No se puede

History repeats itself in Hanover: France 3, Spain 1. (Oh, and the Ukraine advances to the quarters)


Ecuador, home of that infectious and inspiring "Si se puede!" chant, came to the World Cup, looked decent in wins over Costa Rica and Poland, but listless in losses to Germany and England. Ecuador was eliminated in the second round, having created no more than one scoring chance against the Brits.
Spain, a team that would never have room for any of Ecuador's 23 squad players, came to the World Cup, looked amazing in huge wins over the Ukraine and Tunisia and even managed to sleepwalk through another win, this one by the Spanish JV no less, over the Saudis. Spain was eliminated in the second round, having created no more than one scoring chance against the French.
The Ukraine, a non-descript team if ever there was one, who can only claim Andriy Shevchenko as a reason to pay them any attention, lost to Spain 4-0. They then beat Tunisia and the Saudis before playing the most boring of games against the Swiss. The Ukraine won on penalties, having created no more than one scoring chance in their second-round game.
Three teams. Three vastly different soccer nations. Three completely different paths to the second round. One team beat the minnows and got overrun by the big fish. Another looked unbeatable, only to fall short against a team of legends. And another looked unimpressive in most of its games, got a favorable draw, and squeaked on to the quarterfinals. Three different fates for three different teams, but history wrote one team's destiny long ago.
Of course, we only care about the one team in the bunch that made our short list for possible candidates to win it all. Spain has a collection of young soccer talent that no - that's right, NO - other country can match. Casillas, Torres, Ramos, Joaquin, Reyes, Fabregas, Alonso, Pablo, Garcia, Iniesta...the list goes on and on - and to think that we haven't mentioned players of the caliber of Guti, De la Pena, Vicente, and Morientes. They are truly a pleasure to watch. But alas, they all wear the red of Spain, which can only be described as the scarlet letter of world soccer. Today, despite a stellar first-round, the Spanish ran up against a French team that seemingly needed to oppose a team capable of striking fear into it before they decided to play well. Tonight, the Spanish are on a plane back to Madrid. Another World Cup disaster for a nation that deserves far better.
Earlier in this tournament, la Furia Roja were compared to the Atlanta Braves for their history of playing well until it really counts and then choking under the pressure. The comparison is a good one, but I wonder if the Braves fans ever really start to believe in their team. Seeing as there are never more than 30,000 people in their ballpark, I doubt it. The torture endured by the fans down in dear ole Castilla is far worse. The Spanish aficionados know their history. They understand it. They respect it, to the point that they don't even get excited for these tournaments any more. It's just too painful. But every time, their squad proves so enticing, so full of talent, so wonderful to watch, so impossible to resist. And this time around was no different. They entered the France game on a 25-game unbeaten streak, fresh off a perfect first-round phase, a team free of the regional divisions that are so representative of Spain and so lethal to a team's success. Heck, they entered the game, against a France team still loaded with players that won both the 1998 World Cup and 2000 European Championships, as favorites. But all of the talent in the world, all of the confidence and optimism, cannot overcome that feeling of impending doom, that weight of past failures, that constant reminder of a cursed history. And so it was again today, when the weight of destiny shattered Spanish dreams once more.
The Spanish word "morbo" is hard to define, but it is some combination of "history", "rivalry", "intrigue", and "hatred". In the soccer world, it is used to describe games rife with these factors. Sometimes, "morbo" can be too much overcome. Consider that Zinedine Zidane, one of the greatest players ever, is now playing his final tournament after a career in which his greatest victories have come while wearing the blue shirt of France and the white of Real Madrid, Spain's most successful and emblematic club. Consider that it was Thierry Henry, subject of a racial slur by Spain's coach Luis Aragones just last year, who led the French attack. Consider that France's Patrick Vieira and Spain's Cesc Fabregas, the past and present of Arsenal, faced off against one another in midfield, a fading genius facing his emerging successor. So it should come as no surprise that what happened today in Hannover is full of the "morbo" that makes this sport so enticing.
80 minutes had left the teams level at a goal each; the Spanish, per usual, had dominated the possession but failed to create any real chances, while the French, despite their old age and team turmoil and poor coaching, looked the more dangerous team. When so little separates two teams, it must have been reminders of past triumphs and failures that tilted the scales to one side. While Aragones protested on the sidelines, Henry took a dive as he went for a loose ball against Spain's Puyol and conned the Italian referee into awarding his team a free kick. Zidane lofted it into the box, where Vieira appeared at the back post to bury it in the net. And how fitting it was that it was Zidane who, well into injury time, stormed forward on a breakaway to slot the ball past his Real Madrid teammate, Iker Casillas. And it is all too perfect that now, with one game full of "morbo" in the books, France will move on to a quarterfinal date with Brazil, the loser of the '98 Cup final which signalled Zidane's arrival as one of the greatest of all time. But for the Spanish, it is one more national tragedy, one more disappointment that can now take its rightful place alongside so many countless others. The Spanish, so full of hope and pride just 24 hours ago, are heading home. So too is Ecuador. And remember the Ukraine, those 4-0 whipping boys? It's on to the quarterfinals for them, just in case Spain needed any more salt rubbed into their open wounds. No se puede, Espana, no se puede.