A
LER. Grande comentário no POLITICO
Portuguese
character trumps French frailty
One
team had the will to win. The other just had je ne sais quoi.
By TUNKU
VARADARAJAN 7/11/16, 1:04 AM CET Updated 7/11/16, 6:00 AM CET
http://www.politico.eu/…/portuguese-character-trumps-frenc…/
The
glib and the superficial will be tempted to dismiss the finals of
Euro 2016 as a drab end to a dull and shabby tournament. They will be
missing a huge point about finals of championships — and about
football itself.
Portugal
beat France 1-0, and the modesty of the scoreline obscures a
multitude of things: drama, fortitude, pungency, perversity, stamina
and determination. What it doesn’t obscure is the fact that this
was Portugal’s greatest achievement as a nation since the day it
was admitted to the European Economic Community in 1986.
With
all the pre-match talk of this game being a head-on collision between
the two teams’ stars — Antoine Griezmann and Cristiano Ronaldo —
it was easy to forget that football is a team game. A reminder of
that truth came cruelly in the 25th minute when Ronaldo was
stretchered off the field. Portugal, you’d have thought, was now a
team orphaned. What would become of the men left on the field,
without their star player, their glittering talisman?
Ronaldo
had been injured in the 8th minute after a robust, but not
outlandish, tackle by Dimitri Payet. His knee buckled, and he sank to
the turf, prompting a grotesque bout of boos from the French fans. He
limped off the field for treatment, then limped back on again, only
to subside to the turf once more. The French fans repeated their
eruption of boos — cacophonic and merciless, a hideous way to treat
an injured man; but chivalry isn’t the strength of French crowds,
who could learn a thing or two from some of the fans who’ve been in
their midst from more sporting nations.
It
was a paradox, but Portugal grew in strength with Ronaldo’s
departure; and France, which had looked invincible until that point,
seemed to have the air sucked out of it. It was as if the departure
of its biggest foe had left it clueless about who the opponent now
was.
Portugal
knitted itself into chain mail; and as the French let fly their
arrows, they failed to pierce the Portuguese defense. The heroic Rui
Patricio, in goal, was like a character from the Lusiads.
The
football was seldom pretty, except when Eder scored magically in the
110th minute; and it wasn’t always edifying. At times like this,
particularly in the finals of major tournaments, it’s best not to
think of the game purely as football. Think of it, instead, as a
broader human drama, a test of character, and of all the skills and
arts of survival and penetration.
So
I didn’t think of Pepe — doughty, villainous, scrappy, histrionic
Pepe — as just a footballer marshaling Portugal’s backline. I saw
him as a soldier, a survivor, a repulser of advancing hordes. I
didn’t think of Nani — underperforming, often disappointing Nani
— as the forward most likely to score a goal for Portugal; I
thought of him as the scout who forayed deep into enemy territory
looking for chinks and byways.
The
French took the field, it should be said, with a certain entitled
strut, and one sensed, halfway through the game, that they were
heading for a comeuppance. They squandered opportunities galore, and
Didier Deschamps will rue his mishandling of Paul Pogba and his
mistrust of Anthony Martial. He will also rue, I suspect, the absence
of Karim Benzema, excluded from the squad on blousy moral grounds.
France missed the bustle of Big Benz; France missed his cutting edge.
The
Portuguese, for their part, played true to national and historical
type. Theirs is a land that has always used its scarce resources
wisely, cannily, stretching them to the utmost extent. How else could
a sliver of land on the western extreme of continental Europe build
for itself an empire of such magnitude. There is a dourness of
resolve, a defensive fortitude, an indefatigable stubbornness to the
Portuguese that served them well in empire and served them on the
football field on Sunday night.
This,
remember, was the last European power to yield independence to its
African colonies. There was a cussedness to its colonial longevity,
just as there was a cussedness to its football last night. The
beautiful French, with their skills and thrills and their
peacock-players, could not break down the spirit of the Portuguese.
The French team didn’t have the resolve for a prolonged scrap.
Their desire to “win pretty” was too suffocating.
The
final will be remembered longest in Portugal, where it will be
remembered for an eternity. The rest of us would do well to admire
the winners for their will to win. After all, that is what every team
came to do at Euro 2016.
Would
we like every team to play football the way this Portuguese team
does? Certainly not. But would we like every team to want to win as
badly as Ronaldo and his band of men did? I think we do. Most
certainly we do.
Additional
reporting by Satya Varadarajan.
Tunku
Varadarajan, contributing editor at POLITICO, is writing The Linesman
column on Euro 2016.
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