Croatia’s Self-implosion: A Tragic Theatre of Brilliance Undone by Chaos

For 62 minutes in Saint-Étienne, Croatia produced football of rare poise and elegance—a performance Ivan Rakitic would later call “a thing of beauty.” It was, until it was not. The artistry of Ante Cacic’s team was ultimately overshadowed by an ugliness that has become an unwelcome leitmotif of this European Championship: supporters tearing down what their players so carefully built.

On the pitch, Croatia were majestic. Luka Modric, the conductor of this symphony, dictated the tempo with a grace and intelligence that seemed beyond Czech comprehension. Ivan Perisic’s crisp, low drive and Rakitic’s audacious chip over Petr Cech spoke of a team not just in control but revelling in its superiority. Even the 14 minutes after Milan Skoda’s header seemed destined to be little more than a footnote.

Then came the flares—a torrent of bright red arcs that fell like fiery omens into the goalmouth Cech was guarding. One, two, then perhaps fifteen erupted, spilling smoke and panic. A steward fell, clutching his ears as a flare exploded nearby. Mark Clattenburg halted the match, while a Croatian PA announcer pleaded with the visiting fans to “leave the stadium and don’t embarrass our country.” Darijo Srna, tears still fresh in memory from the funeral of his father only days earlier, implored the supporters with all the weight of personal grief and national pride. But reason was already lost to chaos.

For as long as the game remained just a game, Croatia were too clever, too fleet of foot, and simply too good. Modric’s departure with a tentative hand on his groin had seemed a mere precaution. When Rakitic’s goal doubled the lead—gifted by a Czech side that repeatedly surrendered possession under minimal duress—Croatia’s path appeared clear, the performance a testament to their fluidity and technical excellence.

But football matches are not played solely on the turf. The psychic rupture caused by those flares—the knowledge that family and friends were caught in the same unruly cluster of Croatian fans—permeated the players’ focus. What followed was a slow erosion of composure. Srna’s earlier show of stoic courage gave way to glances of concern toward the stands. Domagoj Vida’s raised arm in the 94th minute was less an act of malice than of frayed concentration, a symptom of collective distraction. Still, it was enough for Clattenburg to award a penalty, dispatched with chilling calm by Tomas Necid.

Rakitic’s post-match fury was edged with sorrow. “It’s happened before,” he lamented. “We were playing beautiful football. Then everything changed.” His words, addressed more to the world than to the guilty few, rang with both apology and indictment. “We have to say sorry to Uefa, to the Czech Republic, to everyone who loves football.”

This match, for all its moments of technical excellence, thus stands as a stark study in fragility. Croatia had built something close to perfection, only to see it undone by forces ostensibly on their own side. Their fans—whom coach Cacic denounced as “sporting terrorists”—managed in mere minutes what the Czech Republic could not in an hour: they dismantled Croatia’s serene authority, infected it with anxiety, and left behind a team visibly shaken, a captain publicly broken, and a reputation in tatters.

As for the tournament, it must reckon now with the uncomfortable truth that some of its most exquisite football might be shadowed by the ugliest of human behaviours. Croatia’s players deserve better; the question is whether their supporters will ever allow them to show it.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

 

Iceland’s Seismic Arrival on Europe’s Grand Stage

Iceland produced more than a football match on their European Championship debut—they produced a tremor that rippled far beyond Saint-Étienne. The smallest nation ever to grace this tournament’s stage met Portugal, one of Europe’s aristocrats, and left with a point, a memory, and a statement that transcended mere sport.

The aftershocks were felt most vividly in Cristiano Ronaldo, who responded with the petulance of a monarch affronted by peasants daring to dance at his expense. “Iceland didn’t try anything,” he scoffed. “They just defend, defend, defend and play on the counterattack. It was a lucky night for them.” His disdain crescendoed into a damning verdict: Iceland, in his eyes, possessed a “small mentality” and would not trouble the tournament for long.

Yet Ronaldo’s lament betrayed more than frustration—it betrayed a profound discomfort with the romance of football itself. Here was the world’s game, momentarily liberated from its hierarchies. A nation of 330,000 souls—ten per cent of whom had made the pilgrimage to France—stood undaunted before one of its most gilded icons. In doing so, they authored a story that felt older and truer than Ronaldo’s self-appointed narrative of inevitable triumph.

Portugal did, of course, dominate. Their authority seeped slowly into the contest, as if inevitability was a tide none could resist. Danilo, Vieirinha, and Nani each forced Iceland’s vigilant goalkeeper Hannes Halldorsson into earnest toil. A gorgeously constructed move—Pepe to André Gomes to Vieirinha—ended with Nani’s sharp finish and seemed to confirm the natural order.

But Iceland refused to be mere backdrop. From the first minute, their captain Aron Gunnarsson set a tone of fearless engagement, snapping into Ronaldo and declaring through action that Iceland would not be reduced to reverence. Gylfi Sigurdsson nearly gave them a startling early lead, twice testing Rui Patricio, and though their grip on possession frayed—66 passes to Portugal’s 277 by half-time—their belief did not.

Their equaliser arrived not through overwhelming force but through patient defiance. Portugal, under Fernando Santos, a coach renowned for defensive caution, grew curiously lax. Johann Gudmundsson was allowed to shape a cross from the right with minimal opposition, and there at the far post stood Birkir Bjarnason, serenely unmarked. His side-foot volley past Patricio did more than level the score—it wrote Iceland’s name into the tournament’s mythology.

From the stands behind Halldorsson’s goal, a roar erupted, vast and primal, the sound of a people seeing their dreams made flesh. The Icelandic players found their supporters at the final whistle, a communion of sweat, song, and tears, while Ronaldo fumed at the officials and raged against a script gone awry. Even in Iceland’s finest hour, the Portuguese captain seemed unable to cede the spotlight, though ironically it was his own wastefulness—heading straight at Halldorsson from Nani’s inviting cross—that helped birth Iceland’s celebration.

Lars Lagerback and Heimir Hallgrimsson, Iceland’s joint architects, could only marvel at the immensity of the moment. “So many things are happening for the first time for Icelandic football,” Hallgrimsson reflected. “It was just like playing at home because our fans were unbelievable.”

In the end, Portugal’s statistics told a story of control—more passes, more chances, more threats. But the scoreboard, that final arbiter, told of Iceland’s resilience and of football’s enduring capacity for wonder. In Saint-Étienne, a tiny island nation proved that dreams do not care for the size of a country or the reputation of its adversary. They care only for courage, conviction, and a little grace at the critical hour. And in that, Iceland were giants.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

From Glory to Despair: Brazil's Footballing Decline and National Discontent

Forget Andres Cunha’s calamitous refereeing decision. Erase from memory the sight of Raúl Ruidíaz’s blatant handball goal—a moment that condemned Brazil to a shocking exit from the Copa America Centenario. 

While Cunha’s failure to disallow the goal will linger as a bitter footnote, Brazil’s humiliation transcends the error of one official. It is the latest chapter in a story of systemic decline, a two-year descent into mediocrity that mirrors the broader crises engulfing the nation.

This is not merely about football; it is about identity. Brazil, the five-time world champions and custodians of o Jogo Bonito, have become unrecognizable. Once synonymous with artistry and joy, the Selecao now inspire apathy and disillusionment. 

The seismic 7-1 defeat to Germany in the 2014 World Cup semi-final shattered more than dreams—it severed the emotional bond between the national team and its people. That chasm, already vast, has since widened, fueled by economic turmoil, political scandal, and the staggering incompetence of the Brazilian Football Confederation (CBF).

A Nation Distracted

Sunday’s defeat to Peru—an experimental side that should have posed little threat—was greeted not with anguish but with indifference. Brazil’s people, battered by domestic crises, had already turned their attention elsewhere. The question on their minds was not how the Selecao could fail so spectacularly but how billions could be spent on World Cups and Olympics while millions languish in poverty.

The corruption at the heart of the CBF mirrors the rot within the country’s broader institutions. Jose Maria Marin, the former head of the CBF, was among those indicted in the FBI’s sweeping crackdown on FIFA corruption. His successor, Marco Polo Del Nero, is under investigation, his tenure defined by scandal and inertia. With such figures at the helm, Brazil’s footballing decline feels less like a mystery and more like an inevitability.

Two years after the debacle in Belo Horizonte, the Selecao remain adrift. Devoid of direction and inspiration, they are a team unmoored from their illustrious past. The defeat to Peru, a side fielding untested players, was not an aberration but a continuation of Brazil’s descent.

Dunga’s Second Act: A Portrait of Stagnation

Dunga, once the gritty captain who lifted the World Cup in 1994, has become a symbol of Brazil’s malaise. His second stint as coach has been defined by tactical rigidity, an inability to inspire, and an apparent disconnect from the demands of modern football. Where once he embodied resilience and determination, he now cuts a forlorn figure on the sidelines, presiding over a team bereft of creativity and direction.

Dunga’s decision to rest Neymar for the Copa America, prioritizing the Rio Olympics, backfired spectacularly. Without their talisman, Brazil’s attack was toothless, managing just seven goals in the tournament—all against Haiti, the weakest side in the competition. Against Ecuador, Peru, and even in victory, the Seleção’s lack of ingenuity was glaring.

Injuries compounded the problem. Douglas Costa’s absence and Neymar’s omission highlighted a deeper issue: the once-prolific Brazilian talent pipeline has faltered. While players like Philippe Coutinho, Casemiro, and Willian possess undeniable quality, they cannot mask the systemic deficiencies. The absence of a world-class striker, a lineage that once included Pelé, Romário, and Ronaldo, is particularly troubling. Gabriel Barbosa, a promising 19-year-old, is not yet ready to shoulder the burden of leading Brazil’s attack.

The Anatomy of Defeat

Sunday’s loss encapsulated Brazil’s plight. Despite dominating possession and creating chances, the Seleção lacked the ruthlessness to capitalize. Dunga’s attempt to inject flair by replacing the suspended Casemiro with Lucas Lima, a more attack-minded option, showed intent but yielded no dividends. Peru, a young and experimental side, capitalized on Brazil’s inefficiency, exposing their lack of cohesion and conviction.

The officiating blunder that allowed Ruidíaz’s handball goal will live in infamy, but it was emblematic of a broader malaise. Brazil’s inability to respond—both tactically and emotionally—was a damning indictment of their decline.

A Crisis Beyond the Pitch

The Seleção’s struggles are symptomatic of a deeper cultural and structural crisis. The timing of the Copa América, arriving so soon after the previous edition, offered little respite for a team in turmoil. The upcoming Rio Olympics, where Neymar’s return and the inclusion of under-23 players offer a glimmer of hope, may provide a temporary reprieve. Yet even a triumph on home soil will not address the structural issues plaguing Brazilian football.

The disconnect between the Seleção and its people is perhaps the most damning aspect of this decline. Once a source of national pride, the team now feels alien, its struggles emblematic of a country in chaos. The inefficacy of the CBF and the lack of a coherent footballing philosophy have left Brazil adrift, their legacy in jeopardy.

The Road Ahead

Brazil’s current position outside the qualification spots for the 2018 World Cup underscores the urgency of change. Yet the timing could hardly be worse. The nation is in turmoil, its people’s anger simmering, and its footballing heritage at risk of being lost.

To restore the Seleção to their former glory, Brazil needs more than a change in personnel. It needs a cultural and structural overhaul—a reimagining of its footballing identity that prioritizes creativity, integrity, and connection. The stakes are high, not just for the team but for a nation whose identity is inextricably linked to the beautiful game.

Brazil’s people, who once danced to the rhythm of o jogo bonito, deserve a team that reflects their passion and pride. Anything less would be a betrayal of their unparalleled footballing heritage. The road back to greatness will be long and arduous, but it is a journey Brazil must undertake—for the sake of the game and for the soul of a nation.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Payet’s Crescendo: A Night of Fractured Nerves and Redemptive Beauty in Paris

When Dimitri Payet’s number went up, the sheer weight of what he had accomplished struck him with the suddenness of a crashing tide. France’s Euro 2016 curtain-raiser, poised to unravel into an evening of gnawing frustration and combustible inquests, had been transfigured by the exquisite violence of Payet’s left foot. In one glorious arc, with the clock stalking toward the 90th minute and Romania flirting brazenly with an unlikely draw, Payet gathered the ball outside the area, slalomed inward, and unleashed a shot that soared into the distant top corner. The championship had its ignition point.

Payet, who had dazzled in his inaugural Premier League season with West Ham, ascended here to an altogether loftier plane. Romania were broken, left to gather the remnants of their gallant effort. As Payet’s substitution was announced in stoppage time, the Stade de France erupted in collective homage. Tears, first brimming then unshackled, traced paths down his cheeks—an image that stood immortal over a night that see-sawed between hope and apprehension, in a nation desperate for an embrace.

France, after all, was carrying more than sporting expectations. The months of build-up had been steeped in the heavy scent of unease: a national state of emergency, bitter strikes, encroaching floods, festering race debates, political scandals. Football was asked to provide salve, to hush the country’s many clamours, if only briefly.

But the football did not comply easily. It required exorcism through anxiety and near calamity. France began with fragility. Hugo Lloris rescued them from an ominous deficit early on, thwarting Bogdan Stancu’s close-range effort, and later was spared by Stancu’s own profligacy at the start of the second half. The margins were fine; fate might have penned a far crueller tale.

Olivier Giroud, meanwhile, offered a study in duality. He missed thrice—once glaringly—before finding redemption. It came when Romania’s goalkeeper, Ciprian Tatarusanu, wandered haplessly beneath a Payet cross. Giroud’s physicality disoriented the keeper—enough for him to misjudge completely—allowing Giroud to nod into a vacated goal. Romania protested, their manager Anghel Iordanescu refusing even to engage with questions about the possible infringement.

Yet Romania never recoiled into resignation. They levelled through a penalty engineered by Nicolae Stanciu’s thrust and Patrice Evra’s rash leg. Stancu rolled it home with composure, a moment of vindication for his earlier squandering. France was rocked anew.

The hosts had already squandered gilt-edged opportunities: Payet delivered a sumptuous ball that Giroud headed wastefully wide, Antoine Griezmann rattled the post at the second bite after initially scuffing his effort. Didier Deschamps later spoke of his team’s “timid” beginnings, an apt euphemism for nerves that threatened to derail them.

Griezmann and Paul Pogba, poster boys of French ambition, laboured ineffectually and both were eventually withdrawn—Griezmann dragging his departure into a pantomime of disappointment. Evra, hapless in defence, seemed to conduct his own private ordeal under the floodlights.

And yet amid this frailty stood Payet, a man once so peripheral to France’s plans that he was omitted entirely from their last World Cup for inconsistency. Handed a reprieve in March friendlies, he seized it with talons, prompting Deschamps to marvel: “Every time he touched the ball he showed his quality.” Payet’s own path was once humble to the point of mundane; at Nantes, his amateur contract forced him to work in a local clothing store, honing jumper-folding rather than goal-making. A modest YouTube clip of these retail exploits resurfaced recently, endearing but deceptive, for here was an artist of the highest order.

When the ball spun toward him with the night coiled in tension, Payet made his choice. The left foot swung, the net billowed, and the tournament was forever altered. As he walked off weeping into the embrace of Paris, it was not just a footballer’s catharsis we witnessed but something more elemental—a nation’s fragile joy momentarily finding voice in a single, soaring strike.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

A Nation’s Fandom and the Forgotten Imperatives of Test Cricket

Bangladesh cricket finds itself in the throes of rhapsody, fueled by the meteoric rise of Mustafizur Rahman, affectionately known as “Fizz.” Fresh from his triumphant stint in the Indian Premier League, where he played a pivotal role in Sunrisers Hyderabad’s title win, Mustafizur returned home to a hero’s welcome. The reception bordered on the extravagant, with political leaders, media outlets, and fans vying for a piece of his glory. 

While the adulation for Mustafizur is understandable, the frenzy underscores a deeper issue—a tendency to latch onto short-lived euphoria while neglecting long-term priorities. Amid the celebrations, cricketing stakeholders must remember an essential truth: an overcooked biryani, no matter how promising, ultimately disappoints. 

The Bigger Picture: ICC’s Vision for Test Cricket

While Bangladesh immerses itself in Mustafizur mania, a significant development in cricket’s global structure looms on the horizon. ICC Chief Executive David Richardson recently proposed a transformative idea to revitalize Test cricket—a format many fear is losing its lustre in the modern era. 

Richardson’s plan envisions a two-division Test structure with promotion and relegation, mirroring the systems used in football. This change would not only provide a competitive framework but also address the disparity in the quality of matches, ensuring that every Test has context and consequence. 

“There’s a general realization now,” Richardson stated, “that if we’re going to keep Test cricket going well into the future, we can’t just say it’s going to survive on its own. Unless we give meaning to these series, interest in Test cricket will continue to waver.” 

The proposed system could expand to include up to 18 teams, offering opportunities for emerging cricketing nations like Ireland and Afghanistan to participate at the highest level. The structure would allow for promotion from Division 2 to Division 1 and even playoff matches, making the stakes higher for every contest. 

What This Means for Bangladesh

Richardson’s vision should be a wake-up call for Bangladesh. Despite having Test status since 2000, Bangladesh’s performance in the format has been largely underwhelming. Beyond occasional successes against Zimbabwe and a weakened West Indies, the Tigers have struggled to compete with the traditional powerhouses of Test cricket. 

In 2023, they secured draws against South Africa and India due to rain, not resilience. Matches against stronger opponents often end in humiliating defeats, highlighting the gap between Bangladesh and the elite Test-playing nations. If the two-division system is implemented, Bangladesh risks being relegated to Division 2, a scenario that would erase much of the progress they have achieved over the past two decades. 

This is a sobering prospect for a nation that fought hard to earn Test status. The dream of becoming a competitive Test-playing nation inspired a generation of Bangladeshi fans in the 80s and 90s. Losing that credibility would not only be a blow to the team’s morale but also to the nation’s cricketing identity. 

A Misplaced Focus

The Bangladesh cricketing ecosystem—its board, players, and media—seems increasingly enamoured with the shortest format of the game. T20 cricket dominates headlines, sponsorship deals, and fan engagement, relegating Test cricket to a distant afterthought. Yet, it is the Test format that has historically shaped the legacy of great cricketers and nations. 

Bangladesh’s media and cricketing authorities bear responsibility for this decline in Test priorities. Rather than celebrating every fleeting T20 triumph, they must channel their efforts into fostering a robust Test culture. Fans and players alike must recognize that cricket’s truest glory lies in the longest format, where patience, skill, and endurance are rewarded. 

The Road Ahead

To avoid relegation and restore pride in their Test performances, Bangladesh needs a cultural shift. The Bangladesh Cricket Board (BCB) must prioritize Test cricket in their development plans, investing in infrastructure, nurturing technically sound players, and hiring experts to improve the team’s strategic acumen. 

The media, too, has a vital role to play. Instead of indulging in jingoistic coverage of short-term successes, they must promote the value and nuances of Test cricket, inspiring the next generation to embrace the format. 

Lastly, fans must temper their fleeting infatuations with players like Mustafizur and recognize the broader challenges facing their team. A sustainable cricketing legacy requires more than fleeting adoration; it demands a commitment to the game’s purest form. 

Bangladesh has the potential to thrive as a Test-playing nation, but only if it heeds the lessons of history and responds to the warnings of the present. Otherwise, the nation may find itself relegated—not just in rankings, but in relevance.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar