Iberian Lockdown
By Mark Daniell
28/06/2012
Spain 0 – 0 Portugal (Spain win 4-2 on penalties.)
So what are we supposed to make of that? It was hardly a classic, unless you’re a football purist who thinks that goals distract from the underlying, beautiful, structural tactics of the game, but I don’t think those people exist. Sure, it had some nice clashes, mainly involving Pepe, and Portugal did turn up looking like the audition reel from The Algarve’s next male model (presented by Nani). But all things considered, nil nil is a disappointment. We wanted to see Ronaldo leather one of his wobbly free kicks into the roof of the net, or a least Fabregas pass the ball seventy three times before tiptoeing it round Patricio. We wanted sherry, Madeira and some of those tasty little Sergio Bisqwits that go with them, and instead we got Fanta limón. Don’t get me wrong, I like Fanta limón, but you’ve got to mix some rum in.
In fairness, Portugal did spend the first hour looking to mix it up, and for a while they left Spain looking like the doofus waving his cash at the only part of the bar that says no service. (Have I extended this metaphor too far?) But by closing, you couldn’t help but think that things might have ended differently if H. Almeida could sink a few shots. (Way too far.)
Then, with time, the tables slowly turned. It was like watching a classic arm-wrestling bout, you know the sort, the sort where Lincoln Hawk goes Over The Top and the guy who’s dominating at the beginning inexorably starts to give. Eventually Portugal were playing containment: back-pedalling, hoofing clear and desperately holding out for penalties. Of course, in arm-wrestling movies, there is usually a final hurrah, where, from millimetres above the tabletop, a spurt of energy sees victory. So it was in the 90th minute when Nani found Veloso who found Meireles who found Ronaldo who… well he found row zed. (Of course somewhere outside our universe that shot sailed in, but we won’t dwell on that).
As for the penalties, they were pretty standard dramatic fare: some misses, some saves, some confusion about order, which will doubtless fill the Portuguese headlines, and a solitary fall guy. Poor old Bruno Alves, the man who shimmers like he’s been carved from a solid block of mahogany, thumped the woodwork and all was lost.
The Beeb meanwhile were back in the game: on location, with players they recognised and good defences to praise. Gary even managed to squeeze in a cheeky reference to his years at Grampus 8 with his note that Portuguese manager Paulo “Bento boxed in” the Spanish defence. Bento Box Gary! I hear you!
Only Shearer was left unsatisfied. He’d clearly wanted to see Ronny hit his penalty and was horrified that owing to Portugal having missed two of the first four, he was eliminated before he got the chance. This, of course, was not poor tactics, since it is often wise to save your best taker for the highest pressure kick, but it does come at the risk of him not taking one at all… As dilemmas go, it’s up there with three-day-old milk, or the number of days a man can keep his pants unchanged. There may be some form of protocol Alan, but nobody’s sure of what it is.
Tonight it’s Germany v Italy, and amazingly, Ferret the Otter doesn’t know who to cosy up to. That’s the news.