What are the odds?
What are the odds you can achieve something no one before you ever has? Something you’ve dreamed about for years. Something that’s easy to fantasize about because it makes it easier to justify the countless hours of stress and exhaustion. Few could stomach it. Most think you’re crazy to live this way, all for the slim chance to one day have this opportunity. You still think I’m talking about what 23 Portuguese footballers accomplished in Paris on Sunday? No. I’m talking about myself.
I don’t know if there are enough words in the English language, let alone in my own vocabulary, to accurately describe the last 72 hours.
As soon as Ricardo Quaresma scored his redeeming, extra-time winner against Croatia, I told myself I would be at the Stade de France on July 10th if Portugal reached the final.
I sent a dozen text messages and emails to friends with friends in high places, terrified by the horror stories I’d read about fake StubHub and Viagogo tickets. One by one, they replied;
“Sorry, can’t help you!”
“Have you tried this person?”
“Great idea but, Portugal aren’t going to make it.”
I went to bed Thursday night convinced I would be watching Portugal lose to France from my sofa, with my sweet smiling German Shepherd next to me for comfort.
But early Friday morning, UEFA released their final batch of tickets at “the host nation are playing in it” premium. And, would ya believe it, two of the six friends across the world I had begged to try for me, had survived the online cue to give me the chance to witness history in person. An hour later the flight was booked, and Saturday night I embarked on the journey of a lifetime.
25 hours in the most romantic city in the world, with two tickets to the biggest sporting event of the year. I felt like Drake.
The idea of watching Portugal in the final of a major tournament always seemed like a pipe dream. Growing up I heard my grandfather’s stories about Eusebio, and the Cinco Violinos. But in my lifetime, Portugal didn’t have a place on football’s map of relevance until Euro 2000.
Four years later on home soil, the golden generation looked destined to deliver what Eusebio couldn’t. Instead Greece wrote the most unthinkable underdog story in the history books.
Fast forward twelve years, witnessing Cristiano Ronaldo become the best player in the world but never deliver what he did for his clubs. And Portugal send arguably the worst team to France that CR7 had ever played on.
Don’t judge a book by its cover. For what they lacked in name recognition and experience, they made up for in cohesion and application. The results didn’t reflect it. Three draws in a group that included the overrated Austrians, previously irrelevant Hungary and the darling debutants from the Land of Fire and Ice, should have sent Portugal packing. But UEFA’s cash driven expansion and flawed elimination format planted the Portuguese on the most favourable path imaginable.
My plane landed in Paris eight hours before kickoff. When I stopped an airport attendant to ask “parlez Anglais?” His reply was, “only enough to tell you that France will win tonight.” The mood across the city was one of anticipation for the massive party that was going to happen later. The French fans were quick to converse and show off their confidence in this rather underwhelming representation of French football that would again deliver the ultimate victory at home. “Because that’s just what the French do,” they said.
Walking through the streets of the 10th arrondissement, one hatchback would fly down the street frantically honking the horn waving a Portuguese flag through the sunroof. And then another. And then another. And then the realization that Paris’s incredibly large Portuguese population had even more invested in this match than I did, sunk in.
The short train ride to Saint-Denis was filled with more smiles than sneers. Everyone was anxious to finally see a champion crowned. At times police uniforms greatly outnumbered Portuguese shirts. Cues to the Fan Zones outside the stadium were calmer than they were long. Security staff was friendly, exceptionally professional and got everyone through far quicker than I expected.
The streets were lined with food vendors and beer stalls, many run by Portuguese-Parisians happier to serve those dressed in red and green. Club music blared from street front restaurants. The exotically dressed super fans were stopped repeatedly for selfies. There wasn’t a person around without a beer in one hand and a smartphone in the other. The Canadian flag and my poor Portuguese accent attracted plenty of attention to our group. I met construction workers from Toronto, retirees from Reading, England, Germans and Welsh that refused to go home, and several people ecstatic to share this experience with their father or grandfather.
There was no rush to enter the stadium. Partly because the party on the street was energizing, and partly because of the fear that I may have come all this way to watch my mother’s homeland lose by three or four goals.
Any Canadian sports fan can relate to that feeling. You’ve endured years of suffering. There are some years your team comes close. You’ve built rivals along the way. And you’ve observed enviously while others, many of whom you feel don’t deserve it, enjoy the pinnacle of success.
When I passed my ticket through the scanner and stepped in to the mammoth stadium, all I was thinking about was enjoying the spectacle. I was disappointed to realise I couldn’t do so with a beer that actually contained alcohol, in my hand. That thought vanished immediately walking up the steps of the entrance to my section to the sight of a stadia prepared to play host to a final watched on TV by hundreds of millions.
I didn’t say a word for about 15 minutes. What was there to say? In mere moments, 22 of the best players in Europe would play the biggest match of their lives.
The crowd came to life with the singing of the national anthems. First the Portuguese, who sounded more like a group of a hundred thousand, rather than ten. I don’t think anyone realised that I didn’t know the words to the entire song. Then the French sung with the pride and confidence of a nation that knows what winning feels like.
The energy was electric at kickoff. Time seemed to evaporate. After two or three unexplained collapses, Cristiano Ronaldo was being carted off in what seemed like complete agony. How was this happening?
Portugal had reached this stage because their captain had done just enough to get them here. And now they were going to play more than an hour without him. It was the worst case scenario and put my heart in my throat for the rest of the night.
France grew with confidence. They peppered Rui Patricio, and were waiting for Portugal’s backline to make a mistake. It never happened. The pressure the French felt to win is what Patricio must have been feeling the entire match. As France’s chances got better, so did the Portuguese keeper’s stops.
Halftime came with a huge sigh of relief for any Portuguese supporter. I witnessed a man propose to his girlfriend in the concourse with the help of a what I assume to be a friend dressed as Napoleon. Can’t help but wonder if he may have delayed the proposal had Portugal been behind.
It felt like a French goal was coming in the second half. João Moutinho was brought on to spring counter attacks. Fernando Santos felt like the intensity was too much for Renato Sanches and Éder came on to a collective sound of disappointment.
Portugal was going to win or lose with those eleven men on the pitch. The idea of a penalty shootout likely featuring Quaresma, Moutinho, Éder, Pepe and Patricio was terrifying.
And then Raphael Guereiro put a perfect looking free kick off the bar. And then, Portugal forced a turnover. Éder didn’t have his back to goal. The blue shirts on the pitch seemed to have as little faith in the Swansea reject as the red ones in the crowd. He cut to the top of the box, took full advantage of the space gifted in front of him, and picked out the far corner leaving Hugo Lloris without a prayer.
Was this really happening? How did Éder score a goal in extra time of a European championship final? How was I there to witness it?
The Portuguese crowd exploded. I jumped like a maniac and nearly leaped over the row of seated, disgruntled French fans in front of me.
The final 11 minutes felt like five. The French desperation was intense. To their credit, the French fans immediately and feverishly cheered their team on. France swung a ball in, and Patricio beat every blue shirt to it. Then they swung another and Pepe nervously headed out for a corner. Oh no. ‘This is it. Portugal will concede on this set piece and we’re going to penalties.’
And then Mark Clattenburg blew the final whistle. Portugal were champions. We had witnessed history.
Against all the odds, Portugal had dished France the pain they endured 12 years ago in Lisbon. And I wasn’t sitting on the couch with the dog watching it in Toronto. I was there, too dehydrated to cry with joy. But there, to experience one of the most incredible night’s of my life. A moment I’ve dreamed of since I was a child. A moment that has bonded 10,000+ strangers and I for life. A moment I didn’t went to end. And one I still can’t believe was real.
Éder to dream. You never know what can come true.