Pressure.

Inspired, of course, by the ongoing World Cup, I pause the madness to ask myself about the nature of pressure and expectation between human beings.

I had been looking forward to watching Serbia in their first game as an independent nation on Sunday afternoon. Over the past 20 years they had evolved from Yugoslavia, becoming the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and then later Serbia and Montenegro, with the final metamorphosis seeing them become Serbia.

Shorn of the talented players from the now-seceded nations of Croatia, Bosnia etc., I nevertheless hoped for a performance from the names who ring through my head most days of the week.

That the Serbs never got going is of endless interest to me. I think about the combination of pressure (theirs) and delusion (mine) that made this the case. I have never been to Serbia; the closest I got was a Belgrade-bound train from, I think, Bratislava. I have never been to Serbia, but I nevertheless have a view of the place, built up from books and films and even dreams, and I also have a view of the footballers they produce.

In my mind, then, the Serbians are the most complete footballers in Europe: full of invention, able to keep hold of the football, disciplined and patient. After Sunday’s non-event, though, they are certain to fail yet again. The history of the sport in the Balkans is littered with failure - and here is just the latest.

I wonder how Serbia - or anyone else, in any walk of life - would cope without pressure; in this case without the vast eye of an entire nation waiting for a single mistake in order that they might condemn it as useless? When in a stressful situation, the old mantra is to behave as though it means nothing when what is being undertaken actually means everything, and this is a difficult psychological trick to pull on oneself.

If the significance could be sucked out of every event, then truly would we see natural talent and ability, unencumbered by the frozen bodies and frightened minds which are the characteristics of pressure. Every football match would end with double-figure scores, but the minds of those watching would be seared forever with the memories of this sport-as-ballet, the subtle shifting of weight, the variation in pace, the knife through the chest which doesn’t even break the skin.