Spain: Waxing nostalgic
as I have only good things for La Furia Roja
Remarkable would be understating. We loved them. Some loathe to accept it, some simply too mainstream to understand their significance. But we witnessed history unfold, we’ll talk about them for years. That Spain will not win the World Cup this year is hard to swallow, but not difficult to digest. They were surprisingly poor, led by an uncharacteristic performance meltdown from their captain.
That Spain’s top-scorer was also their worst outfield player tells a story; this is a nice yardstick with a statistical spin to magnify their ineptitude. Spain produced the most hapless defense of a World Cup ever; no defending champion had ever lost two group play games in a row. It is easy to find a 100 flaws after defeat; it is not easy to understand what the vanquished stood for before their vanquishment.
Their’s remain the most decorated players in a generation. Their canvas remains glorified as ever, with stain taints far lesser than any of their pretentious usurpers. They were relentless at their best; a fact which made it even harder to buy Spain’s World Cup exit. They had a routine, they made a routine; the biennial routine of winning big things. Big international tournaments were beginning to get monotonous with the usual post-tournament image of Iker Casillas standing on the pier and lifting the Cup.
“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” — Confucius.
This probably feels like melancholia, an inglorious end to a great adventure. Six long years smeared with Spanish glory, but all good things come to an end. Winners Spain were immortalized long before Brazil 2014 happened. Last night the nails on the proverbial coffin were hammered to the notice of the wide world, although the day seemed imminent quite a long time ago.
Whether Spain could bounce straight back after the fall is a tough guess, but they will always remain the greatest ever European national team of all time. Naysayers might endorse Vittorio Pozzo’s double World Cup winning Italy of the 1930s, or the Magical Magyars from Hungary who won everything but trophies, or even Franz Beckenbauer’s West Germany teams that epitomized pragmatism and ruthlessness.
It could take a 100 years to ape Spain, or even more. That tells more than a story. An era has ended, perhaps in the worst way possible, but it had to. But Spain gave us more than we ever wished for. As I grew up with stories of Spanish bottles and their majestic implosions, this generation showed how stereotypes could be quashed and clichés could be antiqued.
But there was always going to be a full stop somewhere, and although Spain are theoretically over, they might not be in real. We could still see light at the tunnel’s end, but that is just mere hope after the calamity. They may be washed in the trough waves of ignominy, but they will always remain the best. Even at their worst. It was a divine odyssey. A joy-ride, which we were blessed enough to be part of.
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The player pictured above is Andres Iniesta, the Barcelona and Spain midfielder. The player whose goal made sure that Spain did not return empty-handed from South Africa in 2010. I support his club or country with no overwhelming zeal, but I truly consider him to be my inspiration. Last night his disconsolate image left an impression. This is a piece I dedicate to one of my favorite footballers ever.
