Berlin is not Madrid, Vienna, Johannesburg, or Kiev. And it doesn't need to be. Berlin is Berlin, and from this Sunday, the name remains forever in the history of a country, Spain, as the city where the national team culminated a wonderful epic, woven from the most beautiful diversity, from blind faith in an impossible, from sincere humility of recognizing each other as companions beyond their color and jersey, from firm conviction that the path was right, from the certainty that this was real. Indeed. Spain, the queen, reclaims the European throne 12 years later, with no one having more Eurocups, four, and no one wanting it more in Germany, defeating four world champions along the way, winning all seven matches, delighting the eyes at times and biting the lips at others, like yesterday when it dismantled England in a sublime quarter of an hour but rose with the firm jaw of the equalizing goal.
Spain has been the most complete, the best team. Luis de la Fuente has built a family that also looks to the future with a smile, as the children, the creators of the first goal, are outrageously young, and the heart of the group is around 27 years old. Spain laughs today and looks at those who never gave it bread or salt, but looks at them, condescendingly, with a clean heart, with nothing to reproach. Spain is the European champion in every sense, no one has even come close to it since June 15, when it debuted in this same stadium, in this same city, Berlin, which is not Madrid, Vienna, Johannesburg, or Kiev. Berlin is Berlin, damn it.
The Olympic Stadium witnessed a mature, respectful, calm national team, with the children sitting on the couch without asking for food in someone else's house, but looking at each other with the mischievousness of those who won't sit still for long and end up getting up without permission to grab a treat. That's what Lamine and Nico did right at the beginning of the second half, disrupting the game with their antics, and from there came the match that showed, as it is written, all the facets of this team: the brilliant, up to the equalizer, and the mature, from then on, to lift the trophy with a mixed, millennial smile, a smile that recognizes the different as equal, a lesson in football, and in life, for those who reject the different.
In the end, the kickoff belonged to England. The ball went directly to Pickford without passing through anyone, and the Everton goalkeeper sent a very long ball that went out of bounds. Spain took a short kick, from Unai Simón to Le Normand, and the play came out clean to die, like all the plays in the first half, in the tangle that the English set up in their area. Those were the first two plays of the game, something like a statement of intentions.
Two can't fight if one doesn't want to, and since there was one that didn't want to, there was no fight in the first half. England came out to ensure nothing happened. But nothing was nothing. They were determined not to attack, and they sat so deep that they prevented Spain from doing so. Both teams were entangled in the tension of a final, turning the match into a game of Risk, rather than resorting to the cliché of chess. Every move by Spain was countered by England. Southgate used Foden to chase Rodrigo and Mainoo to harass Fabián. Rice kept a close eye on Olmo's movements.
Since the wingers couldn't receive the ball in an advantageous position, things got stuck badly. Not a single save by the goalkeepers had to be counted. Spain had more possession, yes, but it was for nothing, while England settled into the monotony of the night. None of the coaches had come up with anything new, perhaps there was no need to (Southgate brought on Saw instead of Trippier, but well), and none of the players wanted to go down in history as the one who made a mistake in a final. They all played with fear, stiff, and thus a very serious borefest ensued until halftime.
England didn't want to play, and Spain didn't want to take risks, confident that the passage of time would validate the extra day of rest they had due to playing their semifinal on Tuesday. The match, therefore, needed something to happen. Anything, something to shake things up in any direction. And what happened was that Rodrigo left the field crying, injured, and Spain's beacon was left without light. In his place, Zubimendi appeared, another demonstration that if the starter fails, the substitute plays. Just like that. But of course, in the case of the best midfielder in the world, the absence could be more serious.
There wasn't much time to reflect on it because two minutes later, the kids knocked on the door with the eagerness of those who want to play ball in the park. Lamine took it on his flank, cut inside with a feint, attracted the English shift, and passed, just in time, for Nico's arrival, who slotted it low, impossible for Pickford and his theatrics. Olmo could have sealed the deal a minute later, with England reeling, but the fact is that what the match needed had already happened, and it had been good for Spain.
With the lead, the national team naturally began to play more freely. Zubimendi confirmed what a great player he is and played without complexes in such a scenario. Spain controlled the match, even coming close to a second goal with a clear shot from Lamine that Pickford responded to with an incredible save. Southgate substituted Kane, ineffective, but the game-changer was Palmer's entry. In a poor clearance under Cucurella's pressure, England set up their best attack, and an unstoppable shot from the Chelsea player, one of England's best, leveled the match with 20 minutes to go, with Oyarzabal on for Morata on the field. But this Spain is a strong Spain. They took control of the ball again, calmed everyone down, and built up chances (one very clear for Lamine) until Cucurella found space on the left and Oyarzabal outpaced his defender to put an end to a beautiful story of love for football and life.