I watched the Spain-Portugal on the sand, in my favourite beach bar in Sitges, El Chringuito Carbonell.
There is something about beaches and football that make me feel happy. I kicked my first ball around on a beach in the north of Spain, organised matches on a beach in southern Spain when my daughters were still little girls and excellent players, then later enjoyed watching other potential stars of the future, young Latinos, with dancing feet and tanned torsos, from the Algarve to Copacabana.
I was on a beach in the Gulf of Cadiz back in 2010 when Iniesta scored Spain’s winning World Cup goal, watching the TV on the terrace where I had gathered with a group of Spanish friends. We celebrated by stripping off and running naked into the Atlantic.
Against this backdrop of good memories of association, I have to say that feelings were mixed in the Chringuito Carbonell last night. My friends were an unusual consensus of Barca and Real Madrid supporters, their divided club loyalties, showing a clear bias of affection for individual players in the Spanish team, and united in their struggle to appreciate Cristiano Ronaldo.
No one missed CR7 looking one way at a camera, when all his team mates were looking at another, and singing the Portuguese anthem with self-conscious enthusiasm of a military cadet on his passing our parade. Then came the theatrical reaction to a soft tackle and the penalty, and he became the wrecker.
When Spain equalised, the Spanish TV channel declared that from then on Spain would be in control and go on to win. Diego Costa obliged up to a point, but then Spaniards overlooked the capacity of Cristiano, aged 33, and on top form,(in contrast to the substituted tired Iniesta) to win the game almost single-handedly, his third goal, sublime in the power and accuracy of its execution, leaving de Gea mummified.
Afterwards I looked out at the empty beach and for an instance thought I caught a glimpse of the Madeiran wonder boy dancing, while giving us all a cheeky wink.
