Can You Hear the Drums, Fernando?
"Cometh the hour, cometh the man."
Nearly two days later and I'm still pumped for Spain and Fernando Torres. I watched the final again today. A victory for beauty over industry, for flair over cynicism. And nothing is more satisfying in the sports world than a team (or country) shedding a "Choker" label, particularly when those characterizations are unfair.
It had been a spotty tournament for Torres. He only netted twice and a case could be made he should have had half a dozen others. He was subbed in every match he started and if he didn't outwardly pout, the firm set of his jaw showed his displeasure.
All washed away with a moment of otherworldly brilliance. Every criticism. Every blade of poor luck. Forty-four years.
He had no right to get to the ball before the hapless Philip Lahm. He ate up the yards two-to-one and at maximum pace, fully stretched, he managed lift the ball over Lehmann and then lift himself over the keeper's hurtling mass in a display of balance rivaling a world class ballet dancer.
Felicidades España and El Niño.