Day 27, World Cup 2010: Germany 0 Spain 1

Running right alongside Brazil 2014, this is my day-by-day story of how Spain won the last World Cup. You can catch up on previous posts.

These stories are from Spain: The Inside Story of La Roja’s Historic Treble, by Graham Hunter

Before the pre-match team talks, and the studying of the tactical charts on the dressing-room wall, Pepe Reina questioned Puyol about a move via which, just over a year previously, he scored for Barcelona in a 6-2 win at Real Madrid. Using the magnetic pieces on the white board, Puyol shows Reina the concept and the practice.

By half-time in Durban the Catalan, who thought injury was going to ensure he watched this match from the stands, has noticed that Germany appear to be marking zonally and his path into the penalty box at set plays is almost unencumbered. Spain have so far played a couple of corners short, put one in looking for Capdevila, but nothing for Puyol. The Barça captain has,however, missed an easy scoring chance with a diving header which Iniesta puts on a plate for him.

Before they are even off the pitch at half-time, the centre-half has Xavi, who delivered the corner at the Santiago Bernabéu from which Puyol scored, by the arm and is instructing him.

“Let’s use that move from the 6-2 win again. I’ll speak to Ramos, Capdevila and Villa, you just put the ball on the penalty spot for me and we will see how they cope.”

Then, with 17 minutes left, Iniesta wins a corner on the Spanish left. I am at the mouth of the transport tunnel, right in line with the corner flag. As Xavi walks over to take the corner and settles the ball, I am aware of a little old lady, not in official uniform, who has materialised at my elbow without me noticing. She is diminutive, so I have to lean down a bit to hear her.

“How is the game going?”

“Well, it’s pretty tense and pretty interesting,” I reply. “We just need…”

I look up as I speak and Xavi appears to have used those four or five seconds to erect some sort of rigging so that he can dangle the football precisely where Puyol wants it.

Puyol, this battered, brilliant Catalan warrior filmed a television promotion with me back in Potch. He sits and stares stone-faced down the lens of the camera, holding up a rugby ball.

“They tell me this is rugby country. Well, I don’t know anything about rugby.”

He throws the oval ball out of shot to his right as a football is thrown to him from his left and he catches it.

“But I do know about football.”

This is where he proves it. Villa has been occupying Neuer on the line. For a split second, the keeper puts all his attention into shoving him violently with both hands and there is now no question of Neuer getting out to punch the corner. There is a little triangle of players occupying German markers: Ramos to the left, tying up Klose, Piqué more or less static on the penalty spot and Capdevila to the right. The arc of the ball’s movement is taking it towards Piqué, but as Sami Khedira bunches up every muscle to make the jump of his life, a dark shadow falls over the land. Puyol soars over them all, Michael Jordan-style, and crashes the best, most powerful header I have ever seen past Neuer.

Back by the tunnel I am finishing my conversation with the little old lady: “… we just need a goal.” But my fairy godmother has vanished by the time Spain celebrate wildly and Puyol, carrying four of his team-mates on his shoulders, clenches a fist and wears an expression which says: Let’s not make too much of a fuss of this … back to work now.

There is bedlam on the pitch after the final whistle and it continues into the dressing room, where Puyol immediately continues physio with Raúl Martínez on one of the massage tables. There remains quite an important game to be played.

The great tenor, Placido Domingo, bursts in and adapts Y Viva Espana! to end not with Espana por favor! but Espana campeon!

Dona Sofía, the wife of King Juan Carlos, who is absent through illness, enters the dressing room. It’s immediately evident that it’s a while since she’s played football for the royal household; a while since she’s been in a dressing room.

Unchaperoned, she makes for the showers, is pointed down the corridor, and then propelled around the corner, where she comes face-to-face with her all-conquering football team and does a comic double-take.

Lacking a master of ceremonies, she starts clapping them … and they all start clapping right back. Amidst the furore of applause, Joan Capdevila starts a manic little Riverdance of his own, in the corner. Sofía takes herself around the players, one by one, shaking hands as various players turn into royal couriers, desperately kicking or swiping boots, bottles, jockstraps out from under her before she trips over them and this becomes a diplomatic incident. This is a likelihood which increases when Carles Puyol, aware that he has been missing something, bursts into the room just as the Queen of Spain is about to make her speech. Sporting only a towel, he is a sitting duck for his team-mates, who roar: Puyi! Puyi! Puyi!

Capdevila dances again.

After the Queen’s speech (“nice job lads, tighten up on the finishing”) Dona Sofía mistakes one of the federation officials, the former Real Sociedad president Luis Uranga, for Del Bosque, only for the coach to arrive in the nick of time, to bow and to invite her back on Sunday. Soccer City. The World Cup final.

Germany 0 Spain 1

Germany: Neuer, Lahm, Friedrich, Mertesacker, Boateng (Jansen 52), Khedira (Gomez 81), Schweinsteiger, Trochowski (Kroos 62), Özil, Podolski, Klose

Spain: Casillas; Ramos, Piqué, Puyol, Capdevila; Busquets, Alonso (Marchena 90+3); Iniesta, Xavi, Pedro (Silva 86); Villa (Torres 81)

Goal: Puyol 73

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