A night for The Ages: Wales Conjure History, Humble Belgium, and Dance into Folklore

Wales could hear history calling from across the decades—a siren song echoing all the way back to the sepia-tinted days of the 1958 World Cup quarter-finals. Never before had they ventured deeper into a major tournament. On this extraordinary night in Lille, they answered that call with a defiant roar that will surely echo for generations.

For the opening 25 minutes, it seemed as though the modern-day dream might be torn apart by Belgium’s gilded array of talent. This was, after all, the team ranked No 2 in the world, blessed with luminaries like Kevin De Bruyne and Eden Hazard, and bristling with attacking menace. When Radja Nainggolan’s 30-yard thunderbolt screamed into the top corner—an audacious strike that seemed ripped straight from fantasy—it felt as if a Welsh fairytale was about to be reduced to cinders.

But this Wales side are architects of their own improbable script. They have traveled through this tournament on a diet of camaraderie, spirit, and a ravenous hunger to carve new chapters. They are a brotherhood rather than a collection of mercenaries—and they would not buckle.

It was Aaron Ramsey, blond hair gleaming under the stadium lights, who orchestrated the Welsh renaissance with a performance of breathtaking scope and subtlety, overshadowing even Gareth Bale. Ramsey was everywhere: twisting, turning, slicing Belgium open with clever runs and deft passes. The cruel footnote to his night was the yellow card—earned for handball while stretching to intercept a through-ball—that rules him out of the semi-final against Portugal. Ben Davies, booked too, will share his fate. Suspensions may be football’s coldest law.

Yet the defining flourish came from the boot of Hal Robson-Kanu. His goal—a goal that belongs on canvas—saw him bamboozle Thomas Meunier, Marouane Fellaini and Jason Denayer with a jaw-dropping Cruyff turn that seemed to hypnotize the Belgian defence. They were left chasing shadows, or perhaps the last metro back to Brussels. Robson-Kanu then calmly rolled the ball past Thibaut Courtois and, with gleeful mischief, sprinted past the Wales bench before circling back into a pile of teammates. The first melee had followed Ashley Williams’s thunderous equaliser; this was the encore.

It was a triumph authored by the collective, one that will haunt Belgium’s so-called Golden Generation. Marc Wilmots’s side had recovered from an opening defeat to Italy to hammer Ireland and Hungary, and edge past Sweden. Their attack was capable of devastation. But Wales—resolute and unified—simply refused to let them breathe.

After Belgium’s initial storm, Wales steadied. Even before Robson-Kanu’s artistry, they were not clinging on. Indeed, by the time Sam Vokes thundered in the third goal—a majestic header from Chris Gunter’s pinpoint cross—Wales were exuding calm authority. The final minutes were a coronation.

The match had begun with a spine-tingling rendition of the Welsh anthem and ended in euphoric chaos, players sprinting toward the fans before hurling themselves into celebratory dives on the turf. Bale and his comrades orchestrated choruses of “Wales, Wales” that rolled around the stadium, while tender scenes unfolded as players embraced their children. Lille, draped in red dragons, belonged to them.

It was, without question, the greatest night in the history of Welsh football. Chris Coleman had dared to say so beforehand, careful to add no disrespect to the legends of 1958. He recalled the old anecdote of how those players returned home only to be asked if they’d been away on holiday. No such anonymity awaited this team. Back in Wales, every eye was fixed on Lille.

Early on, Belgium seemed determined to turn the evening into a procession. De Bruyne orchestrated from his No 10 post, prompting early yellow cards for Davies and Chris Gunter, while James Chester was also booked trying to halt Romelu Lukaku. When Nainggolan’s strike ripped into the net, it felt like the gates might open.

Indeed, Belgium’s opener had been coming. Wales survived a chaotic seventh minute that featured a Wayne Hennessey save from Yannick Carrasco, Neil Taylor’s heroic goal-line block, and a wicked deflection that caused Eden Hazard’s follow-up to loop over the bar. Lukaku narrowly missed from the resulting corner. Wales were teetering, but they did not fall.

By the interval, astonishingly, Wales were in charge. Ramsey’s corner found Williams—who crashed into the box like a TGV train—and his header was unstoppable. The momentum was transformed. Suddenly Belgium’s makeshift defence, patched up due to Thomas Vermaelen’s suspension and Jan Vertonghen’s injury, looked riddled with anxiety. Denayer and Jordan Lukaku struggled with Wales’s energy.

The second half brought tactical shifts. Wilmots, alarmed by the freedom afforded to Bale and Ramsey, brought on Fellaini for Carrasco to reinforce midfield. Initially it seemed a masterstroke: Lukaku nodded wide from point-blank range, Hazard curled inches past the post. But then Wales struck back—Robson-Kanu, Ramsey and Bale dancing through Belgian lines—and the game was theirs.

What did Belgium have left? Apart from one Fellaini header, not nearly enough. When Vokes rose majestically to crash Gunter’s cross past Courtois, delirium was complete. The celebrations would rage far into the Lille night—and deep into Welsh folklore.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

 

 

Portugal’s Pragmatic Poetry: A Streetwise March to the Euro 2016 Semis

It is becoming increasingly plausible to envision Portugal’s name etched onto the Euro 2016 trophy. Their passage to this point has been anything but majestic—three group-stage draws followed by a scruffy, extra-time dispatching of Croatia in the last 16—but if nothing else, Fernando Santos’s men have mastered the art of doing just enough.

Here, on a cool evening heavy with tension, Portugal merited their place in the semi-final, having largely outplayed Poland over 120 breathless minutes. When the contest inevitably boiled down to penalties, their composure did not falter. The decisive moment came after Jakub Blaszczykowski, whose earlier contributions had kept Poland alive, saw his kick palmed away by a diving Rui Patrício. In the next heartbeat, Ricardo Quaresma strode up and rifled his effort beyond Lukasz Fabianski, igniting wild Portuguese celebrations.

“It was enormous pressure—I had an entire nation on my shoulders,” Quaresma admitted afterwards. “But I stayed positive. I knew I was going to score. We’re on the right path, and we’ll keep going.”

Portugal had earlier shown admirable mettle to claw back from Robert Lewandowski’s clinical opener—his strike, after just 100 seconds, the second-fastest in European Championship history. From Kamil Grosicki’s clever cut-back, Lewandowski’s finish oozed assurance, and seemed to signal a long night ahead for Portugal.

Yet if the early blow staggered them, it did not break them. It was the teenage prodigy Renato Sanches who dragged them level. The 18-year-old, newly anointed by Bayern Munich for an initial £27.5 million fee that could swell to £63 million, announced himself on the grandest stage with a surging run and a thunderous left-footed shot that flicked off Grzegorz Krychowiak, wrong-footing Fabianski. Sanches would later convert his penalty with ice-cold precision, underlining why accountants in Lisbon are still gleefully tabulating the add-ons.

Cristiano Ronaldo, meanwhile, lived a night of curious paradox. He was central to Portugal’s threat, yet repeatedly betrayed by his own finishing. On three gilded chances he either miskicked, fluffed his touch, or failed to make contact entirely. His most glaring miss came on 85 minutes when João Moutinho’s delicate loft left him alone with destiny—only for Ronaldo to swing and meet air. Still, he dispatched his penalty in the shoot-out with typically imperious calm.

There was even a surreal interlude when a pitch invader burst from behind the goal in the 109th minute, hurtling straight at Ronaldo. The star deftly side-stepped him before stewards executed a rugby-style takedown. Riot police soon formed an ominous cordon behind the net, ready for more intrusions.

Poland, who had shown nerves of steel to dispatch Switzerland on penalties in the previous round, found their reservoir of luck and nerve ran dry with Blaszczykowski’s miss. Their dream of a first major semi-final since the 1982 World Cup evaporated under Portugal’s quiet ascendancy.

Santos’s side, it must be said, have developed a distinctly streetwise edge. Under his stewardship, they are unbeaten in 12 competitive fixtures—winning eight, all by a single goal. This was their fourth semi-final in five European Championships, their fifth in seven tournaments, a testament to a football culture that has learned to survive on slender margins.

William Carvalho, Portugal’s midfield anchor, will miss the semi-final after a booking for tugging Krychowiak. Around him, a carousel of interchanging forwards probed Poland’s lines. Nani’s clever passes repeatedly set up Ronaldo, while Cédric Soares, eager to atone for the misjudgment that led to Poland’s goal, thundered a shot narrowly wide.

José Fonte forced Fabianski into a save with a powerful header, and Artur Jedrzejczyk endured a heart-stopping moment when his last-ditch clearance to deny Ronaldo flew inches past his own post.

When extra time brought no new breakthrough, penalties beckoned with a chilling inevitability. Portugal, seasoned by the narrow path they had already walked, did what was required. They are not yet a team to stir romantic souls, but there is a certain poetry in their pragmatism. The next chapter awaits against Wales or Belgium—another chance to write their destiny in measured strokes.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

The Anatomy of a Collapse: England, Iceland, and the Weight of Old Ghosts

For Roy Hodgson, it ended not with defiance or dignity but with a kind of limp, hollow finality—a whimper echoing through the ruins of four years’ labor. Whatever else his stewardship of England’s national team might have offered—brief flourishes, cautious optimism—will be forever drowned out by this one ruinous night. In the cold ledger of football memory, his tenure will be defined by humiliation: a 2-1 defeat to Iceland that instantly entered the pantheon of England’s great footballing debacles.

And how could it be otherwise? This was not merely a defeat but a moral stripping, rendered even more stark by the scale of the mismatch. Iceland, a nation whose entire population could comfortably fit inside Croydon—Hodgson’s own birthplace—arrived without the burdens of history or expectation. Four years ago they sat 133rd in the FIFA rankings, peering up at the footballing world from distant shadows. Now they have authored the most intoxicating story of Euro 2016, advancing with courage, discipline, and a unity England could only envy.

England’s fall, by contrast, was operatic in its layers of pathos. Here was a team undone by fragility of spirit as much as by Iceland’s organisation, and led by a manager who—faced with disaster—offered no new solutions, only resignation, literal and figurative. Hodgson knew as the final whistle blew that there was no prospect of renewal, no possibility of staggering on. His departure was the only conclusion possible.

Where the Dream Fractured

And so the night disintegrated into scenes that felt cruelly familiar. Gary Cahill ended it careering around as an emergency centre-forward, a strange avatar of England’s confusion. The fans, stripped of hope, turned on their heroes with chants of “you’re not fit to wear the shirt,” words flung like stones. Joe Hart lifted a hand in apology. Elsewhere, players knelt on the grass, faces pressed into the turf as if to hide from the enormity of their own failings.

It was a theatre of private and collective torment. How to reconcile this with Harry Kane, who just weeks ago had finished as the Premier League’s top scorer? Here, he seemed to be grappling with some internal misalignment, repeatedly miscuing passes, dragging shots wide, his growing desperation feeding the crowd’s ire.

England had the personnel to rescue themselves from this spiral. On paper, there was quality in abundance. But football is not a game played on paper. This was an occasion demanding nerve and clarity, and England could muster neither.

The Moments That Unmade Them

The tragedy was that the night had begun with promise. Barely three minutes had passed when Daniel Sturridge’s clever, curling pass released Raheem Sterling. Iceland’s goalkeeper Hannes Halldorsson, diving recklessly, brought him down, and Wayne Rooney dispatched the penalty low to the keeper’s right. For a breathless moment, it seemed this might be the sort of uncomplicated evening England had long craved.

But two minutes later the dream cracked, and through the fissure spilled chaos. Aron Gunnarsson’s long throw was no mystery—Hodgson had spoken at length about drilling his players to defend precisely this scenario—yet England’s back line melted on contact. Rooney was outleapt by Kari Arnason, whose flick reached Ragnar Sigurdsson ghosting in behind Kyle Walker. The finish was emphatic; the defending, a shambles.

Worse followed. Iceland’s second goal, on 18 minutes, combined incision with England’s now-familiar defensive frailty. Gylfi Sigurdsson and Jon Dadi Bodvarsson worked the ball cleverly to Kolbeinn Sigthorsson, who advanced between Cahill and Chris Smalling. Hart, diving left as he had for Gareth Bale’s goal days earlier, palmed the ball limply into the net. His reaction betrayed as much anguish as surprise. Once again, England’s keeper—long a roaring embodiment of nationalistic fervor during the anthem—was the architect of his own downfall.

A Shrinking of Spirit

By halftime England were visibly unraveling. Rooney hacked wildly at a volley that begged for calm. Dele Alli, out of ideas, flung himself in search of a penalty. Passes began to drift and stutter, a team collectively tightening, suffocating under the weight of the moment.

If anything, Iceland grew bolder, refusing to simply entrench themselves. They defended with collective passion but also broke forward in crisp, brave movements. Each Icelandic player seemed sure of his role, each pass an act of belief. England by contrast looked stricken, seeking inspiration that never arrived.

A single moment captured the farce of England’s plight. Granted a free-kick some 40 yards from goal, Kane decided—against all sanity—to shoot. The ball soared harmlessly wide, drawing howls of derision from the fans packed behind Halldorsson’s goal.

Hodgson’s Last Gambits

Hodgson turned to his bench, almost out of obligation. Jamie Vardy replaced Sterling. Earlier, Jack Wilshere had come on for Eric Dier. Finally, with desperation at full bloom, Marcus Rashford was introduced in the 85th minute. Astonishingly, in those few frantic minutes, Rashford completed more dribbles than any other England player had managed all night—a damning testament to the inertia that preceded him.

Even Hodgson’s substitutions felt muddled. Rooney was withdrawn when a defender might have been the more logical sacrifice, chasing goals instead of merely chasing shadows. The gambits failed. The match expired with Iceland still resolute, their players roaring each clearance, each interception as if scoring themselves. England slinked away, burdened by a new chapter in a long, tragic national football novel.

The Unchanging Questions

What lingers now is not just the statistic—an ignominious defeat to a footballing fledgling—but the deeper wound to England’s sense of self. Once again the old questions return with gnawing persistence: Why do these players, so brilliant in their club colours, shrink in England’s white? What is it in the nation’s footballing psyche that tangles feet and blurs minds under the microscope of a major tournament?

Hodgson’s reign, for all its initial promise and careful optimism, ends with a result to stand alongside the 1950 loss to the USA or the calamity against Poland in 1973. A new manager will come, new hope will be spoken into existence, and perhaps new talents will rise. But for now, there is only the echo of Icelandic songs in the night, the bitter taste of unfulfilled expectation—and a reminder that in football, as in life, pride is forever vulnerable to the unexpected courage of smaller nations.

Iceland’s Improbable Dream Rolls On: 

Iceland will face hosts France in Sunday’s quarter-final, propelled there by the seismic goals of Ragnar Sigurdsson and Kolbeinn Sigthorsson that ousted England from Euro 2016 and brought a humiliating close to Roy Hodgson’s tenure as manager.

Ranked 34th in the world, Iceland were already the tournament’s great curiosity—surprise debutants at their first major international competition. Now they have transcended novelty, becoming a living fable.

 “We all believed. The rest of the world didn’t, but we did,” said defender Kari Arnason, capturing the essence of Iceland’s improbable rise.

Consider the scale of their achievement: Iceland is an island nation of just 329,000—roughly the population of Coventry, and nearly ten times smaller than Wales. Four years ago, during Euro 2012, they languished at 131st in the FIFA rankings, a footballing afterthought without a single professional club to its name. Today, it’s estimated that 8% of the country’s people are in France, following their heroes on what has become a shared national odyssey.

“This is without a doubt the biggest result in Icelandic football history,” Arnason added. “We’ve shocked the world.”

The night in Nice began according to England’s script: Wayne Rooney converted a fourth-minute penalty to hand Hodgson’s side the early advantage. Yet by the 18th minute, Iceland had already overturned the deficit and would go on to hold their lead with almost eerie composure, despite England registering 18 attempts on goal.

Iceland’s defensive rock Sigurdsson, 29, suggested that England had underestimated the task.

“They thought this would be a walk in the park, but we had faith in our ability,” he said.

“It went well. We didn’t feel that England created any chances. We were just heading away long balls. I wasn’t stressed in the second half.”

The confidence was startling for a team still finding its feet on the grandest stage. But as their journey has shown repeatedly—holding Portugal and Hungary, beating Austria in the group phase—Iceland’s resolve is forged from something deeper than mere tactics.

“No obstacle is too big for these guys”

Joint-coach Heimir Hallgrimsson, who shares the reins with seasoned Swede Lars Lagerbäck, paid tribute to his players’ fearless seizing of their moment.

“If someone had told me a few years ago that we would reach the last eight, I have to say I would not believe it,” Hallgrimsson admitted.

“But no obstacle is too big for these guys now.

If you want the best out of life, you have to be ready when the opportunity comes. That is a fact—and these boys were ready. This opportunity was huge; it can change their lives.”

Looking ahead to Paris, the coach’s optimism was undimmed.

“We are optimistic. Some Icelanders maybe think we are too optimistic, that we don’t think we can fail. But we have a gameplan.”

Iceland’s progress has not just altered football’s landscape but enchanted it, embodied perfectly by commentator Gudmundur Benediktsson, whose volcanic celebrations have gone viral across two matches now.

Against England, he erupted once more, even weaving in playful nods to Britain’s own upheavals.

“This is done! This is done! We are never going home! Did you see that! Did you see that!”

It is a moment—and a team—that feels bigger than sport. For Iceland, each match is rewriting not only their footballing story, but the very contours of their national imagination. Against France, they will step onto the pitch as underdogs once more, yet unmistakably as giants of this tournament.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

Italy Outclass Spain as Saint-Denis Bears Witness to a Changing of the Guard

Perhaps this contest was always destined to fall short of its grand billing. Perhaps the ghosts of Brazil still hover too heavily over Spanish shoulders for true invincibility to be spoken of. But whatever illusions remained were stripped bare under the brooding skies of Saint-Denis. Spain—once the game’s high priests—are going home, undone by an Italian side that outmanoeuvred them in nearly every facet save, ironically, the art of finishing.

Had Antonio Conte possessed a forward in the ruthless tradition of Paolo Rossi or Pippo Inzaghi, the margin of victory might have been something close to humiliation. Instead, Italy found themselves clinging on as stoppage time approached, their earlier dominance fraying at the edges, before Graziano Pellè’s breakaway volley settled the matter and booked a quarter-final with Germany in Bordeaux. That they even needed such late insurance spoke less of Spanish threat than of Italy’s own profligacy.

“We created so much against a team of superstars—it’s not easy to make that many chances against Spain,” Conte reflected, the adrenaline of tactical triumph still evident in his eyes. “Maybe we should have settled it sooner, with Éder through on goal, that’s our small regret. But the performance was incredible. Apart from a brief spell in the second half, Spain’s possession never hurt us.”

Indeed, for long spells the match unfolded like a lesson in how to dismantle a dynasty. Whether it was the heavy rain that sheeted across Saint-Denis after kick-off, sending spectators scrambling for higher ground, or simply the weight of mortality pressing upon them, Spain were curiously meek early on. “We were timid in the first half,” Vicente del Bosque admitted afterwards, his voice tinged with resignation. “Better in the second, but only because we had no choice. Italy were the better team.”

Italy struck the first chords of menace almost immediately. Within 10 minutes, David de Gea had twice spared Spanish blushes—first diving low to claw away Pellè’s header, then reacting instinctively to push Emanuele Giaccherini’s inventive overhead onto the post. Italy were quicker to every ball, more purposeful despite a slick surface that made finesse treacherous. Andrés Iniesta tried to orchestrate from deep, but seemed a conductor marooned too far from his orchestra.

Italy’s celebrated defensive iron proved equally unyielding. In three previous matches only Robbie Brady’s header had breached their lines, and when Cesc Fàbregas finally found a glimpse of space via David Silva and Nolito, Mattia De Sciglio stormed from the back line to block—embodying Italy’s creed of collective vigilance. De Sciglio was everywhere in that opening half: delivering crosses for Marco Parolo to head wide, tempting Sergio Ramos into near self-sabotage with a dangerous ball across goal that almost yielded an own goal in his desperation to deny Pellè.

The breakthrough felt inevitable. Just past the half-hour, Gerard Piqué felled Pellè at the edge of the area. Éder’s vicious free-kick skidded off the drenched turf, De Gea could only parry, and in the ensuing scramble Giorgio Chiellini lunged ahead of the dawdling Spanish defence to force the ball over the line. De Gea had done well to stop the initial strike but might rue not pushing it farther clear.

Italy protected their lead with a calm that belied the stakes, even threatening more through Éder and Alessandro Florenzi’s industrious raids that exposed Ramos’ age with every dash. Only a stunning De Gea fingertip kept Giaccherini’s curling effort from nestling in the top corner before the interval. Buffon, by contrast, remained largely a solemn spectator—Spain’s array of technicians reduced to peripheral figures, unable to thread Nolito or Álvaro Morata meaningfully into the affair.

Del Bosque responded by withdrawing Nolito at the break for Aritz Aduriz, but though Italy seemed to grow even more assured, Spain did finally register their first meaningful threat. Morata’s header from Fàbregas’s cross forced Buffon into action, albeit an uncomplicated catch. Moments later, De Gea was the saviour again when Pellè slid Éder clean through on goal. As he has done so often for Manchester United, De Gea stood tall and blocked, though Éder might reflect that such generosity has no place at this level.

Italy’s failure to kill the game—Éder and Giaccherini both spurned presentable chances—invited Spanish hope. The tension told in Conte, who at one point launched the ball down the touchline in barely concealed frustration, risking sanction for time-wasting. Spain, sensing the possibility of theft, pressed forward: Buffon was forced to claw away stinging efforts from Iniesta and then Piqué, while Insigne at the other end danced past Ramos to draw another excellent De Gea save.

Ultimately, it was Pellè who released Italy from their torment, crashing home Matteo Darmian’s deflected cross in stoppage time to settle not just the match but perhaps an era. The 2-0 scoreline was no flattering fiction—Italy had orchestrated it with superior discipline, sharper ideas, and an almost primal hunger.

Now Germany await in Bordeaux. “They’re a cut above,” Conte admitted without embarrassment. “The best team here by far. And we’ll face them without Thiago Motta, possibly without De Rossi. But when the going gets tough, we often find a way to respond.”

Thus, the theatre of Saint-Denis witnessed not merely a result but a reckoning. Spain’s reign—already wobbling since Brazil—was laid bare, while Italy, ever the tournament alchemists, summoned from grit and guile a performance that hints at further chapters still to be written. Football’s old truths endure: dynasties fade, systems falter, but in the crucible of elimination, character has a habit of prevailing.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Cruel Ends and Hollow Dominance: Portugal Steal Past Croatia in a Game to Forget

Portugal staggered into a quarter-final against Poland courtesy of Ricardo Quaresma’s opportunistic strike three minutes from the end of extra time. Remarkably, it took nearly two hours of play before either side managed a shot on target. In a tournament replete with compelling narratives, this was football at its most grudging and parsimonious — a match saved from complete oblivion by a brief, breathless coda.

For much of the night, Croatia were the brighter, braver side, yet they fell victim to the very caution they perhaps thought would see them through. Theirs was a performance of understated dominance, undone by a fatal reluctance to translate control into cutting edge. Portugal, meanwhile, wore the look of a spent force, trudging through midfield as though carrying the accumulated fatigue of a long campaign. Cristiano Ronaldo embodied this paradox: largely anonymous, yet crucial in the decisive moment.

When Nani finally located Ronaldo inside the area after what felt like an interminable stalemate, the Portuguese captain forced Danijel Subasic into the night’s first meaningful save. It was a low, stabbed effort that Subasic could only parry, leaving Quaresma to nod home from point-blank range. Seconds earlier, Ivan Perisic had seen his header graze the outside of Rui Patrício’s post — a fleeting, cruel pivot on which the entire contest turned. According to UEFA’s official tally, Croatia ended with zero shots on target. Portugal managed precisely one — and they made it count.

The Croatian coach, Ante Cacic, was left to rue football’s capricious nature. “We dominated the game but didn’t score,” he lamented. “So the best team lost. It happens.” Fernando Santos, by contrast, preferred to cast the evening as a chess match. “Croatia played the best football in the group stages, but we wouldn’t let them counterattack,” he said, offering a tacit admission that Portugal’s approach was more about negation than creation. “It was hard for us too, but today we were the lucky ones.”

The contest had been billed in some quarters as a clash of Real Madrid’s virtuosi: Ronaldo versus Luka Modric. That dynamic quickly revealed itself to be one-sided. Modric stationed himself deep, orchestrating with quiet authority, while Ronaldo, marooned high up the pitch, spent long spells as little more than a spectator. Croatia’s early spell was all neat geometries and purposeful possession, but for all Modric’s elegant probing, there was scant incision.

Indeed, the first half’s paucity of entertainment was summed up by its highlight reel at the interval: not a glittering passage of play, but José Fonte’s crude stamp on Ivan Rakitic, a transgression that might have merited a red card had the referee detected malice. As for actual chances, Pepe’s header over the bar from João Mário’s free-kick represented Portugal’s sole serious incursion. Croatia’s only reply was Perisic’s shot into the side netting after Nani carelessly surrendered possession.

The second period unfolded in much the same lethargic vein. Croatia probed, yet seemed curiously inhibited, a shadow of the side that dazzled in the group stage. Even Modric’s radar occasionally faltered. Left-back Ivan Strinic offered some belated threat with improved deliveries, one of which narrowly eluded Marcelo Brozovic at the six-yard line. When Brozovic finally found space to shoot moments later, he blazed wildly over — emblematic of Croatia’s evening.

Portugal sought impetus by introducing Renato Sanches, who brought bustle if not precision. His one notable effort, a speculative shot after carving out space, missed both goal and the broader confines of the penalty area.

It was Croatia who continued to ask the tentative questions. Domagoj Vida sent a firm header narrowly wide from a Darijo Srna free-kick, then performed diligent defensive work to thwart Ronaldo as William Carvalho attempted a rare penetrative pass. Throughout, Croatia remained haunted by the idea of Ronaldo — his influence minimal, his threat nonetheless magnetic enough to warp their defensive shape.

Inevitably, the game seeped into extra time, where both sides appeared resigned to the lottery of penalties. Perhaps it was this fatalism that proved Croatia’s undoing. When Perisic’s header clipped the post, Portugal sprang with sudden clarity, Renato Sanches driving forward before feeding Nani, whose pass released Ronaldo. His shot forced Subasic into that lonely, telling save — leaving Quaresma to administer the final, merciless touch.

Thus ended a match that might otherwise have faded into oblivion, redeemed only by its cruel conclusion. Croatia will forever ponder how a game they controlled so comprehensively slipped away. For Portugal, it was less a triumph of football than of perseverance and opportunism — a reminder that in knockout tournaments, artistry often bows to pragmatism, and fortune is no respecter of style.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar