Ronaldo’s last World Cup ends in tears as Merino sends Spain through
A 91st-minute winner closes the book on Cristiano Ronaldo's sixth World Cup, and on the one trophy that always eluded him.
The biggest dream of Cristiano Ronaldo would remain unconquered forever. The man who guzzled most of the records and trophies that football could offer would slip into the sunset without its greatest prize, the World Cup. It was the dream, to kiss it, to hold it into the skies, to cradle it like a baby; the fuel that kept him burning at 41, that made him rise above the aches and niggles of sculpted but battered body; the trolls and memes; the tactical burden he put on his team, the shimmering ego that many have long whispered should send him into the shadows.
His eyes were cold, almost numb. It was perhaps the moment he reconciled with his unfulfilled dream. He walked without emotions, immune to the commiseration of his own men, to the handshakes and hugs of the victorious Spanish team, including the gate-crasher of his dream, Mikel Merino. Perhaps he was drained, or simply grieving an arena that was never his.
Then the tears rolled down, and he shut his eyes to fight them. But he could no longer contain his emotions when the applause and chants of the crowd swept the stadium, and he waved back, for the one last time perhaps. Maybe not. He could continue in the Saudi League, or globetrot for exhibition games. But this was it. The end of a dream he can’t dream again, a space he would never grace again. He would be celebrated as an all-time great, for the goals and the personality, for his capacity to inspire a generation of players, but he leaves without the crowning glory.
ALSO READ | From the shadows pounced Mikel Merino: Spain’s unlikely hero knocks out Portugal
The World Cup was never his grandest stage. The numbers pale—11 goals, only one of those in a knockout, and two assists in 26 games. Fewer goals than Miroslav Klose and Harry Kane, as many goals as Sandor Kocsis and Jurgen Klinsmann. His most memorable night came against Spain, eight years ago, when he slammed in a hat-trick against them in a group game. But most days and nights in the tournament brought him pain and tears, misery and dejection. In six World Cups, the furthest he and his team progressed was in 2006. He could not inspire his country, in youth or middle age, the way he lifted club after club to dizzying heights.
There are other legends who were denied the sweetest taste on a football field. Even more cruelly. Like Johan Cruyff and Roberto Baggio. But he was, rather he believes, no ordinary legend. Ronaldo without the crown and sceptre is akin to Caesar without the Empire.
If his wish literally ended at the legs of a midfielder turned false nine, Merino, into the field only six minutes ago, or when the headers of Joao Neves and Bernardo Silva in stoppage time veered wide, it had metaphorically come to a grinding halt long ago. The vaulting ambition blinded the reality that he had been a burden for his teammate as well as his own image. He ignored his body, his team, and the game changing indiscernibly around him. He was scoring goals, his fans and manager Roberto Martinez retaliated, but plenty little else. Then the goals dried up too, the sign his time was over.
ALSO READ | FIFA World Cup: Belgium end US dream to reach the quarter-finals
Yet he insisted, yet the manager, who deserves some slack, persisted.
The force, the whip and precision too have forsaken him, the tools with which had counteracted his waning athleticism. His 15 attempts fetched only three goals—a brace against minnows Uzbekistan and a penalty against Croatia. Against Spain, he had three shots, none of which really bothered Unai Simon. The first was his sweetest strike, but from an acute angle that Simon parried around the post. Moments earlier, he was distraught when Rodri’s tug on his shirt inside the box went unpunished, even without a routine VAR check.
There was a flash of improvisation around the 40th minute. He received a headed ball across goal from Joao Felix, back to goal, but with a svelte touch, turned it goal-wards. But his shot had neither the power nor the placement to trouble Simon. Upon resumption he won a free kick that Bruno Fernandes flapped over the bar. Ronaldo was aghast, though his free-kicks have long lost their bite. A few times Nuno Mendes sent him through, but he was beaten and outnumbered by Spain’s defenders. Felix, after flitting past red shirts, pinged a long cross for Ronaldo. He stretched late to connect, and the shot died, his body rebelling against the mind’s orders. For much of the remaining half, he was reduced to casting stink eyes at his own men, for the passes not given, the chances squandered.
No player perhaps wanted to win the game quite like Ronaldo. But perhaps no player stood between him and dream than Ronaldo himself. That was the cruellest paradox in Ronaldo’s last act on the stage that never loved him back.
The biggest dream of Cristiano Ronaldo would remain unconquered forever. The man who guzzled most of the records and trophies that football could offer would slip into the sunset without its greatest prize, the World Cup. It was the dream, to kiss it, to hold it into the skies, to cradle it like a baby; the fuel that kept him burning at 41, that made him rise above the aches and niggles of sculpted but battered body; the trolls and memes; the tactical burden he put on his team, the shimmering ego that many have long whispered should send him into the shadows.
His eyes were cold, almost numb. It was perhaps the moment he reconciled with his unfulfilled dream. He walked without emotions, immune to the commiseration of his own men, to the handshakes and hugs of the victorious Spanish team, including the gate-crasher of his dream, Mikel Merino. Perhaps he was drained, or simply grieving an arena that was never his.
Then the tears rolled down, and he shut his eyes to fight them. But he could no longer contain his emotions when the applause and chants of the crowd swept the stadium, and he waved back, for the one last time perhaps. Maybe not. He could continue in the Saudi League, or globetrot for exhibition games. But this was it. The end of a dream he can’t dream again, a space he would never grace again. He would be celebrated as an all-time great, for the goals and the personality, for his capacity to inspire a generation of players, but he leaves without the crowning glory.
ALSO READ | From the shadows pounced Mikel Merino: Spain’s unlikely hero knocks out Portugal
The World Cup was never his grandest stage. The numbers pale—11 goals, only one of those in a knockout, and two assists in 26 games. Fewer goals than Miroslav Klose and Harry Kane, as many goals as Sandor Kocsis and Jurgen Klinsmann. His most memorable night came against Spain, eight years ago, when he slammed in a hat-trick against them in a group game. But most days and nights in the tournament brought him pain and tears, misery and dejection. In six World Cups, the furthest he and his team progressed was in 2006. He could not inspire his country, in youth or middle age, the way he lifted club after club to dizzying heights.
There are other legends who were denied the sweetest taste on a football field. Even more cruelly. Like Johan Cruyff and Roberto Baggio. But he was, rather he believes, no ordinary legend. Ronaldo without the crown and sceptre is akin to Caesar without the Empire.
If his wish literally ended at the legs of a midfielder turned false nine, Merino, into the field only six minutes ago, or when the headers of Joao Neves and Bernardo Silva in stoppage time veered wide, it had metaphorically come to a grinding halt long ago. The vaulting ambition blinded the reality that he had been a burden for his teammate as well as his own image. He ignored his body, his team, and the game changing indiscernibly around him. He was scoring goals, his fans and manager Roberto Martinez retaliated, but plenty little else. Then the goals dried up too, the sign his time was over.
ALSO READ | FIFA World Cup: Belgium end US dream to reach the quarter-finals
Yet he insisted, yet the manager, who deserves some slack, persisted.
The force, the whip and precision too have forsaken him, the tools with which had counteracted his waning athleticism. His 15 attempts fetched only three goals—a brace against minnows Uzbekistan and a penalty against Croatia. Against Spain, he had three shots, none of which really bothered Unai Simon. The first was his sweetest strike, but from an acute angle that Simon parried around the post. Moments earlier, he was distraught when Rodri’s tug on his shirt inside the box went unpunished, even without a routine VAR check.
There was a flash of improvisation around the 40th minute. He received a headed ball across goal from Joao Felix, back to goal, but with a svelte touch, turned it goal-wards. But his shot had neither the power nor the placement to trouble Simon. Upon resumption he won a free kick that Bruno Fernandes flapped over the bar. Ronaldo was aghast, though his free-kicks have long lost their bite. A few times Nuno Mendes sent him through, but he was beaten and outnumbered by Spain’s defenders. Felix, after flitting past red shirts, pinged a long cross for Ronaldo. He stretched late to connect, and the shot died, his body rebelling against the mind’s orders. For much of the remaining half, he was reduced to casting stink eyes at his own men, for the passes not given, the chances squandered.
No player perhaps wanted to win the game quite like Ronaldo. But perhaps no player stood between him and dream than Ronaldo himself. That was the cruellest paradox in Ronaldo’s last act on the stage that never loved him back.
