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Football News - The Purist Does Euro 2004: What The Hellas Was All That About

From unscripted curtain raiser to the final's late pitch invader, Euro 2004 teased us with a month of drama, while the protagonists and the issues ranged from the predictable to anything but. Not many big names delivered, but don't worry – there's not the least inclination here to dwell on the individual excuses of the so-called elite when the Greeks deserve so much more credit than they received.

Issues? Procedure loomed large, from penalties to the traditional simultaneous kick-offs that close the group stages, along with the cliff-hangers they contrive. Just as penalty failures only fuelled the acceleration of the game's creeping scapegoat factor, a single, hypothetical goal on each group's final day could, at a stroke, have altered July 4's outcome.

Then there was the golden goal, Take 2. Having decided the previous two Euro finals, the golden -– ssshhh, it's really sudden death in disguise – goal was replaced, just like the official ball, with a silver model, only with strings attached. You see, while this year's editions of the Copa America and Asian Cup employed straight-to-pens and conventional extra time respectively and the Olympics stuck with silver "from the quarter-finals", the Confederations Cup in Germany next June will revert to proper extra time.

We can assume that will also be the case when it comes to the last ever Intercontinental Cup in Tokyo this November, seeing as Boca Juniors beat Milan to take the 2003 showpiece on penalties… after 30 minutes of extra time. So sudden death, having died in 2002, has now lost its spin-off – the silver version officially having bitten the dust first in Europe when a Uefa pow-wow in Dublin on March 22 decreed its application for the last time at Euro 2004.

Fifa followed suit with a similar decision on July 1, allowing us to march on purposefully towards that tricky universal calendar without even a global consensus for determining the winner of a game... just don't get the Purist started on the subjects of third-place play-offs or the progress of that other Blatter wheeze: the officiating trio of referee and assistants in harness! Quick, someone remind Collina before he retires.

In Portugal there were also "objectos proibidos" or "things we are about to confiscate from you" plastered on a poster at the turnstile (including, of all things, balls), but no sign of the promised breathalysers, nor widespread use of "preventive detention" – within Portugese territory at any rate. The late venue switches of Coimbra for Luz and Aveiro for Boavista's stadium smacked as much of profiteering as of a security prerogative and, as for Urs Meier's claim that, "The European Championship was highly successful for me and all the referees," this was about as convincing as the enchanting two-dimensional imitation cones that decorated large stretches of Portugal's motorways.

If it's metaphors for the tournament you are after, a clear sign, if required, that someone, somewhere was intent on tearing up the script came at half-time in Braga's otherwise technologically-breathtaking rockface end, as the screen broke down and declared, temporarily: "error dell applicazione"– only for the highlights package that resumed to omit the Astafjevs/Davids incident which saw Kim Milton Nielsen effectively award the Dutch their lead. Apparently, Greece's irresistible victory was not only resistible for many; it signified some kind of malfunction on a grand scale.

"Why do they bother?" was the rhetorical question posed by a colleague a week before the tournament had begun, the subject being Greece's prospects. While his identity will remain a secret, another pundit whose head did not flinch on the chopping block deserves greater recognition himself for volunteering the following dark horse: "If pushed I would say maybe Greece. Otto Rehhagel is a cunning coach and has some quality players. They have nothing to lose," Arsene Wenger told France Football.

None of the seven new and three renovated arena boasted the charm and character you come to associate with a night out in Portugal, FC Porto's Dragao being the closest to an exception. One or two even went so far as to blatantly retain a kind of building site, as opposed to Henri Delaunay, chic.

Yet the yeomen of Greece, albeit supported from an overwhelmingly Anglophile diaspora, came, saw and conquered. Access to grounds was, by and large, a success story for your average non-driving drinker, and the addition of togas and wreaths was a welcome one on many a raucous metro or bus ride, while the hosts embraced their roles, from volunteers to novice touts to bar staff, with a distinct gusto. In fact, the Portugese invariably seemed happier – and certainly more vocal – in a traffic jam than in the grounds themselves.

Back to the Greek drama then, and, sadly, more strings attached. The fact is, nerves played such a major, unwelcome part, as to resemble a fully-fledged trend. Hype or stage-fright: different sides of the same coin… and, before those Herculean puns finally lose all their currency, the Greek team prevailed by exploiting the overblown stock placed in turn on opponents Portugal, Spain, France, Czech Republic and, well, you remember.

The responsibility for such nerves on such an elevated stage lies where, exactly? Whether it's a decline in leadership skills; in authority; the fickleness of modern support and coverage; commercial demands or just the unbearable lightness of the ball… the team with the most bottle won the competition. Simple.

Having said that, The Purist's grandchildren will surely tire of hearing about that day Greece lost to the already-eliminated Russians. What is more, that night a glimpse of coach Otto Rehhagels's man-management "cunning" came in the form of the scandal that never was… turn to pages 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 10.

On leaving the Luis Figo-owned Bar Sete, on the front at Vilamoura, who should walk by our party but five tracksuited Greek squad members, led by La Manga veteran Nikos Dabizas (who had not played in the 2-1 defeat earlier that night). Before establishing unequivocally that this was an advance party headed for the reportedly seedy Black Jack, Soccerphile made its excuses and left. It could easily have happened like that, though – the point being that Rehhagel, at 33 years older than the tournament itself, was not one to treat his men like boys, even if that put them in the potential line of press fire.

His team may have scored three less than the Czechs and the English in total, recording three consecutive clean sheets to round off a campaign for which he'd dusted off a playbook from German rather than Greek antiquity. His belief in his methods and the sheer organisational will of the collective may have been derided, and, had Vrzyas not scored a consolation in Faro, his adventure would have promptly ended, but Rehhagel left his managerial rivals foaming in his wake having fashioned a Trojan horse all of his own.

Given football's prominence in today's perpetual news cycle, each round seemed to demand a scandal or, failing that, a bandwagon or scapegoat of some description. Thus Totti, Roma's talisman, duly came good with the dollop he reserved especially for Christian Poulsen, – plainly mistaking him for fellow Dane, Fleming Poulsen, once of Borussia Dortmund and PSV. The same petulance that cost him dear in the last World Cup saw Totti despatched early once again, with possibly only Raul to rival the goal threat he mustered during his stay. Pity he didn't take those conspiracy theories home with him.

Basking in the humid Scandinavian love-in that was Denmark-Sweden, the lack of a score bulletin for those left in the stands following the final whistle was reminiscent of Italy v Mexico 1-1 in Washington, during the 1994 US World Cup, only on that occasion a draw seemed more to the Italians' liking. Funny that… or should that be very funny?

Returning to a nation that did advance, ahead lay the Swedes, besides plenty of kilometres, and no journey proved too far for the Dutch. The question was, what of the psychological trip should the crunch come and penalties be required, having gone out of the previous three Euros as shambolic exponents of the shoot-out? It took Arjen Robben and a couple of friends to get that monkey off their back; the Swedes joined England and France to be followed by new special friends Denmark, homeward bound.

Some of Faro's foliage, oddly enough, doubled as a car park and ticket bazaar that night. Was that Faro? That was meant to read Loule, no, Faro-Loule, or is that Estadio Algarve – no criticism in itself, you understand, for you can't have a football tournament on this scale without a series of Lost In Translation-type distractions...

The unique hinterland's dusty "N" roads provided signs for Quimparque, Equiporave, Bom Jesus, Cafe Oh Vieira, Nakor flowers, Spicy Club and Eurosofa, among others. No wonder, you thought, so many set sail instead…

Infinite seams of juvenile/senile amusement were there to be mined as contrast after contrast appeared like so many oases in the haze from the heat: pristine golfing ghettoes skirted by a horse and cart; funky bridges such as the 25 de Abril, Vasco da Gama and Lagos-Portimao adorned with hand-painted anti-drink'n'drive ("nao beba") cartoons; vertical swimming pools vying for sale with boats and bonsai, while "palm shows" whatever they were, conceded signage size to sand sculpture festivals as you scanned the horizon for lunch.

Se Vende cer… "So is that beer, or cherries, then?"

Then it was off to that idyll favoured by Lisboetas and comic backpacker Mark Thomas alike: Cascais. Yes, we had a final four to contemplate of Portugal, Greece, Netherlands and the Czechs, and it was time to let the world pass you by for a change at the Praia Del Mar, a hotel that at once rendered hunting down the coast road's most authentic seafood dish superfluous… why budge?

No more need either to duck lanky Latvian defenders' dandruff, nor the peeling back of a Croatian paying for petrol with strange cards. Available in far too many service stations, the Las Vegas was among Portugal's lesser culinary achievements, consisting of bacon and cheese on a round of white bread. Finally, something suitable to soak up the gruesome green wine…

Had enough food? You can't have tried the monkfish stew. It was one well-fed reporter that returned to the fray, refreshed and approaching readiness to deliver some kind of verdict.

With all the respect in the world, Lennart Johansson's "best ever Euro" claim, any more than Urs Meier's, just doesn't cover it. You only had to go back four years for the better football. Lessons were abundant, all the same; taking a leaf from Guus Hiddink's book, Rehhagel transformed the underdog's lot worldwide almost overnight.

That shallowest form of concluding is not for the Purist. You know the kind of thing: a Rua do Sol (that's sunny street, Einstein) cast against Avenida do Totti – a winners v losers, simply-tabulated, pithy snapshot, if you will… not this time.

Ultimately, were there a They Don't Even Go award then the Italian fans flounced off with it, without quite hitting the nadir of fellow self-regarding football power Germany, whose turnout of four Korean buses' worth (that's under 200) at the Seogwipo stadium on the isle of Jeju for a second-round fixture in 2002 will take some beating.

The Danes and Croatians continue to perform in front of an underrated following, while the Dutch got everywhere as usual and the Swedes gave us the memorable sight of a troop of cheerleaders caught in flip-flops during an almighty downpour. What is more, their refrain "Put the ball in the net," if faintly derivative of Go West, was every bit as catchy... "Satt det I kryssett"… there I go again. Better than "Portugal Ole", any day of the week!

Still, the hosts had more than Nelly Furtado-fuelled hysteria going for them. Guilty of counting their sardines before they were caught, sure – but whom, in all honesty would not have done?

Talent-wise, you had to be mightily impressed by John Heitinga, the young Dutch prospect – not so young he couldn't be trusted in a quarter-final shoot-out, a fear voiced by at least one member of the Oranje hordes – and marginally older than fellow tournament tyros Wayne Rooney, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Bastien Schweinsteiger, by the way.

That Dellas/Seitaridis combination made a lasting impression, too, while even the "golden generation" – the label attached to the World Youth Cup-winning graduates of Portugal – had a last fling before succumbing to Otto. Of course, Pavel Nedved, did influence the tournament where so many peers went missing, and hardly anyone had a poor keeper, with Portugal's Ricardo making as much of a name for himself as non-golden team-mates Maniche, Ronaldo and Carvalho. Jan Koller's quarter-final corner-flag goal celebration was impressive if for nothing more than the deadpan look on his face.

If quality of goals account for your critical criteria you have scant cause for complaint, though quite how Zlatan Ibrahimovic's back-heeled effort against Italy failed to make most top-ten lists is more of a mystery round here than the whereabouts of Vale do Condo's municipal swimming pool.

Without threatening the swiftness of Philippe Troussier's Qatar fate in July – or The Purist's favourite, President Ben Ali's sacking of Youssef Zouaoui at half-time in host Tunisia's opening match with Mali in the 1994 African Nations Cup – the turnover in coaches, led by Jacques Santini's announcement beforehand, was only to be expected. His career move is a genuine sign of football's times, even if it may only come to be viewed as a harbinger of a sinking ship groaning by the end with its queue waiting to jump. The status of referees as the easiest of targets was equally predictable, though neither Mike Riley nor Urs Meier did themselves any favours. As for the rash of player retirements we can only hope this depressing trail goes cold soon.

Infotainment having hijacked the game via the demands of an incestuous "family of sponsors", a voracious continental media was mobilised, seemingly intent on catching up when it came to the classic tabloid agenda – when referee Meier's personal contact details were published in England, for example, it was as almost as if the sensation bar was being raised in defiance once more. Before that, Bild the German newspaper, had dubbed Voller's team "sausages", a Portugese TV magazine scraped around for pictures of their squad as kids, and one Russian title offered readers the opportunity to vote for their favourite player's wife.

The Purist's favourite instance of lifestyle intruding on the football, however, had to be the festival of St Joao on June 23. In Porto it meant a marathon night merrily traipsing the cobbled streets of the old town as revellers wielding either 1.5-metre flowers or squeaking comedy plastic mallets, sold on every corner at €1 each, whacked you or wafted their scent under your nose. It took some getting used to, but here was a liberating insight we'd all do well to heed, as each Loony Toons-influenced crack on the skull granted the victim a contradictory blast of self-validation. Therapeutic, you could call it, even though the only social convention not reversed was the ongoing quest for alcohol.

Nothing sobered up Euro 2004 more than the killing of Stephen Smith in the capital, and whatever pride those responsible for supporter security could take, the price he paid, as did the policeman Daniel Nivel in 1998, was too high.

Seductive as the press releases may seem, the relative lack of trouble overall was not entirely down to sound planning, indeed, myths such as the bogus threat of breathalysing and water cannons were gestures almost designed to tempt fate, had not the Algarve siphoned off most would-be hooligans. A genius move? Hardly, it was never meant to be that way... and that's not the beer talking.

A big thank-you, then, Portugal, for a bim-vendo to remember... did I mention that your green wine is rubbish?

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