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Amidst the heat and humidity in Brazil, the pervading scent in the air is that of the contrasting aromas of victory and defeat. Somehow sport is elevated into a rarefied realm as soon as you hand a sword that scythes the vanquished and decorates the victor. The absence of safety makes the spectacle intense, turning the protagonists into warriors indulging in a battle for life.
“Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure,” said Theodore Roosevelt, the American president over a hundred years ago. It is better he surmised, “than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.”
Of gray twilight, there is little left in Brazil. The Sun is blazing and grown up men are invested in a ferocious battle for survival and honour. The sedate draw from the group stages is a relic of little relevance amidst the fever pitched quest for lasting glory.
The greatest festival in sport acquires a sudden transcendental charm, soon as the rigmarole of trimming down the pretenders is accomplished. The sense of urgency, the prize at stake and the fact that every match could be the last provides an intensity and allure that is beyond prose, perhaps even poetry.
It is time to either win or perish in Brazil and it is no wonder that both players and fans live on the edge for the next fortnight. The scalding intensity of the contest between Brazil and Chile resulted in the death of an exasperated Brazilian fan. Apparently, the man found the sight of a whirling ball striking his side’s goalpost too heavy to bear.
Even as the host nation’s hopes began to sink into a state of utter despair yesterday, it was just a bit fortunate that the thundering strike from Mauricio Pinilla did not dip ever so little. Coming as it did in the dying minutes of extra time, it was a grim reminder of the narrow margins that shall separate the victors from the vanquished in the coming few days.
Grown men and seasoned footballers will miss penalties – there were five missed already in that encounter between Brazil and Chile. Weighed down by the power of the moment and the specter of failure, the missed penalty is a study in human psychology coloured by the unmistakable effects of duress.
There is no place to hide, not any more. The Mexicans were in control of their own fate after Giovani Dos Santos put them ahead in their match against the Netherlands. The Central Americans have suffered a second round exit for the past five world cups and it appeared they allowed the scent of the quarters to dim their senses.
As they dropped back into a comfort zone, the Dutch attacked with persistence. Eventually the lengthening shadows, fuelled by their own defensive intent consumed the Mexicans, allowing Netherlands to snatch victory from the claws of defeat. In both cases – Brazil and Netherlands – the team that played the better football lost the game.
But that is the travesty of sport. While everyone from sportsmen to spectators dedicate to it by bleeding heart and soul, sport itself is a creature that lacks a beating heart or a bleeding vein. The cruel master of our soaring hope and sinking despondency, of unadulterated joy and inexplicable pain is alien to emotion. In the cherished theatres of sport, the drama acquires many hues, but the stage remains unmoved.
At an average, the teams kept the ball in play for less than an hour during the games played so far around the beautiful cauldrons of Brazil. But that number, 55.5 minutes per game, could change quickly. The teams have ninety minutes, perhaps thirty more and a little lottery after that, to determine their destiny – glorified air for the winner, an air ticket home to the loser. And you need to keep the ball in play to create the chances that might define that destiny.
The virtues of possession have been drilled about for many years now, but it is a wasted virtue if you lack the wizardry to create anything meaningful from it. Possession is akin to an artist laying out the canvas, without precious little to offer in terms of thought and colour. And it is no wonder that the two sides – Italy and Spain - with the most possession so far, have both flown home in a state of ignominy.
In stark contrast, Netherlands, a team that has only averaged 39.5% possession – the lowest among the 16 teams that made the second round – is in the quarterfinals. They have played some of the most intelligent, attacking football and the manager has been spot on with his tactics and even the timing of his substitutions. Barring the selfish antics of Arjen Robben, the Dutch have been dancing with victory even when they might be staring defeat in the eye.
The legendary Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly possessed an uncanny knack for translating the game into common text. “A football team is like a piano,” he said. “You need eight men to carry it and three who can play the damn thing.” It is now time for those three men in each team to step up and play the music. The tune that can linger longest will help a nation lay claim to lasting glory and afford its players a heroic existence for the remainder of their lives.
