Given that all of its inaugural members are on the 'wrong' side of 30, it probably wasn't overly surprising to see the Super Euro Soccer Party team run out of puff as the tournament's tail end came into view. While we did try and freshen things up by introducing the young legs of "breathnk" – a maverick, unpredictable talent – he was rarely seen outside the confines of his local bookmaker's (where he busied himself dejectedly tearing up betting slips).

And so it was (as we lay groaning on the treatment tables) that the last three matches of an exhilarating tournament went uncommented on. Football, as the fella might have said, is no country for old (wo)men. Unless, that is, you're the 104-year-old Luis "The Troll" Aragones – he who finally delivered what younger men had previously only promised: a big, shiny trophy to take back to Iberia. An old dog for a hard road littered with broken dreams.

What amazed me most about Spain this year was not merely that they eventually lived up to their consistently high billing, but (more importantly) that they triumphed in a manner rarely matched in major tournament history. From the first whistle (against Russia) to the final act (last Sunday) they showed unflinching determination to both completely dominate their opponents and play free from the crippling fear that has so often paralysed them.

For 15 or 20 minutes of the first half against Germany, as they briefly threatened to let their bottler's instinct reassert itself, the sound of journalistic knives sharpening well-worn clichés could be heard. Spanish teams of old would, in such circumstances and against such opposition, have quickly gone wide-eyed and slump-shouldered – but not the class of 2008. Once they regained the initiative (and their composure) they seized the game by the scruff of the neck and never again let go. History may end up judging the final a tight affair (due to the scoreline), but in its own way this was a victory every bit as emphatic as their demolition of a previously irresistible Russia in the last four.

While most of Europe was happy to slap Spanish backs and proclaim the win a triumph for football, the German part in the tale tended to get dismissed. Eamonn Dunphy (in typical style) wrote them off them as "useless" and lucky to have progressed so far. Similar criticisms have dogged them since (at least) their defeat of the Czechs in the 96 final and have, by now, become widely accepted as fact. The Germans, the story goes, always land on their feet. Lady luck smiles upon them. They always get more than they deserve.

Like a lot of popular sporting "truisms" this is probably a load of old bollocks. "Lucky" teams (however apparently limited) are always doing something right – something that means they maximise their chances of standing victorious when the dust settles. Liam Brady (the pragmatic and balanced presence sitting at Dunphy's right hand) offered just such a defence. Germany, so Chippy told us, have a winning "mentality" – and it is to this (and not good fortune) that they owe their successes. It should be noted here that Brady has a way of mangling the word "mentality" to make it sound like a word of about 23 syllables. Combine this drawling style with a face that looks like a lump of half-baked dough (with two small currants for eyes) and you have an improbable comedy hit.

Well folks, that's about the size, shape and density of it. A magical 3 weeks has come to an end and with it a return to the quotidian demands of real life.

Goodnight Euro 2008 – you magnificent bastard.

Roll on South Africa…

Germany 3 – 2 Turkey

Spain 3 – 0 Russia

Spain 1 – 0 Germany

Ok, admittedly that isn't actually a bona fide "Super Striker" (if there even is such a thing), but it's cut from the very same cloth (or hewn from the very same plastic). For those lucky enough never to have played with one, the "Super Striker" is the only football one can (or, at least, could) ever find in garages or small shops in sea-side towns. As the above image proves, the "Super Striker" (like the Devil himself) has many names and guises – but behind the superficial differences lie universal properties.

Though the SS manages to be marginally heavier than air and (just about) capable of clinging to the earth's surface, its many deficiencies become readily apparent when one steps up and kicks it. Imagine, if you will, a childhood game of ("last man back") 5-a-side beach football. You dispossess your opponents' "last man" 10 feet from their goal and nothing now stands between you and glory. The crudely-constructed goalmouth yawns open as you take aim and hit the "Super Striker" (for it is no other) as hard and as true as you possibly can.

At first all seems well. A dull "thunk" is heard and the plastic sphere begins its journey straight toward the target. But then, just as you prepare to wheel away in delight, disaster strikes. A barely perceptible breeze drifts across the playing area. The "Super Striker" decelerates rapidly, veers wildly off course, and finally floats gently to rest…in the sea. No goal. Game abandoned. Let's all go home…

Though we haven't (surprise, surprise) witnessed the wildly dipping and bending shots from distance that critics of the "Europass" (Adidas's official ball for 2008) forewarned us of, there's no doubt that it has more than a touch of the "Super Striker" about it:

This similarity owes something to both its shiny (dare I say, "plasticky"?) finish, as well as its backward nod in the direction of the iconic "Telstar" – the ball that Bucky built.

For some reason the overlords who ran the "Super Striker" assembly lines never allowed their workers to churn out anything but fantastically cheap replicas of the "Telstar" – this despite the fact that the ball hadn't been used in a World Cup since 1974. The design that dominated the 80s and 90s – the beloved "Tango" – has never had itself bootlegged to anywhere near the same extent. There are, I'm sure, obscure & esoteric reasons for this – reasons that would drive a man mad to think upon them even for an instant. Or else, y'know, it's something to do with pentagons being easier to paint…

Direct (and indirect) nods to the legit (and bootlegged) past earn the "Europass" reasonably high marks. It's certainly a vast improvement on the abomination we had to endure four years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, the Adidas "Roteiro" – by far the mankiest ball ever kicked in anger at a European Championship:

Held together by lashings of black duct tape (and universally loathed by right-thinking people everywhere) it "graced" European football's showcase like a big stinky turd on the centre circle. Given the opportunity, I'd happily boot a "Super Striker" (hard) at the head of the UEFA half-wit who gave it the green light. Only trouble is, it'd never reach its target…

Last Saturday, I described Luka Modrić (that marvellous orchestrator and string-puller) as "the chief sprite in [Croatia's] bewitching ballet of nimbleness". Less than a week later, however, and the fat ladies of Turkey had sung their funereal dirge. The Croat ballet was ended and the chief sprite was dead. Who would answer the call and flutter in to replace him?

Well, the even more sprightly and pixie-like Andrei Arshavin – that's who. If Prince Harry, a winged ethereal humanoid, and Garrincha were to combine their essences to produce an offspring, it's a safe bet that the result would bear more than a passing resemblance to the man who emphatically shaved Dutch arses on Saturday night.

Realising that his team had been on the receiving end of a convincing (and thrilling) rump kicking, Marco Van Basten was sensible (and gallant) enough not to try and spin this obvious narrative into a Dutch hard luck story:

"I can live with the indisputable fact that they were better than us."

Amen to that, brother. It was very nearly a far less happy end for two of the tournament's other magical mini men. With 59 minutes gone in Spain's fruitless search for a goal against the dark lords of Italy (Buckram described the contest as "reminiscent of a young Jimmy White paying Cliff Thorburn"), Aragonés (bafflingly) decided to haul off both Xavi and Andrés Iniesta.¹ The Spanish manager's resemblance to an ogre must surely have been commented on before (possibly by Archie MacPherson, who once memorably called Mario Zagallo "a little troll-like creature"²), and he was certainly a cruel enemy to the footballing pixies tonight.

Happily, after 120 gruelling minutes, the villainous, neg-headed Azzuri were vanquished and the Iberian imps were free to jig and frolic merrily on the green, green grass. And they all lived happily ever after (or at least till next Thursday).

Russia 3 -1 Holland

Spain 0 – 0 Italy (4 – 2 on penalties)

1. Dunphy suggested, post-match, that he might "not be the full shilling". [back]
2. Archie's one to talk. [back]

There is a word in Spanish used to describe someone or something that is unbearable, something up with which one will not put. The word is insoportable. I used to find the national sporting press in Spain to be insoportable when any football tournament got under way, much as I have already detailed in a previous post. By extension, I would also find the Spanish national team to be unbearable and, in fact, unsupportable.

Something in the bold red print of the sports pages managed to filter into the national psyche and to manifest itself in the national squad in the form of arrogant, stuff-strutting attempts to walk the ball into the net. It was underlined by the attitude that Spain did not have to modify their game for anyone and that they would win doing things the way they had always done them. They never seemed to make the connection between their immutable and predictable style of play and the single trophy it had yielded in over a century of effort. It should be noted that this trophy was gleaned from a four-team tournament in Spain (under Franco's rule) against the USSR in what was viewed, at the time, as the triumph of the right over the left – a victory that never escaped the murky, shadowy influence of the (rather surprisingly) round-chinned Generalísimo.

This evening, as Spain face Italy in the quarter finals, images of Luis Enrique's broken nose (courtesy of Tasotti’s elbow) are all over the Spanish press. The appetite for revenge is immense.

I fear for Spain. I fear that they will try to short-pass their way through the game, past (or passed) the Italian defence, past Buffon and into the net. If they choose to play that way then they will lose because Italy will sit back, let Spain play in front of them and catch them on the break or from a set piece. It will be effective too because Sweden nearly stifled Spain using just that tactic and Italy are much, much better than Sweden. It was interesting that Spain scored their goals against Sweden through an unconventional (quite superb) finish from Torres and, what was effectively, a long ball up from defence to Villa. If Spain are not willing to vary their game then they are in serious danger of doing what they always do, i.e. exiting the tournament in the last eight.

18/06/08 saw Spain play an apparently meaningless game against Greece (with a line-up replete with many players unlikely to be first team selections). The most interesting thing about it was that they beat the tournament’s most negative team (a team that took the lead through a set-piece and readied itself to defend) with their 'B' team – but with Xabi Alonso at its heart. He was a colossus – shooting and nearly scoring from the halfway-line, shooting again off the inside of the post from well outside the box, passing the ball superbly (metronomically when he had to yet willing to vary short and long passes, get the ball behind defenders and around them etc).

Despite a relatively quiet season at Anfield (due to injury and consequent loss of form) he was full of energy, invention and creativity. He brings vision and variety to the team and a nuanced approach that mixes patience and urgency in appropriate measures. I don’t know who to sacrifice from the star line up to make space for him, but I do know that the Italians will not be able to read him as easily as some of ‘first’ team selection.

Xabi, then, could be the difference between exit this evening or a berth in the semi-finals – the difference between a supportable and an unsupportable Spain.

That the sun will not rise tomorrow is no less intelligible a proposition, and implies no more contradiction, than the affirmation, that it will rise.

I felt lucky. Really lucky. Friday had fallen, and with it fell sunshine and, into my pocket, the weekly wage. I stopped outside the bookmaker's and, as my friend was about to depart from my company, I floated a kite, as one does on such glorious summer days: should I not just put my whole wage on some absolute certainty? I knew, and know, very little about either side. But sure, some thing are so simple, so certain, that they transcend the specifics. Something, then, like there being more than 0.5 goals in 90 minutes at 2/7. Football is football is football.

My friend, invoking his grandmother directly and David Hume indirectly, reminded me that nothing-in-this-life-is-certain. I kept most of my money in my pocket. I put a fiver on 2-1 Turkey, instead, and another fiver on Turkey to go through in extra-time, both bets at 14/1. Neither were realised, you'll be aware, the Turkish goalkeeper preferring, first, to show off his at once villainous and heroic mettle which so becomes his piratical countenance.

But, more importantly, ninety minutes finished without a goal, and I still have the bulk of my wages. As I said, the sun was out and I felt lucky.

Last night's bets: Arshavin to score first, at 10/1; Russia ahead at Half-Time, Holland at Full-Time, at 22/1. It's raining heavily.

Here in Ireland the fear was voiced, in some quarters, that this tournament would be somehow devalued by Ireland’s failure to qualify. Similarly, across the pond, the failure of England (and indeed any of the ‘home nations’) to make it was almost heralded as an opportunity to shelve football until the premiership dusted itself off in August. There was a general pre-tournament air that Euro 2008 would pass off without incident of any note and normal business could resume once the players ‘we know’ returned to our screens.

In order to maintain some level of interest many of the pre-game build ups were to focus their attentions on those players who play in the Premiership – often unmindful of the fact that quite a proportion of the bigger names have been relatively quiet this tournament (are you listening Cristiano?). We’re so used to games being hyped up, to Super Sundays and ‘top four’ clashes, that this has been something of a hard-sell for some broadcasters. Indeed, the BBC’s Gary Lineker introduced the Switzerland versus Turkey match as "the one we’ve all been waiting for" in the most ironic tones. That it turned out to finish in the most dramatic fashion and launch Turkey on a path to semi-finals (at the time of writing) underlines the fundamental dearth of respect that (the rather likeable) Mr. Lineker has for other nations and their ability to play the English game.

And so, I have watched most of Euro 2008 on RTÉ 2 and I have been most impressed. Despite the fact that their pundits are all former footballers who played in England, the great thing about RTÉ’s broadcasting of the tournament is that it has been delightfully unblinkered by the narrow focus of the Premiership or any single league for that matter. RTÉ have managed to bridge the gap (where possible) between the Premiership and the European footballing world at large. Giles is there with his honesty and wisdom, Dunphy is still stirring it up and Brady’s knowledge and appreciation of what is often called ‘continental football’ keeps a nice balance.

Then there is Souness who would appear to have finally understood that he can almost say anything that he wants to say and Whelan who is growing into the role. It was Whelan, in particular, who alerted everyone to the prospect of watching the Russian Andrei Arshavin in action (pronounced Ar-shaa-veen, Shearer on the BBC managed to make it sound like ‘arse-shaven’): it is refreshing, as always to hear a player’s virtues being extolled who has yet to grace (or be graced by) the Premiership. Souness has managed to display a knowledge of Turkish football too which has become (unpredictably) appropriate and pertinent. Billo has been the magnificent anchor as ever.

On another front, the commentators have surpassed themselves (with the possible exception of Darragh Maloney who always sounds like he wishes it was GAA). Both Hamilton and a rejuvenated Magee have allowed themselves to enjoy the matches and actually get excited in games that don’t involve countries we’re supposed to love or hate. The latter is back to his eighties best, wrapping his choppers around names such as Pavluchenko. In fairness, neither Hamilton nor Magee has ever shied away from the prospect of a multi-syllabic Slavic moniker or even the odd potential minefield: Austrian Ivanschitz comes to mind. Co-commentators Houghton, Kinsella and Cunningham will appeal or not to different people and have their faults but, like so many other former Irish players, they have shown themselves to be capable talkers when the talking is about football.

Some people seem astonished that the tournament is so much fun despite the absence of a team from these islands but I am inclined to think that it is because of this factor that the tournament is so much more enjoyable. We no longer have to endure conversations about one team, how any given team would fare against them, how their training sessions are going or how their wives and/or girlfriends are generally being crass. No, in this tournament we get to enjoy football for its own sake – last minute equalisers and winners from Turkey (Fergal’s Opera) or old nags resuscitating themselves (Gobsheen’s Italy). We’re even getting to see some cliché’s fulfill themselves in Germany’s relentless progress. I’m watching this one through the prism of RTÉ but I’m really enjoying something that happens all too infrequently for my liking – a great football tournament for football fans where the star is football.

Super Euro Soccer Party? Most definitely!

Last month, during the Snooker, I developed a fondness for the interiors of the nation's betting offices. Dens of dejection they are, playing host, in equal measure, to manifestations of despair, resignation and pathos. Resignation, in the collective crunch of defeat that follows the end of every horse race, trailed closely by the glance of each patron at his (always his) nearest bin, and, after brief deliberation, attempts to launch the balled-up betting slips into said bin. Never successful, these attempts. Despair, in the man who picks these slips up and brings them to the bookmaker to inspect, just in case. Pathos, in the face of the man who, having no more litter to leaf through, leaves the room, knowing (full well) that tomorrow will (not) be better.

A digression from football, this post, I grant you, but I'm still only getting a feel for the ball and for the (newly laid?) surface here. It's all by way of saying, really, that I've been betting on Euro 2008, almost every day, almost 100% unsuccessfully, and that I'm going to be telling you all about it.

Tomorrow will be better.

I have been silent for too long here at SESP, and for that I apologise to you all, and most cravenly to Fústar, who has been left carrying so much of the workload a-keepin’ this blog ticking over. While my Orange boys were out doing wonderful things against France the other weekend, I was drinking beer and eating pie in Kilmainham, watching Leonard Cohen being spellbinding. On Sunday, as the Turks and Czechs battled each other, I was in Vicar Street, caught up in the whirlwind of fierce beauty that is the live Bonnie "Prince" Billy experience. Such was the degree to which I refreshed myself at those cultural events that it’s only now that I’ve returned to peak blogging condition.

During my absence from the first team, I noticed an interesting piece in the Guardian where they sent their arts critics to sporting events and their sports writers to arts events. With a few exceptions, the critics didn’t get the sport; with a few exceptions, the sportswriters were pleased with the culture. What does this prove? That Art is better than Sport? Maybe. That the Guardian's jocks are more rounded writers than its nerds? Definitely.

Thomas Castaignède, rugby correspondent, loved the opera, and even went so far as to do a post-match interview with one of the tenors, an innovation which could add a fascinating new dimension to arts coverage, though I suspect that most actors, at least, are as boring and banal in the locker room as are footballers, though they probably don’t say "all credit to the lads" as much. Now M. Castaignède is French, which may explain his conception of Sport as analogous to Opera in the intensity of its high drama. Nonetheless, I am as one with him when he says "I just love to watch people giving it everything – in any walk of life". And it is true that that the football of the past week has been good enough to provide me with moments of pleasure (though perhaps not as many) at least the equal of anything given by Messrs. Cohen and Oldham. And that’s without even mentioning tonight.

Surely I was not the only one out of my seat and pacing the floors this evening, as the Croatia-Turkey tie came to its spectacular, cruel, spell-binding climax? Both teams were so likable, and so passionately supported that it seemed a shame to send either of them home. By extra time, I thought that whichever team could manage a goal from play would be the deserving victor.

Then Rustu made an insane decision to chase a ball way out of his area of responsibility. Failing to capture it, he was sent racing back to his line after a ball that sailed inevitably netward. Croatia it was then. But with ordinary time done, and the single minute of injury time completed, the amusingly named (to Irish ears at least) Semih sent a rasper into the corner of the Croatian net. It was struck more or less on the stroke of full time, and sent us into the fascinating and sadistic ritual of a penalty shoot-out.

I hate to see games decided by shoot-outs; they are a blunt instrument, their only virtue being that they at least put an end to what otherwise might go on all night. They are cruel, and cannot even begin to determine who the best team is. Still, they do provide a certain insight into the character of teams and, especially individual players. Weak teams will invariably crack in a shoot-out. My Dad suggested to me last night that nothing sums up Christiano Ronaldo’s weaknesses like his too-clever-by-half and ultimately bottled penalty in the Champions League Final.

Thus, it was the Croatians, understandably shattered by the last-second equaliser, who were found psychologically lacking. The Turks, all steely determination and never-say-die attitude, slotted their kicks home like men of the fine old school. Then, at last, the final kick of the game, and Rustu, the 117-times capped veteran, redeemed himself in the eyes of his nation, and the Turkish fans went every bit as mental as they deserved. The Croatians, a team of such great charm and passion, go home. It’s fascinating, exhilarating and dramatic; it’s also arbitrary, crude and cruel. But then, as they never say at Covent Garden, that’s football.

Russia 2-0 Sweden

Spain 2 – 1 Greece

Portugal 2 – 3 Germany

Turkey 1 – 1 Croatia (3-1 on penalties)

I come to bury Italy, not to praise them. We all did. No sooner had the obituaries been written, the wreaths arranged, the Burco boiled, sangwidges made and the Temple curtain come down on the Italian Euro 2008 adventure, than the undisputed kings of conspiracy, drama and er…Italy prove us all wrong with a display and result that only they could have achieved.

This battle of two of Europe's oldest teams (in more ways than one) could have counted for nowt had the Dutch done what Italy probably would have done in their position. Instead, Van Basten's van bastards disposed of the Romanian challenge with consummate ease to complete a memorable first phase: nine points, nine goals and only one conceded (Henry's offside sidefoot).

And so to our Eurodinosaur clash. Firstly, France showed their Achilles heel…well, more specifically Ribéry did. To lose one player is unfortunate (etc), but why Abidal fouled Toni I'll never know. Italy's battering ram was a constant menace for the French – but in the same way a wasp (albeit a big one) annoys…never likely to inflict a fatal blow. Still, Abidal didn't care – kicking the hole off Toni at least three times in the one movement. They game effectively ended as a contest with Pirlo confidently dispatching the resulting penalty.

Following the ridiculous substitution of substitute Nasri to allow Boumsong on, there was only ever going to be one winner. Maybe Domenech hadn't noticed that Govou was still on the pitch…then again, none of us had noticed that Govou was still on the pitch until he received a booking later in the game. Useless. The hilarious "won't he or won't he?" Luca Toni scoring show continued apace with once, twice, three times-a-Toni sitters missed before half-time.

When Henry scored his second side-footed goal of the competition from twenty yards against his own keeper, Donadoni knew that his Italian side had failed and succeeded where so many other Italian sides had in the past…and usually in that order too. Jammiest buggers around. As I said after their hammering at the hands of the Dutch, expect to see Italy in the final.

And no, Bert Konterman had nothing to do with this.

France 0-2 Italy

Netherlands 2-0 Romania

Well, as they say in football-speak, the fairy tale is over for this year. A well struck, direct, no-messing-at-all free-kick from Mr Ballack (one might even call it efficient in its execution) ruthlessly put an end to Austrian dreams, and afforded sporting journalists the world over the chance of typing 'Goodnight Vi…

Look, just because something is cheesy and basic doesn't mean its not worth using – just ask Al Gore. Yep, Ballack steps up and it's Goodnight Vienna. And, in all fairness, it was a good night. When the tears have dried, the Fanzones have been dismantled, and the newspapers have long since become discarded kartoffel wrappers, the memories of the night will still linger, and they will be good.

The build-up to the Germany match began as soon as the final whistle blew at the end of a remarkable draw with Poland. Remarkable? Of course. It is not every match that a youthful 38 year old Fox Mulder comes off the bench to smash home a penalty two minutes into injury time for his country. Ivica Vastić hit the shot with such aplomb and certainty that it was almost as if he knew he could not miss – a handy bit of knowledge in such nail-biting circumstances.

Once that nicely designed Europass ball hit the back of the net, a fevered shock gripped all who saw and quickly spread throughout the city like a dodgy eighties virus. People dared to believe, dared to dream. What only days before seemed like wistful fancies and poppycock, became things of real hope, and these things of real hope quickly became (with no little thanks to the media) things of fact. Austria WILL beat Germany and progress – a FACT. A thing as certain as the snow in winter, Mozart's genius, or a Vastić penalty.

I witnessed all this hope and I marvelled at it. Having spent most of my life in the streets of England, and then some on the island of Ireland, I am, as you may guess, no stranger to the hype and growing passion of a footballing nation when caught in the spell of a major championships. But to see it happen here in Vienna was something special. The overflow of scarves and banners, the crackling tension, and the deepening sense of a city-community, made me wonder that this majestic old town had not seen such days of excitement since the World Exhibition of 1873 (or the haughty pages of Joseph Roth's The Tale of the 1002nd Night).

I myself was gripped by the fever as much as the next. And what to do about it? Well go to church of course. But not for the cure, but for to feed it! On Sunday evening, after leaving my favourite coffee house in all of Vienna (a place that should remain nameless, lest like a major surf-spot in Bally… [nearly] it becomes a home to the masses), I headed to Wien's Evangelical Church in the Dorotheergasse.

There the local holy-man was putting on a special mass for the new heroes of red & white. Decked in an Austrian scarf, the priest led us through a service of prayers and footballing anthems, whilst throughout a football was perched upon the altar like a sportsman's tabernacle. With dignity almost intact I left the proceedings just as the congregation entered into the chorus of You'll Never Walk Alone. A bizarre service to say the least, up there with any Christmas Eve midnight mass.

The following day, match-day, I left my quarters with an optimism that was beyond optimistic. Without a ticket for the game, I forsook the madness of the bulging fanzone, and instead hopped on the U4 metro line, sped past the magnificent Schoenbruenn, and headed headlong for the Hanappi stadium (home of Rapid Vienna). There I watched the sad exit of our heroes amongst almost 12,000 Austrian fans and about 100 rejoicing Germans. The result was not what we had taught ourselves to expect, but underneath (somewhere deep), below all the hype and the hastily built confidence, we knew (like that aged old boxer) that all we'd really had was hope.

So good luck Germany, well played, and to the Austrian team all I can say is Auf Wiedersehen und Vielen Dank fuer die schoenen Erinnerungen! It is over for now, but I feel this young team is more than capable of writing a new chapter in the annals of Austrian football. Nay, not just capable – they are ready.

Am I the only one who feels that George "Danger Here" Hamilton has been a pale shadow of his former exuberant self of late? Sunday night's compulsively mental epic between Turkey & the Czech Republic would once have had him foaming at the mouth and saying things like…

"Those Turks! Those irrepressible Turks! Like big, swarthy modern-day pirates, they've somehow sailed into the heart of land-locked Bohemia and pulled off an astonishing act of looting, smashing and grabbing! Karel Brückner's crusade for Euro glory has floundered at the gates of Constantinople!"

Though I can't recall exactly how he did react, as Nihat's emphatic finish smashed home off the underside of the bar, I'm fairly sure he was considerably more restrained than the George of old. Time for Mr. Hamilton to get back on the stimulants. We miss his wild eyes and florid flights of fancy.

My own reaction, involving giddy hand claps and the odd bit of air punching, was more worthy of the denouement. I've enthusiastically supported the Czechs in every major tournament they've been in since 1996 (when, as previously explained, I found myself caught up in their incredible Euro adventure) so this was a strange moment. After all, it was only four years ago that I was left feeling physically ill as the mighty Pavel Nedvěd, and his then delightful team, were crushed 'neath the wheels of the unstoppable (and hard to love) Greek juggernaut.

So what's changed? Well, I think the Czechs have. From the time they lit up Euro '96 to that fateful day in Porto's Estádio do Dragão 8 years later, they had commendably played some of Europe's most consistently attractive football. Their failure 4 years ago (when they were the best team in the competition) to turn this attractiveness into trophy gold felt like something of a last hurrah for a talented generation – and so it has (more or less) proven to be.

Their opponents on Sunday may not be quite as technically proficient as the Czechs were in their recent prime, but their ferocious commitment and willingness to attack, push and probe till the very end, are qualities that are hard to resist. Faced with what appeared an almost impossible task (2-0 down with 15 minutes to go) they showed admirable coolness – patiently trying to create openings rather than simply thumping it and lumping it.

One of the moments of the tournament so far came with time almost up. The English-born Colin Kazim-Richards had been introduced to bolster the attack but twice (in the space of a minute or so) smashed the ball uselessly into the box in an attempt to force a breakthrough. Nihat, realising that CKR was surrendering to his "English football" instincts (as well as his youth), fixed him with a steely glare and mimed the international gesture for "Calm down". A terrific example of intelligent and active captaincy (his superb winner wasn't bad either).

The end of era for Brückner and the Czechs? Perhaps. The beginning of an improbable Turkish fairy-tale? You never know…

Turkey 3 -2 Czech Republic

Switzerland 2 – Portugal 0

Germany 1 – Austria 0

Croatia 1 – Poland 0

Though UEFA seem (like a bunch of big fat spoilsports) to have gone around nuking YouTube videos of tournaments past,¹ there are still some goodies to be had – at least for now. The Beeb's "Euro Classics: Top Ten Goals" is one such tasty morsel – even though it seems to imply that there were no truly memorable goals scored before 1988.

This oversight may be due to the short-ish memories of the 20/30-something Beeb production team, or (as is more likely) simply suggest that archival footage of first 6 or 7 tournaments is pretty thin on the ground. Still, while it doesn't appear that the championship made a really significant impact on the public/TV-watching imagination till the format was retooled in 1984, it's a shame not to see a few more oldies hunted down, dug up and included.

But enough whinging 'n' moaning. Sit back (or lean forward…it's up to you) and enjoy these ten little beauties. Observations and reflections to follow:

10) John Jensen – Denmark vs. Germany (1992, Final).

Two questions (that I can't remember the answer to). 1) Which commentator described Jensen (after the above thunderbolt) as the man who "couldn't hit a barn door in the semi-final"? 2) Who's the German player flinging himself despairingly at the feet of JJ as he prepares to smack it?

9) Marc Overmars – Netherlands vs. Yugoslavia (2000, 1/4 final).

Though the Dutch were imperious here (eventually thrashing a hapless Yugoslavia 6-1), they, almost inevitably, exited on penalties against a dogged but dour Italian team in the next round. England may have a well-earned reputation for consistently abject failure as far as penalties are concerned, but Holland (with three such defeats in 1992, 1996 & 2000) are right down there in spot-kick hell with them.

Davor Šuker – Croatia vs. Denmark (1996, Group D).

Šuker not only married considerable technical ability with a pleasing likeness to Lyle Lovett, he also provided Euro 1996 with one of its most delightful and indelible moments. The memory of Peter Schmeichel landing flat on his hole as he flapped uselessly at a sublimely executed chip is one that will never wither or grow old.

7) Frank De Boer – Netherlands vs. France (2000, Group D).

Holland again in Euro 2000 – they year they co-hosted the competition and the year they blew their best chance since '88 of winning it. Three wins out of three in the group stages, capped by a 3-2 defeat of France – a match graced by De Boer's memorable outside of the foot screamer. Thunderous blunderbusses from distance have always been a distinctive feature of Dutch football (as it once was with South/North Korea and the USSR) so De Boer was simply upholding a spectacular tradition. It's still not a patch on Arie Haan's monster against Italy in the '78 World Cup though (see the end of this very enjoyable vid for details):

6) Karel Poborský – Czech Republic vs. Portugal (1996, 1/4 Final).

The Czechs' improbable run to the final in '96 was one I'll never forget – I was living in Prague (teaching English) at the time. The 3-3 draw against their (ahem) 'beloved' Russian pals in the group stages sparked joy unconfined until Oliver Bierhoff's "golden goal" (a novelty thankfully consigned to the FIFA scrapheap) finally took a dump on the parade. Boo.

5) Maniche – Portugal vs. Holland (2004, Semi-Final).

Just ridiculous. One of those, "He's no right to have a go from here" gems that leaves you goggle-eyed and breathless. The sound of it cracking off the far upright was merely the icing on an extravagant cake.

4) Ronnie Whelan – Ireland vs. USSR (1988, Group B).

Isn't this where we came in (on the 28th of May)? Despite some spectacular efforts thus far we're still waiting for something to really set the needle of our Whelan-o-meter whizzing.

3) Tomas Brolin – Sweden vs. England (1992, Group A).

We've been here before as well. Everybody's favourite chunky Swedish maestro/meatball at his infectious best. Yummy.

2) Paul Gascoigne – England vs. Scotland (1996, Group A).

While the goal and the subsequent "Dentist's Chair" celebration have been written about and rehashed ad nauseam, the psychic warfare being waged over Wembley that day has received less serious attention.

Hovering "1,200 feet above the stadium clutching 11 energized crystals" in his mystical hands is Israeli spoon-bending champion Uri Geller. Up steps baldy Scottish genius Gary McAllister to blast home the penalty that will level matters at 1-1. A formality surely. But what's this? The ball on the spot shifts, slightly but perceptibly, to one side. McAllister, faced with this unexpected bit of occult interference, duffs his penalty. Moments later Gazza does his thing and the rest is history.

McAllister, one of the world's top players, admitted it was one of his worst penalty kicks ever. He kicked the ball poorly as it moved, so his shot had no power, and the goalie easily scooped it up. "That's never happened before, the ball moving like that," said McAllister. Seaman added: "I noticed the ball started rolling, and I thought he might stop and start over. But Gary just went ahead and kicked it, and something told me to dive the right way and save it. The ball moving definitely caused him to miss."²

Catchy chants of "You're so shit you got mind-fucked by Gellar and his 11 energized crystals!" were to plague the great man till his retirement.

1) Marco Van Basten – Netherlands vs. USSR (1988, Final).

Mis-hit cross. Nothing special…

Greece 0-1 Russia

Spain 2 – Sweden 1

1. Offering us, instead, its own lame pay-per-view service. [back]
2. http://www.uri-geller.com/fbnatenq.htm [back]

Phew. After two positively scintillating days of Super Euro fußball (long may it continue), it's time to catch up, take stock and get the show back on the road.

Due to a farcical concatenation of circumstances (involving a new mobile phone and some deep bewilderment) I ended up missing Croatia giving Germany what the tabloids might describe as a "kick in the Ballacks". However, from the highlights I've seen and the information I've gleaned (online & elsewhere), the victory seems to have confirmed what many of us suspected when Steve McLaren was reduced to a wretched figure huddled under a complimentary FA umbrella last November – Slaven Bilić's men are real contenders.

At their best they have a sprightly elegance that tends (as it did against England) to make supposedly superior teams look leaden and heavy-footed in comparison. The chief sprite in this bewitching ballet of nimbleness is, of course, the magnificent Luka Modric. For those concerned about prevailing football philosophies that favour muscularity and athleticism in midfield, Modric offers an emphatic riposte. Physically he's barely there. In terms of influence he's more there than most players will ever be. I hear the sound of licked lips emanating from White Hart Lane.

Though nobody would seriously describe the current Romania team as being possessed of much "sprightly elegance", they are ferocious and impressive competitors who came within a whisker (or a strip of boot leather) of eliminating the world champions yesterday. After the stupefying tedium of their 0-0 draw with the French, those misty-eyed nostalgic types (like myself) who remember the thrills that Dumitrescu, Răducioiu and Hagi (et al) gave us during the 1990s were left tut-tutting unhappily – wondering how this previously delightful national side could revert to "doing a Greece". Thankfully however, they seem to be growing into the competition – tempering their pragmatism with at least half a nod to their noble traditions.

Where, then, does that leave the 2006 World Cup winners? Up a creek of shit, that's where. Even if they beat France on Tuesday (which I think they will) a Romanian victory over an already qualified Dutch team will see both Italy and France eliminated (no matter what happens in their match).

Romania, of course, beat a full-strength Dutch team 1-0 in Constanţa during the qualifiers – so this feat is by no means beyond them. Add to that the fact that the Dutch team they face will most likely not be the one that has so thrillingly demolished (with the odd slice of luck) two of European football's aristocrats, and the task begins to seem more & more doable. Conspiracy theorists (from Paris to Rome) will no doubt be sharpening their knives in anticipation of a "convenient" Dutch capitulation, but if I were Van Basten I'd be resting players left, right and centre. They've topped the group and there will be tougher (more exhausting) challenges ahead.

Whatever way it pans out, let's all kneel before the (enlarged) Henri Delaunay trophy and give thanks. A tournament that was simmering and bubbling satisfactorily has exploded into glorious life. The future (or present) may indeed be orange, but right now the football is golden.

Croatia 2 -1 Germany

Austria 1 -1 Poland

Italy 1 – 1 Romania

Holland 4 – 1 France

Though he once had a strong and guiding hand in both my country's failure to qualify for Euro 2004, and my club's exit from the Champion's League, I've never had anything but the warmest of affection for Switzerland's Hakan Yakin (and his enjoyable name). Not only has he always struck me as a player of guile and intelligence (though one cursed with apparent inconsistency), his demeanour (or as much of it as I've observed) also suggests a decent and likeable chap.

It's no doubt fairly absurd for us armchair fans to make snap judgments about a particular player's personality based on little other than "body language", but we do it constantly nevertheless. We don't know these characters, and we (almost certainly) never will. All we can do is sift through the accumulated visual and auditory clues before making a call – nice quiet guy; self-important tosser; player of integrity; rich & spoiled moron etc, etc.

Based on this most imprecise of sciences, my "reading" of Yakin has always led to him being awarded "two thumbs up" in the "seems like a nice fella" stakes.¹ Some extra credence was (last night) lent to this judgement by his commendably understated and dignified "celebration" after scoring Switzerland's opener.

Not only did he "do a Podolski" and choose not to be too fulsome in his joy (playing, as he was, against the country of his parents' birth), but his "calm down" hand gesture also helped defuse a potentially volatile situation (the last time these two nations met the game ended in violence and chaos). A touching moment.

Proving, however, that the gods have an odd way of rewarding virtuous behaviour, Yakin's next big moment was the stuff of tragic farce. In a virtual retread of he goal, though with radically less successful results, Valon Behrami smashed the sodden ball across the 6-yard box where Yakin, from point-blank range, managed (inexplicably) to side-foot it wide. Drenched and distraught, he cut a sorry figure.

In the Swiss dugout poor Jack Lemmon, I mean Kobi Kuhn, looked as if all the blood had drained from a face not too flushed with health and vigour to begin with. His transformation into The Simpson's Gil Gunderson was complete. Yakin, meanwhile, was left to reflect on happier (and drier) Ireland-smashing, Liverpool-destroying days.

Switzerland 1-2 Turkey

Czech Republic 1-3 Portugal

1. Though his Wikipedia entry seems to suggest otherwise – "He is considered by many fans to be a provocative player, known to have actively provoked opposition fans". [back]

[In the third of his communiques from the Austrian capital our wandering scribe 'Buckram' walks among a shocked Viennese populace, looking for answers - Ed.]

After a surprising performance in their opening match (which sadly didn't yield the rewards the effort richly deserved), many questions have been raised about the city as to just what the flip has gotten into those battle-hungry Austrian players, and what the main reason behind their brave performance actually was.

If one were to believe the hype and the pathetic 'Österreich zeigt Rückgrat' petition (highly insulting – if you think you can do better lads…) before the tournament began, then the lowly ranked boys of red & white would've been better off watching the tournament from the comfort of their respective Heurigens. Even footballing legend Hans Krankl had little to offer by way of encouragement.

But, after an honourable opening encounter in which the players got to show that they do actually know how to play the game, and have backbone to boot (pardon the pun), the tide has turned somewhat, with the average Austrian fan finding a little extra bounce in his/her steps along the strasse. So what has gotten into them? What was the main motivation?

The pride of playing for their country as a host nation in one of football's premier competitions? Maybe. A desire not to be laughed at by their own and to stick two fingers up at the mocking petition? Quite possibly. The fact that they are playing on the biggest stage of their lives and are in the 'shop-window' for all of Europe's elite clubs to see? Could be…

Well yes, of course it is all of these – a combination of things added to training and preparation, which shouldn't go unmentioned. No one reason – many reasons. Many reasons which are, according to my good friend Toni, held together by two main reasons.

Toni is Italian, and like most football obsessed Italians spends the majority of his waking hours pondering on the various philosophies of the game…and the art of defence. When Toni is not philosophising he is working at one of Vienna's little-known gems – the wonderful 70′s style ice cream parlour 'Eis Grotte', just a few steps into the Himmelpfortgasse. It was there, whilst tucking into a well-earned bowl of Eis Marillonknödel, that Toni informed me of the two main reasons.

1) – Rocky Balboa. Apparently the players were all instructed to listen to Eye of the Tiger on their ipods during the bus journey to the stadium. Toni wasn't (at first) sure if this was the follow-up to two weeks spent punching dead pigs in his Uncle's frozen food warehouse. After pondering it for a short while he went back to his original thought that no, this was the route taken by the Croats.

2) – Capoeira. Team coach Josef Hickersberger has enlisted the help of renowned English fitness/performance coach, Roger Spry – a specialist in Capoeira type movements.

So there you have it, the two main reasons, and one should never doubt ice cream man Toni. In fact, so carried away got he with his explanation, that he started combining the ruthless punches of the Italian Stallion with the graceful moves of a Brazilian dancer for all to see. This resulted in a round of applause from the few seated customers and myself, which in turn, boosted the pride of the Italian showman so much that I was able to sneak off without paying. And so it was that I too found a little extra bounce in my steps as I moved along the strasse.