When the dust settled on this much-speculated group, the arithmetic proved mercifully simple. Germany and Portugal advanced without recourse to tortured permutations, while Holland, adrift and diminished, found no such deliverance. A late flourish saw Robin van Persie’s strike curl narrowly wide, tantalizingly close to restoring parity, only for Cristiano Ronaldo—spurred perhaps by a twinge of disdain—to rattle the post moments later. In truth, the Dutch had long been consigned to a fate they were structurally unprepared to resist.
If there is irony in football, it resides in Ronaldo’s
narrative. Vilified in recent months, he responded with defiant brilliance,
scoring both of Portugal’s goals and conjuring a personal renaissance that
seemed almost scripted. His resurgence, after the exhaustive campaign with Real
Madrid, now infuses Paulo Bento’s squad with conviction ahead of their
quarter-final against the Czech Republic. Yet Bento, steadfast in
understatement, deferred individual accolades. “The individual effort of
players is not important,” he insisted, lauding instead the collective: “I am
proud of what we did as a team. We did that brilliantly in three games.” His
tone may be leaden, but in tournaments, the eloquence should belong to the players’ feet.
Holland, meanwhile, exit without a point—a stark, almost
cruel juxtaposition to their march to the World Cup final merely two years ago.
That zenith in South Africa now appears a summit from which they have only
descended, almost inevitably. Still, few could have foreseen a nadir this
abrupt: three matches, three defeats, a grand edifice crumbling under its own
contradictions.
Portugal, by contrast, gathered momentum in Kharkiv, each
passing minute reinforcing their claim as contenders. Such tournaments exact a
brutal toll on bodies already eroded by club campaigns, but Ronaldo—ever drawn
to the dramatic—flourished under the championship’s unforgiving lights.
For Bert van Marwijk, there was only resignation. “I knew it
wasn’t going to be easy to do what we did two years ago,” he admitted, the
weight of unfulfilled expectation apparent. Though his contract extends to
2016, the future feels tenuous. On this evidence, his players could not match
Portugal’s urgency or lucidity.
Ronaldo, named man of the match, was emphatic: “Portugal has
succeeded in its great aim.” The contrast could hardly be starker. Holland
arrived fractured. Mark van Bommel, once a symbol of cohesion, sat alongside
Van Marwijk at the pre-match press conference only to be jettisoned from the
starting eleven, surrendering the captain’s armband to Rafael van der Vaart.
The reordering was more than symbolic. Klaas-Jan Huntelaar’s elevation to the
spearhead forced Van Persie deeper, a compromise that promised invention but
often delivered dissonance. And yet, paradoxically, it was the Dutch who struck
first: Robben sliced in from the left and found Van der Vaart, who swept a
sumptuous shot beyond Rui Patrício.
For a fleeting interlude, the Dutch moved with the elegance
of old. But this was a game curiously untethered from defensive discipline, its
openness inviting chaos. Gregory van der Wiel, emblematic of Holland’s
fragility, squandered possession to Helder Postiga, who wasted the gift. Such
chances were plentiful, forgiveness frequent—until the 28th minute, when João
Pereira’s incisive pass exposed the ponderous Dutch centre-backs. Ronaldo, with
imperious calm, levelled the score. The genesis was painfully familiar: Jetro
Willems, youthful and erratic, had lost the ball moments prior. “At 1-0 we were
playing well,” Van Marwijk lamented. “An individual error got Portugal back in
the game.”
From there, Portugal assumed dominion, their technique
slicing through Dutch lines with troubling ease. Ronaldo soon headed wide from
a Moutinho corner, a warning of further harm. Holland, curiously inert given
their predicament, seemed to drift rather than press. For all their illustrious
ranking, they appeared mesmerized by Portugal’s poise.
Time ebbed, yet the dynamic remained unchanged. Van
Marwijk’s delayed substitutions testified to a forlorn hope. His tactical
reshuffle—Willems withdrawn for Afellay—betrayed urgency, but not necessarily
clarity. Portugal’s composure was such that even Nani could afford to spurn a
gilt-edged chance. It scarcely mattered. When Nani later slid the ball to
Ronaldo, the denouement was inevitable. The full-back crumpled; Ronaldo stepped
inside and delivered a finish of ruthless simplicity. Portugal led 2-1, and the
match, for all practical purposes, was settled.
So Holland departed, burdened by their own legacy. The
echoes of past grandeur proved more ghostly than galvanizing. Portugal,
conversely, strode into the quarter-finals with the air of a side whose journey
had only begun. On a balmy night in Kharkiv, Bento’s men could savour not
merely survival, but a blossoming promise. Football, after all, is as much
about timing as talent—and Portugal, for now, are perfectly poised.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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