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 

Saint-Étienne’s Theatre of Nerves: Poland Prevails as Switzerland Falls to Fate

Saint-Étienne has always been a willing accomplice in football’s ongoing romance with history. Long before this summer afternoon, it was the haunt of legends—Hervé Revelli, Michel Platini, and Les Verts once wrote luminous chapters here, while the European Cup nights of the 1970s still echo in the narrow streets of this atmospheric Loire Valley enclave. Yet it is international drama that has most recently gilded the city’s reputation. Eighteen years after Argentina dispatched England from the World Cup on penalties under these very floodlights, Poland reprised the narrative, narrowly edging Switzerland by the same cruel lottery to claim the first quarter-final berth of Euro 2016.

The game’s hinge was Granit Xhaka’s errant penalty—sliced wide in a shootout otherwise nervelessly executed. It was the lone blemish among ten attempts, rendered all the more poignant by Switzerland’s growing command as the match deepened. Xherdan Shaqiri, the afternoon’s incandescent figure, sought to shoulder his compatriot’s burden. “Granit can cope with it,” he assured, “and I’m sure he’ll put it right come the World Cup in 2018.” Vladimir Petkovic, Switzerland’s measured helmsman, echoed the empathy. “I’m very sorry for him,” he said, while saluting a team that, in his words, had “given everything.”

Poland’s Adam Nawalka wore his relief like a carefully tailored coat—only faint creases betrayed the strain. “It was very difficult,” he confessed, eyes betraying the memory of Swiss waves crashing against Polish resolve in the latter stages. “But we were prepared for that. The Swiss are a world-class side.”

Indeed, Nawalka’s meticulous preparations extended to the grim ritual of penalties. Poland had drilled their list of takers days before, each name inscribed with quiet forethought. Though extra time brought an opportunity to reshuffle, Nawalka only needed gentle confirmation. His players met his gaze with steady nods. They were ready.

The match itself was an intricate study in contrasts—an almost symmetrical drama cleaved by the interval. Both nations were charting new territory, never before having escaped the group phase of the Euros, yet their entrances onto this stage could hardly have been more uneven. Within 30 seconds, Poland threatened to tilt the contest entirely. Arkadiusz Milik squandered a gilt-edged chance after Yann Sommer and Johan Djourou conspired in defensive calamity, scooping over an abandoned net.

Milik continued as the evening’s principal actor in attack—by turns eager and erratic. Having slashed one glaring opportunity wide after Jakub Blaszczykowski’s clever feed, he left his teammates in animated conference, hands gesturing anxiously, faces drawn tight. Poland’s early supremacy was near-total. Grzegorz Krychowiak and Kamil Grosicki, too, passed up invitations to score, while Switzerland could muster only brief ripostes—Fabian Schär’s tame header chief among them.

The breakthrough, when it came, was born of Poland’s lightning transitions. Fabianski plucked a corner from the air and released Grosicki, who surged half the pitch’s length with smooth inevitability before sweeping the ball across. Milik’s cunning dummy left Blaszczykowski to dispatch it beneath Sommer, and Poland’s bench erupted, aware how precious an edge this could prove.

Yet matches of this gravity rarely adhere to a single script. The second half belonged to Switzerland and to Shaqiri in particular, who drew a flying save from Fabianski moments after the restart. Meanwhile, Robert Lewandowski, deployed in a deeper, more sacrificial role, finally recorded his first shot on target of the tournament—a modest milestone Nawalka later defended with almost paternal pride. “He’s doing great work,” the coach insisted. “There have been stars in history who didn’t care if they didn’t score, so long as they glittered. That’s not him. He’s fighting, physically and mentally, every minute.”

Petkovic, desperate to spark his own attack, threw on Breel Embolo and Eren Derdiyok to flank Haris Seferovic. His gamble nearly conjured a reward: Seferovic’s thundering strike in the 79th minute deserved better than the cruel rattle of crossbar on ball. The clock wound down, tension coiling tighter, until Shaqiri intervened with the game’s undoubted masterpiece—an audacious mid-air bicycle kick that curved exquisitely into Fabianski’s corner, capped by a celebration that rivaled the goal for balletic grace.

Extra time became a story of Swiss ascendancy and Polish endurance. Shaqiri, inexhaustible, orchestrated a series of set-piece sieges, one culminating in Derdiyok’s close-range header which Fabianski clawed away in what proved a match-saving reflex. Thus Poland staggered to penalties, where fortune finally blinked in their favor.

In the end, Saint-Étienne witnessed yet another layer added to its rich football tapestry—woven from skill, suffering, and the fragile thread of destiny. Poland advanced, Switzerland departed, and the city’s old ghosts nodded knowingly from their stands. Football, after all, remembers everything.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

Reviving the Spirit of 50-Over Cricket: The Lessons of the Caribbean Tri-Series

Australia's victory over hosts West Indies in the eighth match of the tri-series secured their place in the final, leaving the West Indies and South Africa to battle for the remaining spot. With the stakes set high, the ninth match promises a classic do-or-die encounter to determine who will face Australia on Sunday. 

Despite its relatively subdued reception, this tri-series in the West Indies has been a compelling reminder of the vibrancy and strategic depth that the 50-over format can offer. In an age where scepticism looms over the relevance of ODI cricket, the series has showcased the enduring allure of this format, refuting claims that its days are numbered. 

A Series to Remember

The tournament has been a throwback to an era when cricket was about more than just power-hitting. It has delivered a balanced spectacle, where both bat and ball have had their moments of dominance. The tracks in the Caribbean demanded more than brute force, testing batsmen's technique and temperament—a rarity in modern limited-overs cricket. 

Fast bowlers thrived, with Australian pacers masterfully employing reverse swing, while their South African and West Indian counterparts kept batsmen guessing with hostile pace and probing line-and-length. Spinners, too, found their footing, exploiting conditions to claim crucial wickets. These contests harked back to the cricket of the 80s and 90s, where the battles between bat and ball simmered with tension rather than being reduced to boundary-hitting spectacles. 

A Misstep in Timing

Yet, despite its quality, the series has struggled to generate the fanfare it deserved. The timing of the tournament, coinciding with global spectacles like Copa America and the Euros, overshadowed its potential impact. Historically, the Caribbean cricketing calendar thrived in March and April, a period when the rhythms of Calypso cricket captivated global audiences for months. 

Holding the tri-series during this traditional window could have maximized its appeal, rekindling the festive atmosphere that once defined cricket in the West Indies. Instead, scheduling it amid fierce competition from football tournaments and a crowded cricketing calendar diluted its reach. 

The T20 Conundrum

March through May, once reserved for enriching tournaments like the Sharjah Cup or World Series Cricket, is now dominated by cash-rich T20 leagues. While these leagues have revolutionized cricket financially, they often fail to replicate the nuanced drama of 50-over contests. The brevity of T20 may appeal to instant gratification, but it lacks the enduring narratives and balanced confrontations that ODIs provide. 

Preserving the Legacy

The Caribbean tri-series serves as a blueprint for how ODIs can remain relevant: offering balanced pitches, competitive contests, and a sense of occasion. For the 50-over format to thrive, cricket boards must prioritize such tournaments over the relentless expansion of T20 leagues. Shortened leagues, strategically placed tournaments, and a return to traditional cricketing windows could revitalize fan engagement and ensure that ODIs retain their place in the cricketing ecosystem. 

The series in the West Indies has proven there is still life in the 50-over game—life that deserves to be celebrated, nurtured, and protected from the forces that threaten to overshadow it.

 
Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

Tite Takes the Helm: A New Dawn or False Hope for Brazilian Football?

In the shadow of turmoil and mediocrity, a new chapter begins for Brazilian football. After a prolonged saga that bordered on farce, Tite has been confirmed as the new manager of the Selecao, replacing Dunga in what could mark a turning point for a nation desperate to reclaim its footballing identity. The appointment, long overdue, is more than a managerial change—it is a symbolic moment of reckoning for a team and a country that have seen their glory days tarnished by scandal, inefficiency, and underperformance. 

The drama surrounding Tite’s appointment played out in real-time, with Brazilian media capturing every twist and turn. Fox Sports Brasil’s persistent live updates from the CBF headquarters became emblematic of a nation’s collective impatience. Despite the inevitability of Tite’s selection, the delay in official confirmation highlighted the chaos and indecision that have plagued Brazilian football governance. This was no ordinary managerial appointment; it was a tug-of-war between the allure of club loyalty and the irresistible call of national duty. 

A Proven Leader Amid the Ruins

Tite’s credentials are impeccable. Over the past decade, he has established himself as one of the most astute tacticians in Brazilian football. His tenure at Corinthians, one of the country’s most storied clubs, has been a masterclass in adaptability and resilience. In a footballing ecosystem where talent is often siphoned off to Europe at the first sign of promise, Tite has consistently rebuilt competitive squads from scratch. 

His achievements speak volumes. Under his stewardship, Corinthians claimed multiple titles, including the Copa Libertadores and the FIFA Club World Cup, where they triumphed over European champions Chelsea in 2012. Even as half his squad was dismantled through player sales, Tite recalibrated his team, guiding them to a dominant league title in 2015, characterized by the most goals scored, the fewest conceded, and a staggering 12-point margin at the top of the table. 

Crucially, Tite has evolved. While his earlier teams were lauded for their defensive solidity, his recent Corinthians sides have embraced a more expansive and aesthetically pleasing style of play. This duality—pragmatism married with flair—positions him as the ideal candidate to navigate the complexities of modern international football, where balance is paramount. 

Rebuilding the Selecao: A Herculean Task

The Brazil that Tite inherits is a shadow of its former self. Once synonymous with the poetry of *jogo bonito*, the Selecao has become a byword for dysfunction and disillusionment. The nadir came in 2014, with the 7-1 World Cup humiliation against Germany—a wound that still festers in the national psyche. Dunga’s second stint as manager only deepened the malaise, marked by a rigid tactical approach and an inability to inspire either his players or the public. 

Tite’s immediate task is monumental. Brazil languishes in sixth place in World Cup qualifying, outside the automatic qualification spots for Russia 2018. The team’s performances in recent tournaments have been uninspiring, with a quarterfinal exit in the 2015 Copa América followed by an embarrassing group-stage elimination in the 2016 Centenario edition. 

Yet, Tite’s arrival offers a glimmer of hope. His track record of nurturing young talent, exemplified by his work with players like Malcom and Maycon at Corinthians, aligns with the CBF’s need to rejuvenate the national team. The likes of Philippe Coutinho, Casemiro, and Gabriel Jesus represent a promising core, but their potential must be harnessed within a coherent tactical framework—something Tite has proven adept at delivering. 

The Weight of Expectation

Beyond the tactical and technical challenges, Tite must contend with the immense psychological burden that accompanies the Selecao. For decades, the yellow shirt has been a symbol of joy and excellence, a source of pride for a nation often beset by political and economic strife. Under Dunga, that symbolism eroded, replaced by a dour pragmatism that mirrored the country’s broader malaise. 

Tite’s task, therefore, is not merely to win matches but to restore the spiritual connection between the team and its people. His calm demeanour, tactical acumen, and willingness to embrace a more progressive style of play make him a figure of hope in a time of despair. 

A Glimpse of Optimism Amid the Gloom

The timing of Tite’s appointment is both a blessing and a curse. The upcoming Rio Olympics provide an immediate opportunity for redemption, albeit with a squad predominantly composed of players under 23. Success on home soil could reignite national pride and lay the groundwork for a brighter future. 

However, the deeper structural issues within Brazilian football remain unresolved. The CBF’s tarnished reputation, marred by corruption scandals involving former president José Maria Marin and current head Marco Polo Del Nero, casts a long shadow. True reform will require more than a change in the dugout; it demands a cultural and organizational overhaul that extends far beyond the pitch. 

A New Era, or More of the Same?

Tite’s appointment is a step in the right direction, but it is no panacea. The challenges he faces are immense, from rebuilding a fractured team to navigating the labyrinthine politics of Brazilian football. Yet, his arrival offers a rare moment of unity, with public and institutional support coalescing around a single figure. 

In a nation where football has always been more than just a game, Tite has the opportunity to be more than just a coach. He can be a symbol of renewal, a catalyst for change in a sport and a country yearning for a return to greatness. For now, that possibility is enough to inspire cautious optimism. 

Thank You

Faisal Caesar 

A Night of Altered Destinies: Croatia Seize The Stage, Spain Haunted by Fragility

In Bordeaux, under the soft evening glare, Euro 2016 found one of its most consequential turns. Spain and Croatia both advanced to the last sixteen, but not along the paths foreseen. Instead, a late Ivan Perisic goal—crafted with ruthless efficiency after 87 minutes—upended the order of Group D and perhaps the entire geometry of the tournament. Spain, champions twice running, suffered their first European Championship defeat in over a dozen years. The aftershocks may resonate well beyond this single night.

How swiftly football rewrites its scripts. In one moment, Aritz Aduriz’s shot was smothered at the edge of the Croatian area; in the next, a pair of clean, slicing passes sent Perisic haring down the opposite flank, discarding his shirt in exultation as the Croatian fans detonated in delight. From Spain’s pressure to Croatia’s plunder in the span of 80 yards, the shift was both spatial and symbolic. Suddenly, it was Cacic’s men—not Del Bosque’s—who topped the group, earning the reward of a last-16 meeting with a third-placed side, while Spain face the brutal gauntlet of Italy, Germany, and potentially France.

“This is just the beginning,” declared Perisic, flushed with triumph. Ante Cacic spoke of the need to “make the Croatian people happy,” but it was Vicente del Bosque who captured the altered stakes with a quiet, rueful candour: “This was not the path we wanted, that’s the truth.”

Spain’s reality now is harsh. If they are to defend their crown, it will be along football’s most treacherous byways. And though the match’s final drama centred on Perisic’s winner, its deeper tale was of warnings unheeded. Sergio Ramos, curiously assigned the responsibility over more accustomed takers, saw his penalty repelled by Danijel Subasic’s stuttering, theatrical lunge. The moment should have settled the contest in Spain’s favour. Instead, it served as prelude to their undoing.

By then, Croatia’s belief had already been awakened. Nikola Kalinic’s artful flick just before half-time—stealing in between a static Ramos and a rooted De Gea—erased Álvaro Morata’s early goal and shattered Spain’s aura. That it ended a run of 733 minutes without conceding in European Championship play lent it an almost mythic resonance, as though an enchantment had been broken. From there, the spell of Spanish control weakened, thread by fragile thread.

The night was alive with subtle ironies. Spain began by slicing through Croatia with the slick geometries of Silva, Fàbregas, and Iniesta, pushing their canvas from left to right, from Nolito’s runs to Silva’s more intricate embroidery. When Morata tapped in the opener—after Fàbregas’s delicate lift over Subasic—it seemed a familiar script was unfolding. But Croatia would not be cowed. Even after a dreadful De Gea clearance nearly allowed Rakitic to loft in a sensational goal—his curling effort grazing bar, post and line before somehow spiralling out—they continued to probe, Perisic their incandescent spearhead.

Perisic was, in many ways, the night’s restless spirit: charging at defenders, conjuring Kalinic’s equaliser with a bewitching cross, then harassing Spain’s back line relentlessly. Each time he drove forward, the Spanish facade appeared to fissure a little more. His final strike, searing past a wrong-footed De Gea after glancing off Gerard Piqué’s boot, completed not just a counterattack but a symbolic transference of momentum. Croatia, denied by fortune earlier, were now the authors of fate.

Spain’s errors extended beyond the tangible. Ramos might protest Pjaca’s dive, might lament the penalty miss, but Spain’s true failing was subtler—a collective lapse in urgency. As Del Bosque admitted, “A lapse in the 89th minute with the score in our favour is not something we should allow to happen.” By the time the game’s significance truly dawned on them, it was already slipping beyond reach.

For Croatia, this was a triumph achieved without Luka Modric, underscoring their depth and new-found resilience. In defeating Spain after conceding early, they redefined their narrative from stylish dark horse to genuine contender. “Better to step out,” they seemed to decide, upon hearing that Turkey led elsewhere—abandoning any cynical designs on a convenient draw. They stepped out, indeed, and altered the destiny of the competition.

As the Spanish fans filed out, hushed beneath the weight of a destiny suddenly far more fraught, it was hard not to sense that this match had done more than rearrange a group table. It had revealed vulnerabilities—both technical and mental—in the reigning champions, while casting Croatia as a team capable of tilting the tournament’s axis entirely.

In this theatre of late goals and upended dreams, it was Croatia who departed with chests lifted, eyes bright, and Spain who lingered, haunted by what might yet come.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar

The Cruel Geometry of Fate: Ronaldo and Portugal’s Frustrating Night in Paris

Cristiano Ronaldo’s movie-star grin, which had illuminated the Stade de France for much of the evening, contorted into a rictus of anguish after 80 minutes. The Portugal captain, having won a penalty with typical bravado, watched his strike cannon off Austria’s right-hand post and spin harmlessly away, the cruel geometry of sport writing yet another chapter in his long personal saga.

A later headed finish, chalked off by the offside flag with all the indifferent finality of a guillotine, merely underlined the truth: this was not Ronaldo’s night. Nor was it Portugal’s, as a second successive draw left them marooned on two points. Now, they must beat Hungary in their final Group F game to salvage a tournament already teetering on the brink.

In the afterglow of frustration, Portugal’s coach Fernando Santos cloaked himself in stoic cliché. He refused to entertain questions about Ronaldo’s ordeal, insisting on “team, not individuals.” His rhetoric was almost ritualistic: “We’re going through a tough time, but we can’t wallow in misery. The next match is a final. This is our first final of these Euros.” It was both defiance and a plea, an attempt to summon collective will from private desolation.

This night was supposed to crown Ronaldo’s record-breaking 128th cap with triumph. The mission had been clear: lead Portugal to their first victory in this campaign, and seize control of their path into the last sixteen. Hungary’s late equaliser against Iceland had left them top of the group with four points, a modest summit that Portugal could have scaled by dispatching Marcel Koller’s Austria.

Santos, adjusting the levers of his side with the cold hand of necessity, made two changes from the draw with Iceland. Out went Danilo and João Mário; in came William Carvalho, whose brooding presence was an early catalyst, and Ricardo Quaresma, that mercurial winger whose every appearance is a small drama of hope and exasperation. Asked beforehand if Quaresma could effectively share the stage with Ronaldo and Nani, Santos’s hesitant optimism found justification as the trio combined to stretch Austria across the first half.

Austria, meanwhile, arrived diminished. Aleksandar Dragovic, expelled against Hungary, was replaced by Sebastian Prödl; Zlatko Junuzovic’s injured ankle handed Stefan Ilsanker a starting berth. Their reshuffled ranks braced against Portugal’s swirling attacks like men clutching at storm lanterns in a gale.

Early on, Portugal flowed forward with verve. William Carvalho’s diagonal missile to the right flank sparked a move that ended with Nani nodding wildly over from point-blank range. Quaresma, lively but sometimes too enraptured by his own flair, ignored Ronaldo’s imploring run down the centre — a choice that earned him visible rebukes but also spoke of Portugal’s restless ambition.

Austria’s goalkeeper, Robert Almer, contributed his own tremor of calamity, slicing a clearance into Hinteregger and conceding a corner from which Ricardo Carvalho might have scored, had his header not veered wide. The pattern was set: Portugal surging, Austria surviving.

Then came the moment that should have broken the deadlock. Guerreiro and Nani combined slickly down the left, the latter sliding the ball across to Ronaldo with the sort of reverence given to a king. The stadium seemed to pause, as if awaiting the coronation of Ronaldo’s seventh goal at European Championships. But the side-foot finish rolled past Almer’s right post, a misfire that hung in the air like a rhetorical question.

Still Portugal pressed. Nani, with the scent of redemption, crashed a header against the upright. Ronaldo, prowling in Austria’s box, volleyed tamely into Almer’s grasp. Despite their near-total dominance, Portugal escaped first-half ruin only because Vieirinha hacked away David Alaba’s thunderous free-kick, which had seemed destined for the net.

The second half began with a jolt as Ilsanker carved through midfield and forced Rui Patrício into a sharp save. It was a reminder that football can punish wastefulness with cold efficiency.

Ronaldo, increasingly desperate, prowled deeper in search of ignition. Age and mileage whisper their warnings even to legends, and one wondered if the searing bursts of old had begun to slip from his arsenal. Yet soon he reminded everyone of his enduring menace, unleashing a ferocious left-foot drive that Almer brilliantly parried, then soaring for a corner with the elegance of a pole-vaulter — again denied by the keeper’s resolute gloves.

The night’s cruelest theatre arrived from twelve yards. Winning a penalty, Ronaldo stood over the ball with that familiar, almost choreographed composure. The run-up was as measured as ever, the strike clean — but fate, in the form of cold, unyielding steel, intervened. The post spat the ball away, and with it Portugal’s immediate hopes.

Not even two late free-kicks could tilt fortune back in his favour. Both attempts sailed harmlessly into the Parisian night, leaving Ronaldo still without a goal from a direct free-kick at these finals, and Portugal still mired in uncertainty.

As Koller noted, Austria also face a final against Iceland. But so too do Portugal, for whom the stakes are more psychological than mathematical. In Santos’s words, the next match is “a final.” For Ronaldo, it may feel like a personal reckoning — one more opportunity to ensure that his grin, so often the mask of triumph, does not finally crack under the weight of time.

Thank You 

Faisal Caesar 

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 

Ecuador Denied: Brazil Scrapes Through with Luck and Controversy

Football, often described as a beautiful game, can sometimes hinge on moments of contention and fortune. Such was the narrative when Brazil clashed with Ecuador, a match that ended in a fortuitous draw for the Seleção, leaving fans and pundits questioning the fairness of the outcome. 

Ecuador's Miller Bolaños came tantalizingly close to glory in the 68th minute, delivering a shot from a seemingly impossible angle near the end line—reminiscent of Maicon's iconic effort in the 2010 World Cup. The Ecuadorian's celebration, however, was short-lived as the linesman deemed the ball to have gone out of bounds before the strike. Replays suggested otherwise, sparking debates over the officiating. Adding to the controversy was Brazil’s goalkeeper Alisson, whose mishandling of the cross gifted Ecuador the opportunity. Yet, it was the referee’s decision that ultimately spared Brazil's blushes. For Ecuador, it was a legitimate goal denied; for Brazil, a reprieve that underscored their reliance on external factors rather than their own quality of play. 

Brazil’s performance, uninspiring and pedestrian, highlighted the struggles of a team grappling with an identity crisis. True, Neymar’s absence leaves a gaping hole in their attack, but the squad is not bereft of talent. Players with the potential to reignite Brazil’s traditional flair and swagger exist within the ranks. Yet, their brilliance is stifled under the current regime, led by a coach whose philosophy seems outdated and unimaginative. 

Dunga’s tenure at the helm has been marred by criticism, with many pointing to his tactical rigidity and lack of creative vision. In a footballing nation renowned for producing magicians with the ball, his conservative approach feels like a betrayal of Brazil’s legacy. The problem is not the absence of star power but the inability to harness the talent at hand effectively. Ego and questionable selection policies have seen deserving players sidelined, further hampering the team’s potential. 

Ecuador, on the other hand, displayed grit and cohesion, showcasing why they deserved more than a solitary point. They outmanoeuvred Brazil tactically and physically, making it clear that the Seleção’s shortcomings are as much about structure as they are about individual performances. 

In the end, luck and officiating decisions overshadowed a match that could have been a testament to Ecuador’s progress and Brazil’s enduring struggles. For Brazil, the draw offers little comfort—it’s a reminder that without a tactical evolution and a reimagining of their footballing ethos, their glory days may remain a distant memory.

Thank You

Faisal Caesar