The World Cup Final Game…and how I saw it.
Posted October 15, 2010 by james in Book News | 0 Comments
Three months have passed since the last whistle blew in South Africa, and volumes have been written and spoken about Spain vs. Netherlands, but it is never too late to discuss the World Cup final game…and how I saw it.
Physically, as far as location was concerned, I was in the Bounce Sports Bar on Second Avenue in New York city. Most of our family had convened to celebrate our son’s fortieth birthday, but by Sunday afternoon game time, only my wife and I remained. She decided to cruise the boulevards while I indulged my passion.
Having spent the previous afternoon in the same establishment with my son-in-law to watch the third place game involving Uruguay and Germany, I was well aquainted with its cozy confines.
The crowd started to arrive around noon for the 2:30 kickoff. Orange and black intermixed with red and yellow flags, scarves, banners, and yes, vuvuzelas were in evidence, and the nervous engery was electric.
But what do you do, personnally, when your two favourite teams are playing each other, and one of them has to lose?
My love affair with the Dutch started in 1974, when Johan Cruyff and “total football” invaded Germany for the World Cup, and almost won the championship, losing 2-1 to the hosts. The Netherlands have been known for aggressive, free flowing football ever since.
Their loss to Argentina in W.C.1978, was once again to the hosts, on this occasion in extra time. It was a brutally physical match, and for the Orangemen, the result was a bitter pill to swallow.
That game, and tournament itself, formed the basis of the novel “Renaldo,” that I wrote several years later.
So, 2010 was the Netherland’s third appearance in a World Cup final. The Orange had not been touted to do very well this time out, mainly because of their “always a bridesmaid,” reputation. What made me perk up and take interest was how their star players were performing in the European Champions League playdown in April and May.
When Dutch super stars Arjen Robben and Mark Van Bommel of Bayern Munich met Inter Milan’s Wesley Sneijder in the Champions League final, it convinced me that there was enough talent on the Netherlands to make a strong run in the World Cup.
As for Spain, a perennial under-achiever, the 2008 European Championships showed the world that this was a different Spanish side, one of supreme talent, patience, and a killer instinct. Their final game performance against a strong German side was one for the ages. How could you not fall in love with long haired Fernando Torres, the crafty Andres Iniesta, and hunky keeper, Iker Casillas?
And so it came to pass that on July 11, 2010, the two teams I fancied the most were going head to head in the biggest game of their lives. One team had to win, there was no doubt about that. Would the Dutch be third time lucky? Could the smaller Spanish team withstand the withering physical play that the Oranje were certain to throw at them and reign supreme?
The game itself was the ultimate chess match. Two different styles of play, two different temperments. History was not on Spain’s side, for no team that had lost their first game of the tournament had ever gone on to win the prize.
Once the English referee blew his whistle, however, history was forgotten.
Anyone who thought that soccer was not a physical sport, that it was played by primadonnas who would tumble to the pitch at the slightest touch, would have their eyes opened during this battle royale. It was all out war, no quarter asked, no quarter given. In between the record number of fouls and bookings, there were countless occurances of brilliant, spine-tingling football.
In the end, as so often is the case when two teams are so evenly matched in skill and emotion, the crowning of the champion came down to goaltending.
Iker Casillas of Spain made all the saves he had to make on that fated evening, Maarten Stekelenburg of the Netherlands did not. Andres Iniesta’s brilliant stike in the one hundred and sixteenth minute gave La Furia Roja their first ever Jules Rimet Trophy, and sent Latin hearts soaring.
Back at the Bounce Bar, there were equal parts of elation and deflation. Red and yellow colours filled the room, and orange and black suddenly disappeared. It had been a breathtaking experience, and as I walked back to my hotel, I felt both of the above emotions.
The reality that the greatest sporting even in the world was actually over, and that reality beckoned, did not hit me until the next morning. Bummer!
The whole month had been an amazing drama right to the finish, culminating in the World Cup final game…and how I saw it.
