World Cup celebration in Spain.

Last night I witnessed Spain's winning of the World Cup in Spain. I watched intently as Andres Iniesta's kick sailed pass the Dutch keeper. In fact, I watched almost every minute of Spain's run to the championship. 

They came into the World Cup as the favorites, but after an opening round loss to the Swiss, about the entire world turned their backs on them. Here they were again, the biggest chokers on the biggest stage. One of the best teams year, after year, after year, finding a way to lose, again. Spain had never even reached the semifinals of the World Cup before, so when Spain beat Portugal and then Paraguay, to meet the Germans on that stage, there was a collective sigh of relief. 

They had finally reached the plateau, but that was as far as they were expected to go. The Germans were the better team. They had dismantled opponents along the way for their quest of gold. This was Germany's redemption game after Spain beat them in the Euro Cup final just two years before. This was Germany's time to shine after beating Rooney's English team and Messi's Argentinean squad 4-1 and 4-0 respectively. But Spain prevailed. They played the best game they had played the entire tournament and controlled the Germans from the opening whistle. 

For once it seemed that the stars had aligned. It was finally their year. No Brazil or France or Italy standing in the way. Only the rough Dutch who showed they had the toughness and patience to play with anyone. At times it seemed during the Final match that The Netherlands would once again enforce their will and steal a victory. They had their opportunities, but in the end it was the resilience of the Spanish that overcame it all. 

After 60 years of World Cup play and misery, Spain was finally able to hoist the coveted golden trophy. This was more than just a soccer game. This was for a country that has been fighting, hoping, praying for notoriety. This was for its people, nearly 20% of which are unemployed. This was for every little town to feel just as significant as Madrid or Barcelona. This was about the octopus and about the kiss. This is what makes you realize how important sports really are to the world. 

There were celebrations last night oozing their way across Spain from Madrid. In Pamplona, one million drunken sanferminers just found another excuse to party the night away. This was epic. This was the single greatest moment in Spain's long sports history. It was their sport. It was their time. And they were finally able to celebrate as champions. 

Alas, I was not in Spain... I was in the Basque Country. When I left the bar after the game the streets were relatively quiet for what had just taken place. People were sticking their heads out their windows to see if it was alright to shout in celebration. There was hesitation, caution. It was so feeble; in fact, that we decided it was best to catch the last metro home than risk getting stranded downtown with nothing happening. 

Eventually a mass of over a thousand did show up in Bilbao, there were cars honking up and down the street, kids showed up blowing vuvuzelas and waving red and yellow flags. We even saw some fireworks. But already the flags are put safely away in the basement. The red and yellow shirts are being replaced with something a little less patriotic. This was a great win for Spain, but the Basque are afraid to join in on the celebration.