'Dios mio!', as they say here. I didn't half enjoy Sunday night's game. After 18 years of living, breathing and eating Spanish football, I was beginning to get a little tired of the old clichés: Spain the underachievers, Spain the eternal bottlers, Don Quixote revisited and all the rest.
Empics
The Spanish players rejoice as Fabregas' penalty hits the back of the net to see them into the semi-finals.
Of course, all clichés are based on a certain amount of truth, but the truth had become an obstacle, a barbed-wire fence over which the nation (perhaps best described a loose collective of autonomous regions) never felt that it could climb. Some even professed themselves indifferent as to whether it could ever be climbed. And when Italy turned up to spoil the party yet again, all the old ghosts resurfaced of a country paralysed by its own neuroses.
If Rafa Nadal, Fernando Alonso, the national Indoor Football team and the Under-17's could do it, then why not La Selección? Why not indeed?
The great thing about Sunday night's game is that the Spanish played it faithful to their own instincts about football, as did Italy to theirs. In the end, for a change, the gods of fortune got it right. When Senna's shot squirmed under Bufffon (just like Arconada's gaffe in 1984) the ball hit the post and nestled back into the keeper's arms. Luck, once again, seemed to be on the side of the pragmatists.
The referee was also doing his best to don a white shirt and officially proclaim himself Italy's 12th man. And as expected, Spain took possession of the game and tried to win it, whereas Italy made a few vague patterns in the centre of the field and tried to hoof the ball up to the awful Luca Toni, who looks even more awful when the service is poor.
Spain have now beaten the reigning European champions and the world champions in successive games, and looked miles better than either of them. At least they tried to play football. As the excellent football writer Santiago Segurola noted on Monday morning, Italy don't' even use the word 'football'. For them it's Calcio - 'something else' In a country so dedicated to the aesthetic as Italy is, football is something else for them - a war, a battle. As such, it doesn't matter how you do it. The beauty for them resides in the negativity, in the locking of the door.
But the Spanish are romantics, and prefer to indulge in beauty (or something approaching it) on the football pitch, given the relative messiness of their urban aesthetic. They would probably have imposed this philosophy before the penalty shoot-out if the appalling referee, Herbert Fandel, had possessed even the slightest notion of what constitutes a foul.
Seemingly obsessed by the notion that the Spanish are cheats, Fandel's assumption that the blatant fouls on Villa and Silva in the first half were anything but made no sense, particularly since if he really thought as much surely he should have booked both of them.
Spain were trying to win. It was Italy who were cheating - constantly interrupting the Spanish flow; whenever a player went down, he looked up carefully to see if an attack was forming, then rolled back over again to force the Spaniards to kick the ball out of play.
Surely, FIFA has the power and gumption to act on this sort of stuff? If a player recovers remarkably within 30 seconds of having required the play to stop, then surely he should be booked? It's not rocket science. The rule of kicking the ball out of play was only instituted in the 1990's to ensure that a player seriously injured could be attended to. Now it's just daft, and sides like Italy will always try to take advantage of the loophole.
Empics
Referee Herbert Fandel came in for some criticism for his performance in the Spain v Italy quarter-final.
What was the point of the Italian performance in general? I fail to see it. With Pirlo and Gattuso injured, they still had some classy players to call upon, but in the end it was only the substitute Camoranesi who emerged with any credit. Too often this sort of negativity has won tournaments, but I for one won't be crying if Donadoni gets the boot.
Reduced to looking for Toni's head, they couldn't even do that with any conviction, and yet they still came close to winning it, particularly when Camoranesi got the shot in that Casillas stopped with his legs. There was also one moment when Del Piero, on for Aquilani in extra-time, showed the ball to Ramos and then beat him with an exquisite change of pace and balance - a reminder of what Italy could do if they were allowed. But it was all too rare.
Spain at last got what they deserved for their dedication to a principle, which has often seen them look a little naïve in the past. The accusation that they cannot really compete when it comes to the crunch has also been a part of their natural character; to try but ultimately fall short of other sides who were prepared to go further in a win-at-all-costs philosophy.
The great rivalry between Italy and Spain has not, in general, been based on games between the two countries but rather between their great club sides, in a sort of unspoken attempt over the years to claim supremacy. The winner in that sense has yet to be officially proclaimed, but last night's result may begin to influence the decision.
Spain's first win over Italy in 88 years of official competition! The statistic is surreal, somehow.
I was happy as a sandboy when Cesc's penalty went in, cured perhaps for ever of my nostalgia for England and the umbilical cord of emotion that still flaps around from time to time in these tournaments. I was happy for Cesc because of the questions that were asked of his commitment before the tournament, I was happy for Casillas because of the all-round decent bloke he's become, I was happy for Puyol, who despite all his weaknesses can never be faulted for trying, and who has lived through some painful experiences at national level - Xavi as well, although he wasn't one of the better players last night.
And happy, too, for Luis Aragonés, of course, whose detractors (and this column has never been one of them - check the archives) are now nowhere to be seen or heard. The 'R' word has not made a appearance in the last fortnight (I refer to 'Raúl'), and those who proclaimed from their keyboards that Aragonés should have been watching the games from his local pensioners' club have got it wrong again.
What a relief it has been to not have Spain's every move analysed through the Raúl prism, as if he were all that mattered. As Aragonés obviously intended - and most Spanish journalists failed to get anywhere near this point because of their blind love for Raúl - others have emerged to supplant his authority.
De La Red and Cazorla, for example, would not have gone if the Madridista pack had had their way - and yet both have emerged as vital back-up players. Marcos Senna, who appeared to have faded from the scene, was in fact Spain's best player last night, if not their most decisive (that prize belongs to Casillas, obviously), and Aragonés determination to keep him in the side, despite the pressure exerted by Xabi Alonso was fully vindicated last night. Senna never put a foot wrong, and his distribution was also impeccable.
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No more than they deserved? The Italian players are laid low by defeat on penalties.
So too the substitution of the new sacred cow, Fernando Torres. He is a much better player now, it's true, but Italy knew how to play him - as opposed to your average Premier League defence. So the decision to take him off was correct. Güiza then did nothing out of the ordinary, but he offered an alternative to worry the Italians, with his different movements in different parts of the pitch, and his sixth sense to be in the right place. Shame about the penalty, but he got away with it.
But in the end, Spain haven't won anything yet. Russia will not lie down as easily as they did in the opening game, and are also on a high. It promises to be a wonderful game. Germany, who will surely beat Turkey, might be more Spain's cup of tea.
Whatever, for now, Spain can relax in the glow of 'beating the curse', a phrase used by the King as he was interviewed down in the bowels of the stadium on Sunday night. It might even unite the country...oh alright. Let's not get carried away.
