Portugal v France: a galactic battle lost in the black hole of one man’s ego
중략
Rúben Dias will make a crucial block on Kolo Muani as he goes through on goal. Nuno Mendes will slide in on Mbappé just as the great man is about to pull the trigger. At the other end Eduardo Camavinga will make a brilliant sprawling tackle on a rushing Rafael Leão, a fraction of a second before he shoots from a tight angle. William Saliba will just be quietly brilliant. This is not the stuff of highlights reels and social media gold-dust. But it is, in its own way, the very highest form of footballing heroism.
The temptation is to point at this French side, with their semi-final berth and their zero goals from open play, and to remark sardonically that Didier Deschamps has finally managed to create a team perfectly in his own image. This is, of course, unfair. Deschamps was ruthlessly selfless as a player, his every action oriented towards the collective. France, on the other hand, have the feel of a team being held together by success alone. Get enough talent in there, and maybe the teamwork takes care of itself. No wonder they finally seemed to free up when penalties arrived: a series of simple individual battles, a test of personal skill, no tactics, no complications.
The temptation is to point at this French side, with their semi-final berth and their zero goals from open play, and to remark sardonically that Didier Deschamps has finally managed to create a team perfectly in his own image. This is, of course, unfair. Deschamps was ruthlessly selfless as a player, his every action oriented towards the collective. France, on the other hand, have the feel of a team being held together by success alone. Get enough talent in there, and maybe the teamwork takes care of itself. No wonder they finally seemed to free up when penalties arrived: a series of simple individual battles, a test of personal skill, no tactics, no complications.
And yet even Deschamps has the presence to withdraw Mbappé in the 106th minute when it becomes clear that it’s not going to be his night. He was outrun by João Cancelo, couldn’t convert any of his five shots, and if Mbappé can’t sprint and can’t shoot, then frankly all you really have left is a man in a mask pointing into spaces. He sees out the closing minutes sat on the bench, an ice pack pressed to his nose.
But at least France know how to function without their captain. Portugal, by contrast, are still wedded to theirs, the chain-wrapped anvil that will eventually bring them all down. There is little point giving him anything to chase, or playing any pass to him longer than about 20 yards. If he peels to the left wing in the 53rd minute, he won’t make it back into the centre until the 55th. He misses terribly from close range. He claims another free-kick from an impossible angle, and somehow manages to hit all three players in the wall.
In a way, it’s hard not to feel resentful of him: resentful of the way this grand, galaxy-sized occasion is ultimately reduced to a function of one man’s ego. This could have been an all-time great quarter-final, and instead a part of it was stolen: stolen ball possession, stolen attention, stolen minutes from better players who actually deserve to be there, rather than a pure anachronism trotting out simply because no one has the clout to tell him not to.
Théo Hernandez scores the winning penalty, and immediately the Portuguese players instinctively flood towards the heartbroken João Félix, the only man to miss his penalty, and gather him in their arms. Mendes runs to him. João Palhinha runs to him. Nelson Semedo runs to him. Pepe sets aside his own sadness – this may well have been his last game – and runs to him. There is still a team here, and the only sadness is that we never got to see it.
One man does not run to Félix. Instead he walks in the other direction, off on his own, pursued only by the prurient gaze of the camera. It’s Cristiano Ronaldo.
