Right teams, wrong game

cephalopods were the real winners

THE World Cup may have got the finalists it deserved but, for sure, we deserved a better final to crown this classic curate’s egg of a competition. We could only shrug, shoulder the sky…and drink our ale. Where we had hoped for the crisp passing and attacking guile of Iniesta and Xavi, or for the technical brilliance and determination of Wesley Sneijder and Arjen Robben to enlighten Johannesburg (like a less garish version of Blackpool) what we got was two teams fighting to cancel each other out. For one hundred minutes we witnessed a game that had fewer ups and downs than your average children’s teacup ride. As rash challenge followed reckless lunge, referee Howard Webb’s yellow card and notebook were never other than central to the drama; he must be a firm favourite at the annual referee’s yuletide dinner and dance, so often did he dip his hand in his pocket. The shrill blasts from his whistle almost drowned out the perpetual hum of the vuvuzelas.

It wasn’t all bad; it was some way from rivalling the Brazil versus Portugal snore fest for narcotic tedium, but it struggled to raise the pulse. Less gracious cricket fans have said of England nudger and nurdler Paul Collingwood, that if he was in the street batting outside your front window, you would hardly have cause to trouble the curtains. Ditto Spain and Holland last night. The World Cup Final had all of the subtlety of touch, if not the frenetic excitement, of those twenty-a-side games we used to play for hours in that sultry summer of seventy-six (rush goalie steadfastly prohibited). It felt like an endless wait for Godot; a very twenty-first century absurdity.

Half time came, went, and for a very brief moment it looked like Holland weren’t there simply to kick either the leather off the ball or a Spanish opponent, whichever happened to be closer, and Spain seemed to see a way, out of their convoluted passing movements, towards the opposition goal. The moment passed; the situation changeless. Then, Spanish captain Iker Casillas made a fine save to deny Robben when through on goal, after a Sneijder defence-splitting pass full of an all-too-rare invention, but with a little too much time to think (perhaps he had read Beckett, too) he couldn’t find the net. Mathijsen made a hash of a clearance and then a wow of a defensive block to deny the previously potent David Villa. Jesus Navas, bringing with him much needed pace, urgency, and trickery had come on to the right wing and looked liked being Spain’s most likely saviour. Everything began to flow through him and Spain’s defence became increasingly anxious. Sergio Ramos had enough time to blast a header, five yards out, somewhere near the cheap seats of Row Z. We had a game breaking out from the chaos as weary legs and tired minds led to chances for both sides to win it in the final minutes, but no-one could find the golden touch.

Extra time brought with it fears for more of the same, but the game grew. Arsenal’s Cesc Fabregas missed a gilt-edged chance for Spain, Xavi put his eighteenth free kick over the bar and the Dutch were equally profligate. Penalties? No-one wants penalties; I can’t take the pressure as an enthusiastic armchair neutral. What must those twenty-two be living through with the great prize, success, failure, or a footnote to history almost, tantalisingly, out of reach?

John Heitinga saw red and then saw Howard Webb brandish red; it broke the monotony of the succession of yellows. It could have been one of many. This wasn’t the total football of Cruyff, Neeskens, and Rep that brought new hope to football in the 1970’s. Yet, from somewhere the football began to flow; every sinew strained, muscle memory from a million such kicks took over, could some child of a lesser God put an end to this. But, now, we didn’t want it to end. Wave followed determined wave of attack; then from a goal kick Jesus Navas slalomed off on a forty yard run, Iniesta, beautiful back heel, Torres, time for a quick game of pinball outside the Dutch box, Fabregas, Iniesta. Iniesta! A low, unerring, drive into the far corner of the net and soon, surely, Iker Casillas will be the first Spaniard and third goalkeeper to lift the World Cup. Mayhem. In keeping with a tetchy match, even the goal came with a large helping of controversy. Irate Holland players surrounded the referee and harangued the linesman for having failed to award a corner prior to the Iniesta goal, after a clear deflection off Cesc Fabregas. Ah, the ecstasy and the agony of the simplest ball game of all. Give me a ball and a yard of grass and I’ll show you heaven.

See you all in Brazil in four years’ time.