Oh my; and other short revelations

Oh my; and other short revelations

Oh my; and other short revelations

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By Max Grieve

As Fernando Torres drifted into the dark behind the Italian defence, the ball sliding towards his feet, a sense of responsibility must have danced upon his thoughts. For near to three years now, the Spaniard has taken it upon himself to shatter any perception that he was once an accomplished striker – almost certainly, at one point, the best on the planet. The clock ticked slower, and he readied himself. This was his defining moment. Not since his magnificent skew at Old Trafford had he had such a clear opportunity to miss on a greater stage. Fail to score here, and he would pass into legend. It was his chance.

He did his utmost to give Gianluigi Buffon a hope, but made a mess of his timing and accidentally hit the ball too far wide of the sprawling Italian. Fernando Torres scored in another final at the European Championships, and the universe began the slow process of crashing in on itself. On the sidelines, the ground opened up, and a man called Llorente disappeared. Minutes later, Spain had won.

The Italians might feel as though they deserved more from the tournament, given the fight they have shown, but they could not hope for more from the final. Mata’s strike took Spain across the line of comfort, and the newspapers could write, with justification, that the Italians had taken a beating. Just as suddenly as the world remembered that Pirlo is a very good footballer, and has been for significantly longer than two games at an international tournament, Spain were good again, in the eyes of their doubters.

More than the Dutch being disconcertingly poor, more than the Italians being so animated and rousing, more than the Germans being so un-German at the crucial point, the Spanish completed the most significant reversal of expectations at these Championships. “They’re boring”, they said. “Playing without a striker?” cried the men in the studio and the people in the streets. “It’s anti-football!”

No – Spain are just very, very good. Like a torero and his bull, they toy with their opponents, pulling them here and there, exhausting their energies until they no longer pose a threat, before moving in for the kill. Against Italy, they took their psychologically destructive football to a level many believed was beyond them. The European Championships of 2012, exceptional as they have been, had to this point been left wanting of a game which will be remembered through the ages. Four goals were enough. It is the defining match of a tournament, but more significantly, it is the defining match of this Spanish side.

There will always be those who only watch the football played in stadiums strewn across the UK; and expect a similar cut-and-thrust attitude from all the others. The sooner a ball re-enters the earth’s atmosphere and drops onto the head of a 6ft 5 striker, the better. Those who struggle to come to terms with the Spanish style are too often holding onto the past; a nostalgic time lived out in black and white, or at the least not high definition, when Andy Carroll might have been the greatest footballer to walk upon the hallowed mud, and occasional grass.

Rather than ready our rocket packs and blast off into hyperbole, let us appreciate what we have for what it is. Perhaps this Spanish side is the greatest in international football. We can look to the glittering silver back in Madrid, but we shouldn’t forget the West Germans and the Brazilians in the 70s, or the French side that carried football into the new millennium.

Now is an era in football which will divide us for decades. Boredom, as with beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.