That’s the name of the national anthem of Spain. Literally, it translates to ‘The Royal March’. And that is exactly what the Spanish have done, marched royally to lift one of the greatest prizes in sport, the FIFA World Cup Trophy, for the first time in their rich footballing history, littered with tales of underachievement.
The reason for my using the name of their national anthem as the title of this blog post is that I know the entire anthem, from start to finish, off by heart. The years spent watching Rafael Nadal win a million French Open titles, and now having watched every match Spain have played at the World Cup, I realized only at the time of the final that I was humming the tune along with the players as they lined up before the start of the final battle.
Wikipedia tells me that La Marcha Real does not have any official lyrics. This explained why none of the players mouthed it as the music was played. It also means that, if simply knowing the national anthem is any yardstick, I am just as Spanish as I am Indian.
The match that saw the Spanish lift the trophy was cagey, nervy, scrappy, even ugly at times. It is hard to imagine a final as ugly as this. Admittedly, I don’t remember much of what had transpired four seasons ago, when Zinedine Zidane blew his fuse due to the incessant needling of Marco Materazzi and ended his glorious career in disgrace, but I doubt even that would compare with 14 yellow cards and a red.
It is incredible that the 2 sides involved in this ugly slugfest are the same two that are touted as the epitome of ‘Beauty’ in the Beautiful Game, one as the original inventors in the 70s, and the other the more modern exponents of the same. In contrast, the 3rd place playoff, contested by Uruguay and Germany, both of whom traditionally rely more on physical play than the Dutch or the Spanish, was an infinitely more entertaining, enjoyable and better game of football, and was probably one of the best games of the tournament.
There was far too much riding on the final, as two great footballing nations were vying for their first claim to global dominance, and that was so clearly evident in the match that ensued. However, consider how dour this particular edition of the World Cup has been, I suppose we must concede that the finale was fitting for this particular edition. Given how the tournament has progressed over the past 4 weeks, how the final panned out should not have been so surprising. Mind you, that does not mean the Spanish or the Dutch should be in any way proud of their final performance. For the most part, the match resembled the WWE Royal Rumble, if you know what I mean, rather than an exhibition of the beautiful game at the highest level.
Referee Howard Webb did a commendable job, for it was a thankless job to do in such a physical contest, particularly considering the fact that the entire world was sitting ready to criticize him. I suppose the instructions were clear from FIFA, that no one was to be sent of unless absolutely necessary, and as late as possible. In a tournament where on more than one occasion the refereeing has left a lot to be desired, and has finally woken up the slumbering FIFA to the necessity of introducing the use of technology in assisting officials, the colossal muscle-bound frame of the man, who is the first ever to referee in both the UEFA Champions League and the World Cup final in the same year, acquitted himself well and ends up the only Englishman to have had any success at the World Cup (the other successful English-born being an octopus, doesn’t qualify as an Englishman).
Yet, not sending of Nigel De Jong for that awful kick straight into the chest of Xabi Alonso was inexcusable, no matter what the occasion. For me, that certainly wasn’t football, more like martial arts. The name De Jong sounds oriental, so, you never know, he might have the blood of a kung fu master in him!
Very soon, I will be posting the team of the tournament as I see it, so stay tuned!
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