Whether or not soccer is destined to become a genuinely popular sport in the United States, as opposed to an ingenious way to exhaust children, it is already a flourishing academic pursuit. Because of its transnational, multi-racial nature, its mix of beauty, bigotry, hooliganism, and rapacious economics, its ties to controversial politicians (Silvio Berlusconi owns A.C. Milan) and billionaires (the Russian oil magnate Roman Abramovich presides over Chelsea), not to mention its frenzied looting of young talent in the poorest streets and alleys of the world, almost every aspect of the game is ripe for cerebral theorizing and noodling.

Nor do authors of books on soccer go in for false modesty, judging from the titles of their tomes. From Franklin Foer’s “How Soccer Explains the World: An Unlikely Theory of Globalization,” to Simon Kuper’s “Soccer Against the Enemy: How the World’s Most Popular Sport Starts and Fuels Revolutions and Keeps Dictators in Power,” the titles are long and the claims extreme. What follows is a brief guide to the kind of national teams and players that tend to attract the intellectually or artistically inclined:

Favorites of the Past: Cruyff, Sócrates, Zidane

Soccer teams prized by connoisseurs usually feature intricate, imaginative midfield play and dominate possession. In short, they dictate rather than react, although the reactive style of play (counter-attack) is just as successful. Probably the favorite highbrow national team of all time was the Dutch side – affectionately dubbed the “Clockwork Orange” — which lost 2-1 to West Germany in the final of the 1974 World Cup, a defeat over which millions wailed and gnashed their teeth. Holland was led by Johan Cruyff, a brilliant individualist who also played the role of on-field orchestrator, as if he were not only the team’s leader but its coach, star, director and producer, conducting every move.

The Brazilian teams of 1982 and 1986 also had scintillating midfields. In this case the most memorable figure wielded not a baton but a stethoscope, since the ambling, bearded player known only by his surname Sócrates was (believe it or not) already a qualified doctor by his mid-twenties. (He later earned a PhD in Philosophy.) Another outstanding midfield of the era was France’s, whose chief string-puller was Michel Platini, now the President of UEFA, where the strings are even more plentiful. Platini was less charismatic, but judging from his current pay-grade, no dummy either.

The French came up with another first-rate midfield in 1998, although this was more of a one-man show. The puppet-master was the mesmerically skillful Zinedine Zidane, who scored two goals in France’s 3-0 defeat of Brazil in the final while managing to look like a defrocked monk, complete with a liturgical fringe of hair on a divinely balding head. (Appropriately, his head played a major role in both World Cup finals he played. He headed two goals in 1998 against Brazil, and was sent off for head-butting Marco Materazzi in the closing minutes of the 2006 final against Italy.)

Intellectuals love the notion of the maestro, the footballing equivalent of a chess master, or if you want to stretch the analogy into the political realm, a kind of benevolent dictator. The “midfield general,” as he is sometimes known, is usually accompanied by one or two team mates who are near co-equals and who help him organize the play. In effect, they are the team’s elite, its think tank, its unofficial government.

Appearance is also important, and vital to legend and myth. Cruyff, skinny and ethereal with dark lank hair, could have passed for the brother of Tom Verlaine, the guitarist whose band Television, soon to be joined by The Ramones, The Talking Heads, Blondie, et al., was igniting the fuse which led to New York’s Punk/New Wave explosion at CBGB’s during the summer Holland contested the World Cup. As for Sócrates, he managed to look both like his Ancient Greek namesake and a contemporary beatnik poet, a heavy smoker and café babbler who would have been quite at home in the East Village. Everyone still loves him.

In 1998, when Brazil met France in the final, smart soccer neutrals were enchanted not just by the wizardry of Zidane, its French-Algerian star, but by the fact that the racially mixed team satisfied the new multicultural paradigm to perfection. France won 3-0, the French danced in the street, and much of the world shared their joy. However, if France’s multiracial team marked a political victory of sorts, it soon turned sour. Along with the U.S. (at least when playing in southern Californian stadiums against Mexico or other nations from south of the border) France is the only national side I can think of which is regularly whistled and booed when the national anthem is played at the start of home games.

World Cup 2010: Small is Beautiful

This year the top midfield is considered to be Spain’s, and for once the role of Napoleon is played by someone short enough to fit into the great man’s outfits. That would be Barcelona’s master-of-the-pass, Xavi, who though lacking the goal-scoring abilities of his predecessors, is second to none when it comes to stringing together moves and controlling the tempo of a match.

His sidekick is fellow Barcelona player Xavier Iniesta, a superb passer himself who plays a more aggressive role, taking on defenders and scoring goals. Neither will enter folklore on the strength of their looks. The 30 year-old Xavi, with his mussed black hair and doleful eyes, looks like an aging party boy, while the pale, fragile, Iniesta could pass for a timid bureaucrat, at least by the standards of contemporary athletic gigantism.

Brazil’s midfield maestro is Kakà, the second-most expensive player in the world. Yet despite his speed, skill, and brilliant shooting, he fails to capture the imagination in the way of his predecessors. Perhaps it is because he lacks a dark side. From a middle class white family, he is an outspoken Evangelical Christian, and never misses an opportunity to point out that “Jesus Loves You,” a claim unlikely to endear him to left-wing academics.

Other midfielders, such as England’s Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard, or Holland’s Wesley Sneijder, are highly regarded but lack the poetic touch that creates legends and time-proof reputations. Perhaps it is not surprising that in a game as parsimonious with tangible achievements (i.e., goals) as soccer, image, comportment, and lyrical flourishes count for so much.

Which brings us to the most magical player in the tournament, Argentina’s Lionel Messi. Somewhere between an outright striker and midfielder, Messi can pass with the best of them and dribble the ball better than anyone, even Portuguese striker Cristiano Ronaldo, who was featured semi-naked on the cover of last month’s Vanity Fair and acts as if he should be on it 12 times annually. But Messi is young (22), slight (5’ 7’’), and never behaves like a diva. He does, however, have a fiancée, model and actress Luciana Salazar, whose style is considerably more forthright. According to her web site, she has “a pair of large round breasts that would make anyone submit.”

Messi’s modesty is as rare as it is praiseworthy. He has the genuine aura of athletic genius, but it is an egoless and childlike aura. (Unlike Ronaldo, he was not chosen to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair. If anyone was made for the front of the Wheaties box, it’s him.) His play is so instinctual there is little for the writer to do except marvel, and fans often simply laugh and giggle in delight as he slaloms through defenses. As much as any contemporary player, he embodies Nietzsche’s definition of happiness: “An aim, a straight line, a goal.”

Mr. Bernhard is a contributing editor of The New York Sun