It was a narrow victory, 1:0 against Paraguay in the penultimate minute, and Zlatan Ibrahimovic certainly had played the smallest role of all 14 members of the Swedish team on the field. But the center forward, replaced during half time due to a groin injury, gave the impression even an hour after the final whistle that he had won the match all by himself. "I am completely happy with my performance," he said in the catacombs of Berlin's Olympic Stadium, standing before a cluster of microphones. But everyone in the arena had a pathetic impression of the gangly fellow.

Ibrahimovic stretched his neck and laughed. "It was fantastic. If we keep it up, we can still go far." He is not known for harboring self-doubt.

Actually, the Blue-Yellow team should not even have a member like 24-year-old Zlatan Ibrahimovic. After all, Sweden has an unwritten law, the Jante Law, which says that no person is better than anyone else. Scandinavians do not appreciate it when someone tries to stand out from the crowd. It's a country that wants to be one big society of solidarity, where the rich should be poorer, big shots should be humbler and cowards should be more self-confident. The Swedes call the result Lagom -- simply put, it means "average".

But Ibrahimovic, a goal-getter with Juventus Turin, is the violation of Jante Law personified. The son of Bosnian immigrants, he is an individualist with a thirst for recognition, and such a talented football player that he can celebrate a game's magic moments. Two years ago, during the European Championship in Portugal, he won instant fame when -- leaping with his back to the goal, he kicked the ball with his heel into the corner.

Now the Swedes -- who face England on Tuesday and could end up playing against Germany on the weekend -- are forced to confront a new phenomenon within their microcosmos: the star cult.

Sweden's stars

Ibrahimovic isn't the only person enjoying this special status, and the phenomenon has been particularly intense for the Swedish team. The team also includes international star players Fredrik Ljungberg, 29, from Arsenal London, and Henrik Larsson, 34, who recently won the Champion's League with FC Barcelona.

"Sweden never had so many top players," says trainer Lars Lagerbäck. Modesty and equality were always traditional characteristics of Swedish national team members. Now the coach gives his lead players complete leeway. In principle a supporter of system football, Lagerbäck now only provides guidelines within which Ibrahimovic, Ljungberg and Larsson can do their thing. "These three possess immense creative potential," he says.

And this trio symbolizes a newfound Swedish self-confidence. The team, long the butt of condescending jokes, shot on average three goals per game in the World Cup qualifications; no European team did better. But after the disappointing, scoreless draw in the curtain raiser against Trinidad and Tobago, it became clear how fragile the team structure has become with these three protagonists. Fredrik Ljungberg took a deep breath after the final whistle, let his shoulders slump, and then blew off steam in the changing room, going after Olof Mellberg. The captain's planned defense had only flung the long balls into the corners, complained Ljungberg, instead of using short passes to get the ball to the striker. Though trainer Lagerbäck tried to play down the brawl as a "discussion," the old Swedish tradition of making up for deficits on the field with special team spirit appears to be weakened. Petty jealousies arise ever more frequently in the team. Such as when the newer members no longer go to captain Mellberg for advice, turning instead to Ljungberg, Larsson or Ibrahimovic.

As far as the fans go, there is no doubt about where their sympathies lie. In Internet chat-rooms and in letters-to-the-editor in Swedish papers, a non-conformist like Ibrahimovic is considered to be someone who can liberate Swedish society from the shackles of tradition.

An unaffable player

And if this center forward, who already has abused his opposing player with punches and elbow jabs, sinks a ball into the net during current training in the SV Werder Bremen amateur stadium, hundreds of fans with blue and yellow-painted faces chant his name: "Zla-tan! Zla-tan!"

Still, it is hard to really like him. In the World Cup training camp on the Swedish island of Gotland, Ibrahimovic once shuffled into position about half an hour too late, stood around listlessly on the grounds and snarled at his teammates when their passes failed to complete. When questioned at the post-game press conference, he said: "I hate journalists. I despise you." And when a reporter wanted to photograph him in a café in Bremen, Ibrahimovic nearly did him in.

Gentle tones were never his forte. Ibrahimovic grew up in Rosengård, a suburban ghetto of Malmö, where 80 percent of residents are immigrants and one in two are jobless. In school he was the "prototype of a boy who ends up badly," the former headmistress of his school recalls. Insolence is just fine to Ibrahimovic, on or off the pitch. Once he drove to Malmö's red-light district, identified himself as a civilian police officer, and arrested a john. When the national anthem rings out before a game, he looks bored and pops chewing-gum bubbles. His teammates accept his eccentricities and escapades as long as his contribution makes the grade. "What's most important is that we are better with him than without him," says Olof Mellberg.

The relationship was not always so pragmatic. In a European Championship qualification game against San Marino, the referee gave Sweden penalties with a score of 4:0; Kim Källström was to shoot, but Ibrahimovic grabbed the ball and scored himself. His teammate refused to join in the revelry over the goal. And Ibrahimovic later had to apologize publicly for his obstinacy.

And so Sweden made a display of team spirit before the recent Paraguay game. When the final training concluded last Wednesday, all the players got together, put their hands on each other's shoulders, formed a circle and roared their battle cry heavenward.