriotic Argentinians cheer for Brazil.

On behalf of the rest of the world, Argentina, I implore you: do not let this happen. Throw a game in the second round.

Us Kiwis are a more reserved mob. A beaming Ricki Herbert may have dropped a couple of F-bombs live on telly after beating Bahrain in Wellington, but it's hard to imagine the Herbert family jewels going on display for a victory dash down Lambton Quay.

A misty-eyed man-hug is more our thing.

What would warrant such emotion anyway? Winning the World Cup? Too far fetched. Maybe clean sheets against Paraguay and Slovakia would be equivalent in achievement to Argentina lifting the title.

Clean sheets? That sort of optimistic talk is the idiocy in which we are indulging here in newly soccer-mad New Zealand.

For soccer mad we are. You know we've gone bananas for the game of square balls and diving Latins when a press contingent races around the country seeking word on the crocked shoulder of Tim Brown (answer: crocked). The All Whites midfielder could have robbed a bank barefaced and gone unrecognised eight months ago. Now, if you believe the hype, he's crucial to the national well-being.

And we are believing the hype. Like a rare bird, recently emerged from the endangered list, the Lesser Internationally Relevant All White has caught our imaginations.

So, perched on our sofas in the wee small hours, Kiwis will be daring to dream. Like Diego having the gumption to believe he could guide Argentina first to the tournament and then onwards to final glory, despite demonstrably having no talent for running a soccer team, New Zealand sports fans are choosing to believe.

Fridges will be stocked with sponsors' product and popcorn will be popped. (Oddly enough, with rugby games starting so late these days, the 11.30pm kick-off against Slovakia will seem positively normal. Quite sociable even.)

All that wild-eyed talk of nicking a point or even - gasp - advancing from the group hasn't died down.

It's nice to wonder about the possibilities, but fear not: the harsh reality of a good kicking from Slovakia should spare us from Herbert's jewels.