The 2016 European Championships
Summer.
Britain found itself in a tempest entirely of its own making, and eventually voted to leave the European Union. Within a matter of days, the country lost the Captain of the ship, the men who orchestrated the storm, the crew, the cabin boy and the First Mate’s second cousin twice-removed. A tumultuous month left British politics without many of its key players; only Corbyn held on, unyielding despite the butchery inflicted by Labour knives, well-sharpened.
As Britain opted to leave Europe, hundreds more people died trying to get in. The stretch of sea that divides Libya and Sicily is littered with the bodies of the wretched, the desperate and the damned; three thousand in the last six months, according to official statistics.
One hundred and sixty five people were killed as a truck bomb levelled another Baghdadi street. Three days later, a 2.4 million word report found that Tony Blair had told a few white lies and exaggerated a few truths. In all likelihood, neither he nor Bush will ever be held to account for their actions. The death toll in the country they helped destroy currently stands at a quarter of a million.
The war between the American Police and Black America continued apace. Two innocent black men killed in two days was apparently enough murder to elicit a public outcry, and push a deranged young man to pull another trigger and kill five officers. The NRA remained silent. Obviously, guns and death from guns are two completely separate issues. And skin colour doesn’t have anything to do with it.
Well-informed sources in Miami were announcing the imminent fall of Fidel Castro; it was only a matter of hours.
In Spain, progressive politics received a punch in the kidneys as Podemos failed in their attempt to become the major Left wing opposition party in the country.
In France, Labour reforms were met with heated opposition. The country mobilised, and strikes brought the country to a standstill. Then the European Championships began, and all eyes were drawn elsewhere.
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UEFA expanded the competition this time around to 24 teams, in order to squeeze the maximum revenue from their showpiece event. Despite their profit-driven jiggery-pokery, the tournament started brightly; Payet unleashed a thunderbolt to sink Romania, Italy delivered a tactical masterclass to dispose of eleven Belgian individuals masquerading as a team, and Wales marked their first performance in an international competition since 1958 with a win against a competent Slovakian side.
As expected, the group stages then dragged on interminably. Several of the big fish secured qualification with a game to spare. At one point, getting knocked out of the tournament seemed to be harder than actually winning it — even teams with two losses in the first two games could still sneak through in third place. Despite the mathematical complications, sixteen (of the twenty-four) eventually progressed. The draw couldn’t have been more lopsided; on the one side, plucky minnows Wales took on plucky minnows Northern Ireland, while footballing heavyweights Italy slugged it out with the fellow heavyweights Spain.
In the end, the Italians delivered another masterclass, another 2–0 victory, and the dying embers of the best international team of the last two decades were finally extinguished. Wales also won.
Germany and Belgium flexed their muscles, putting Slovakia and Hungary to the sword with ease. Kiraly, the Hungarian goalkeeper was the unsung hero of the championship. Forty years old, perhaps a stone overweight and wearing grey joggers that said ‘hangover’ more than ‘top class professional athlete’ he nonetheless inspired a very average Hungarian side to the knock-out phases. Back in Hungary, a national day of jogging bottoms was held in his honour — everyone, from politicians to shop assistants donned a pair of pyjama bottoms to show their appreciation.
England choked, as the fear of losing blotted out all else and left the most talented eleven players in the country looking like a punch-drunk pub team, scarcely able to pass or trap the ball. Iceland took full advantage. Every tournament needs a narrative, and Iceland were happy to provide one. A country with the population of a cul-de-sac in Coventry, appearing for the first time in a major finals managed to exceed all expectations. The slow collective clap, performed with both hands above the head, added a hint of Viking flavour to an otherwise sterile tournament.
The quarter-finals arrived. France brought the Icelandic party to a close in emphatic fashion. The Italian masterclass ended in heartbreak, a penalty shoot-out defeat at the hands of the ‘nerveless’ Germans. Except this time the German players also seemed to feel the pressure; what proceeded was one of the worst penalty shoot-outs in recent memory, with some farcical attempts by both teams. Zaza seemed to think jogging on the spot would help his cause. It didn’t. Pellè thought it might be beneficial to engage Neuer in a casual chat before taking his penalty. It didn’t. Even Schweinsteiger, the German all-action hero and man of steel capitulated. Just before Hector’s decisive penalty, Conte appeared to be lacing up his boots, ready to rewind twenty years with a single strike.
And then the sparkle. Every tournament, however dire, has at least one moment in which football is elevated from sport to art, from the simple to the sublime. This year, the moment was provided by Robson-Kanu, a Welshman who went into the championships essentially unemployed. Finding himself with the ball at his feet inside the Belgian penalty area, he made to shoot, then flicked the ball with his instep, and pivoted one-hundred and eighty degrees, sending three Belgian defenders sliding into the abyss. A turn worthy of Johann himself. Robson-Kanu held his nerve to slot the ball past Courtois, and, from that point on, Wales never looked like losing.
In the semi-finals, the battle of the Gauls ended in a deserved Portuguese victory, with Ronaldo defying gravity to nod past Hennessey. On the other side of the draw, hosts France took on World Champions Germany in a battle of the big-guns. In the end, it was France who emerged victorious.
In 1982, when Marco Tardelli scored to end German resistance and effectively win the World Cup for Italy, he was so overcome with emotion that he could only run toward the touchline, screaming, shaking his head, face contorted in ecstasy, eyes bulging with disbelief. Twenty four year later, when Fabio Grosso scored to knock Germany out of their own World Cup, he unknowingly repeated the gesture. This year, when Griezmann scored to put France into the European Championship final, he made a phone gesture with both hands and jiggled, apparently mimicking something he had seen in a Drake music video.
The final was contested by two teams, both wearing Nike. Adidas had been eliminated in the semi-finals, with both Germany and Wales sent home. Barely 10 minutes into the match, and the Ronaldo curse struck again. In 1998, a buck-toothed Brazilian by the same name suffered a nervous breakdown with violent convulsions hours before kick-off. They say Nike forced him to play; he did, but he didn’t and Brazil rolled over. This time, a Portuguese superstar, also a Nike product, collided with Payet, injuring his knee. Whatever one’s opinions of the controversial goal-machine, watching him sat on the turf of the Parc des Princes, his tournament over, his dream in tatters, one couldn’t help feel a degree of sadness. As the fluttering brown moth settled above his eyebrow and the tears started to flow, the world watched as the layers of arrogance and self-belief were stripped away, and all that remained was a boy from Madeira, fallible and hurting.
Fortunately, his compatriots stepped up to the task, defending doggedly for the remainder of the match. When Eder unleashed a thunderbolt in the second half of extra time, France were beaten. The dream was punctured, the stadium deflated. Portugal, perennial over-achievers, a team that finished third in their group, that didn’t win a match until the semi-final, that had never been favourites to win the competition, emerged victorious.
To the master, Eduardo Galeano.
