I got dumped today.
I might pawn it off as an amicable breakup to my buddies, but no, I got dumped like Prom ’97 (or, come to think of it, Prom ’98, too).
The European Championship has ended, thus ending it with me. One month of scintillating soccer (fetching football), but with the title game on Sunday, it’s now left me. And left me yearning for centerbacks and counter-attacks, for the soothing sonata that is an Ian Darke broadcast, for the mystical feet of Cristiano Ronaldo (the Portuguese Benjamin Hochman).
Now, falling in love with Euro 2012 wasn’t some instant moment, as if we caught eyes from across the pitch and I said, all Zellweger-y, “You had me at yellow card.”
It was a tentative courtship. I’m picky. And there was soccer, with its ties and its incessant flopping. (During a semifinals match, my friend tweeted: “That man appears to be mortally wounded…Wait…what’s this?! He lives! It’s a miracle!!!”)
And for all the beauty of the beautiful game, let’s be honest, no one texts their buddy before the big match and goes all Bart Scott: “I can’t wait for some spellbinding midfield possessions!”
But soon I fell for soccer like, well, a flopping midfielder. Euro 2012 was entrancing. I fell for the culture of the international game, the nuances, the history, the rivalries, the hair plugs (Wayne Rooney turned Twitter into basically a zillion cosmetologists).
I fell for the braggadocio of Balotelli. The Italian striker Mario Balotelli scored a goal for the ages, at the semifinals stage, unleashing what was more of a weather forecast than a shot: thunderous, blistering, torrential, tornadic. Christening the moment, and stood, statuesque, as if he were bound for the Uffizi. But football novices like myself also learned about the , about his adopted mother, about his perseverance amid racism. Hugging his adopted mother, Silvia, after the game, @IvanCarterCSN : “Humans have attempted to describe ‘love’ w millions of words. This image of Mario w his adoptive mother says it all “
I also fell for his Azzurri teammate Andrea Pirlo, who they say is 33 but looks older than Robert DeNiro’s dad. In the quarterfinals against England, the game went to penalty kicks. (Here’s a soccer idea — instead of ending games on penalty kicks, why not use the same penalty kick format, but instead have the shot attempt come from two-on-ones, with a goalie, starting from midfield. At least there’s more actual soccer involved.) Anyway, the England keeper, this zany bloke named Joe Hart, was taunting the Italian kickers, so Pirlo attempted what we in the football world call the — which is what the Associated Press described as an “audacious soft chip,” in which it appears the kicker will strike the ball hard, but then floats it over the diving, helpless keeper.
“I saw that Hart was very sure of himself,” Pirlo told reporters afterward. “I thought that he had to come down off his high horse.”
Of course, the darlings of Euro 2012 were the Spaniards, the Steve Nashes of soccer. The passing was blissful, albeit boring on occasion. But, like, the cool passes were just so cool. And the first two goals in the title game against Italy came from passes that make alley-oops look like layups. Spain has now (Euro 2008, World Cup 2010, Euro 2012), the first national side to do so.
And check this out — Spain allowed just one goal in the whole dang tournament, the fewest by a champion in the group stage era. They went 509 minutes without conceding a goal, all the way through the title game, a tournament record. Oh, and two of their best players were injured and didn’t play.
But it’s all over now. And so, I’ve been dumped. Lonely, perhaps I’ll just get my soccer fix by watching “Bend It Like Beckham” and listening to my Spice Girls CD.
