Tales on the eve of the final

Vicente del Bosque woke up with a start. The corpulent coach of the Spanish team had been sleeping fitfully the night before the biggest match in his country’s history. He had not been dreaming about love. He had not been dreaming about the golden cathedral in Salamanca, nor about his wife Trinidad spilling flan on her lap.

Instead, he couldn’t get those Dutch strikers out of his head. They were firing from everywhere. From 22 yards out. Robben. Twisting kicks from the corner that curled in. Sneijder. From a 32-yard set piece. From the halfway line. From the parking lot outside the stadium, soaring kicks that hurdled the grandstands and then dove like missiles into the net. From Istanbul. From the guest bathroom in his aging mother’s little cottage in Castilla.

Before he could stop the onslaught, the whistle was blowing, and the Netherlands had won 308 to zero. He was sweating. It had been a nightmare. “Crazy f-cking Dutchmen,” he muttered. He clutched the hotel bed blankets tightly and thanked God he had been born on the bottom half of the continent.

Several miles away, Maarten Stekelenburg, the goalkeeper for the Netherlands, slumbered soundly. Or at least, he had been until his dreams found him atop an endless football field. Except that he couldn’t find any of his teammates. He was about to face eleven Spaniards on his own. Make that fourteen Spaniards; the referee decreed “anti-red cards” in effect, and the lucky Spanish were quickly awarded three. That was before the start of the match.

The Spanish team and its jubilant fans roaringly sang their national anthem. When it came time to sing his country’s hymn, the only sound in the cavernous stadium was the off-key crackling of Stekelenburg’s voice. He struggled to remember the words; had he ever until now realized the Dutch anthem pledges allegiance to the King of Spain? No matter. The game ended before it started. He was still holding the microphone when the Spaniards began submerging the hallowed trophy in pitchers of sangria and Andalusian extra virgin olive oil.

Stekelenburg suddenly stirred awake and exhaled. He remembered something. He got up and started rummaging through his luggage. It was the card his aunt Greet had given him before his departure from Haarlem to South Africa. He unfolded it and read it again. “Make us proud, Maartenik! And don’t forget: if it ain’t Dutch, it ain’t much!”

(As imagined by Michel Di Capua)