Portugal 0 England 0 (3-1) on penalties; France 1 Brazil 0

To the incidental heroes,

Well, call me a nutgrabber, but I am still at the chalet in Chamonix where I am surrounded by people who are not interested in football. The experience was strangely educational. I did write about the Americans complete non-interest in football, but experiencing it first hand is another grizzly beast altogether. The obsession that permeates and courses through majority of veins every 4 years grips the hearts of every other country except for America (and probably Canada, where ice rulez). Tonight was a massive cultural event when people of all sexes, age, and coffee preferences come together as one to witness history repeating itself after a 8 year hiatus. Zidane with his farewell performance rolling and bitching back the clock to show why he might be the best number 10 to ever play the game. We have seen the bald crystal, sparkling and slicing his way with immaculate frailty. So I’m getting all sorts of funked up and boned up about his performance and drama for the mamas and the papas that is another exit by the predictably terrible English performance from 12 metres and I feel absolutely lonely in feeling this.

Has my obsession reached its peak and the by product of this is the unwillingness to relate to non-football obsessed people? Am I so far removed from anything American that anything American grates me the wrong way? Is becoming a football photographer a catalyst in the growth of my undisputedly healthy (unhealthy) obsession? Does living in football insane rich world that is Europe makes one feel this way? Must I then shrug my shoulders and do the jiggy and just walk away? It’s the weirdest feeling, I tell you.

Something to ponder about and yes, I shall behave.

Elite 8
Portugal 0 (3-1) on penalties
England 0

So what do you do? What do you do, when losing is so engrained in your soul that whatever you do this losing will Freddy your ass forever and ever and ever and ever and ever so help them, please someone help the English. With a sub par performance throughout the tournament, tactics only a sex mad Swede can conjure up, the painful over reliance on Roo, and play completely devoid of mystery and imagination, they have done it again. Good bye England.

Beckham limps out of the pitch with promise of death written all over, complemented with 31 years of wear and tear in his eyes, his very last copa looking straight into him. Rooney follows suit with a nut busting heel nut which earned him a nut crunching red. Terry earns his yellow and if they had gone through against the less than more than legitimate Portuguese side, he would not have sang the semi-queen on the 5th of July. Good bye England.

With both teams shooting less than a heroine junky in one sitting, extra time goes and gone in a limp dicked performance by both teams, everyone knew that the inevitable was making its entrance. With each moment between the end of extra time and the beginning of the final judgement weighing acme like on the collective English conscious, the fear starts to carve into the players eyes. Sven talks and ignorance deafens the players. Big Phil speaks and the sound of inevitability drenches the players. Good bye England.

Simao scores and tear ducts are opened. Lampard misses and tears are visibly welling up. Viana misses and tears are held, ever so lightly. Hargreaves scores and tears are still held in place. Petit misses and the tears are almost dry. Gerrard misses and once again the tears are welling up. Postiga scores and the tears have almost decided that they must go. Carragher misses and tears are waiting for the finale. Ronaldo scores and the tears have finally started their journey down south. Good bye England, good bye.

As for the Portuguese, Cristina, we salute you. Your household, perhaps divided during this match is now one and you can look forward to your appointment next Tuesday. With Deco and Costinha back in the fray, it’s game totally on.

What to say? Succumbing to the anticipation and the desperate hope of the nation was once again too much for Becks and co. With a team littered with superstars, they had every chance to enthrall the world with their performance. So many promises, so little, so little...

Elite 8
France 1
Brazil 0

I made some predictions before the Elite 8 began. I said Germany will win, Italy will lose, England will win, but most of all, I knew the Brazil is going to get an ass whooping by the highly revitalized French shampoo. The myth the legend the defending champion and most of all the kingdom crumbled before our scrupulous eyes this evening and nothing could have been done to stop the unthinkable.

I solemnly declare that Zizou is the best number 10 that I have ever seen. His vision, his awareness, his touch, his heart, his desire, his talent, his power, his everything has taken a trip back memory lane for another grand finale. As I have said countless time, his reluctance to reside on the same dimension with 21 others on the pitch is what makes him the greatest Ali of modern football. Being French he has now entered the artist’s realm with the release of “Zidane, un portrait du 21e siècle” where his performance on April 23, 2005 between Real and Villarreal is shot through 21 different cameras. No, really.

If Zizou was the maestro then Henry was dancing down his favourite lane to the tune of Bizet. Finally, after eons of trial and error, excavating Va Va Voom’s MO on the national side was the missing note in this ensemble. He was at his Highbury best, as the left flank was renamed Avenue 12/14. No one could catch up with his blister crunching pace and Cafu and Kaka were left covered in Thierry’s flakes.

With Riberry doing his slaloming on the right, Thierry sonic vooming on the left and Zizou just giving his art class in the middle of the pitch, the trident was forever getting closer to starting the unthinkable. But what about them Brazilians?

It will forever be a mystery to me that the Cerezon never got it right. Obviously the talent is and has been there. Bucky, Fatty, Horse, and Shit. The square to end all squares. But the 4 were so stuck in the mud of mediocrity that an occasional wash wasn’t helping them perform to their Nike best. And the worst was the current World Footballer of the Year. Hailed as Sir Bucktastic back in his adopted home of Catalunia, there was nothing stopping him making the road to Berlin a Bucky’s samba. If the success they experienced last summer was not an ill advised hallucination and with Bucky leading the charge, the only pair of brazilian legs that needed to be nutmegged was their arrogance.

Being heralded as the best, compared to the 70, and nominated as football idols by Knight, the only direction they could go was down. They were guaranteed by many to win and not one mistake was to be made. They were trusted to enchant the viewers with their super sublime flair and ultimately bring the beauty back to the game. But as the tournament progressed, each game became a platform for criticism, and consequently their performance was 2nd best at best.

Welcome to “joga fea.”

1st and only goal came from a likely source in an unlikely circumstance. Numero dix’s precision perfect free-kick seemed to glide over the congealed blue and yellow until it spots a perfectly free Thierry on the far post. His calmness and finished was the perfect tonic for a shot which blew apart Dida’s goal and for the first time there was love at first strike.

Brazil never caught the fever and they never pressed on with the desperate urgency needed to overcome the alps. The clock ticked with merciless abandon and before you know it, a tiny bar in Chamonix was experiencing the same joie de vivre of 98.

I want to give my congratulations to Philippe and Julien and Jackson. They all seemed (sounded) very happy, one surprised, one expected, one was at work, but the Bleus are still allez allez allez.

The final four is now set:

Germany V Italy

Portugal V France

As for the Brazilians, they have got a lot of explaining to do when they are back in Rio. The samba was never danced the way they intended to and the plight of the canaries seem to be perversely satisfying.

Tomorrow I sleep.

Watch it (but don't wake me).