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, that of its fourth Eurocup, woven from the most beautiful diversity, from blind faith in an impossible, from the sincere humility of recognizing oneself in a teammate, beyond their color and jersey, from the firm conviction that the path was the right one, from the certainty, in short, that this was real. Indeed. Spain, the queen, reclaims the throne of Europe 12 years later, no one has more Eurocups, four, no one wanted it more in Germany, expelling four world champions along the way, winning all seven matches, taking all individual trophies (best young player and best player), 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 with a clean heart, without 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 saw 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 Yamal and Nico Williams did right at the beginning of the second half, disrupting the game with a prank, and from there came the match that showed, as it is written, all the versions of this team: the brilliant one, until the equalizer, and the mature one, after it, to lift the trophy with a mixed, millennial smile, a smile that recognizes the different as equal, a football lesson, and a life lesson, for an entire country.
Anyway, 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 for a goal kick. 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 an intention presentation.
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 make sure nothing happened. But nothing was nothing. They were determined not to attack, and they sat so deep that they prevented Spain from doing so. The two teams entangled in the tension of a final, instead of a football match, turned it into a game of Risk, without resorting to the cliché of chess. Each move by Spain was countered by England. Southgate used Foden to chase Rodrigo, and Mainoo to harass Fabián. Rice kept an eye on Dani 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 in 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 bore came out 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 it had for playing its semifinal on Tuesday. The game, under these circumstances, needed something to happen. Whatever it was, 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, made a diagonal move inside feinting with his waist, attracted the shift of the English players, and passed, just in time, for Nico's arrival, who crossed low, impossible for Pickford and his antics. Olmo could have sealed the deal a minute later, with England groggy, but what the game needed had already happened, and it had been good for Spain.
Now ahead, the national team, of course, started playing more freely and deserved to seal the victory. Southgate took out Kane, motionless, but the substitution that turned the game around was the entry of Palmer. In a poor response to Cucurella's pressure, England set up their best attack, and an unstoppable shot from the Chelsea player equalized the game with 20 minutes left, with Oyarzabal on for Morata on the field. But this Spain is a lot of Spain. They took control of the ball again, calmed everyone down, and kept creating chances until Cucurella, a Catalan living in London, found Oyarzabal, a fearless Basque, to put an end to a beautiful story of love for football and life. Life for everyone. Life in Spain.