Italy v Spain. Not to be rude about England v Denmark, or anything, but this felt a little like the champagne semi-final versus the Ovaltine one, the “Mediterranean Derby”, as the BBC billed it, a contest between two teams who display as much emotion just lining up in the tunnel as most nations do in, say, World Cup finals.
That, of course, is an unforgivably tired stereotype. But, God, did you see Giorgio Chiellini in the tunnel? How the walls remained upstanding, we’ll never know. Up for it, that lad.
Anyhow, team news and Damien The Duffer wasn’t surprised to see Alvaro Morata omitted from the Spanish starting line-up, reckoning, in so many words, that Chiellini would have chewed him up and spat him out.
In fairness, Morata might have presumed he’d suffer that very fate having said a few years back of his former Juventus comrade, as Richie Sadlier reminded us, that “it’s like you’re being put in a cage with a gorilla and you have to steal his food - it is impossible to win a one-on-one with Chiellini”.
Instead, it was left to Morata’s replacement Mikel Oyarzabal to try and steal Chiellini’s food, so you could only send your thoughts and prayers.
Richie, meanwhile, entered Liamo’ Brady’s cage when he scundered Uefa and the British authorities for allowing VIPs, sponsors, politicians and the like to attend the game without having to endure all that quarantine lark, unlike the little people (the ones who pay taxes - credit: Leona Helmsley).
Richie’s point flew over Liamo’s head, much like a 747, Liamo insisting that the tournament had been superbly organised and that lots of Italians and Spaniards live in London so there’d be a pile of them at the game, so Richie shouldn’t worry his little head about it.
Having lived in London for much the same length of time as Liamo, in or around a decade, Richie, you’d imagine, is not unfamiliar with the number of Italians and Spaniards who reside there. But there was as much distance between that point and the one he was making as there is between Ballybunion and Bangalore.
“Let’s talk about the football, let’s talk about the football,” said Liamo, by then sounding like Uefa’s Montrose delegate, irked by Richie’s insolence. Richie grinned, in a rolly-eyes kind of way, which only sent Liamo’s irky levels skywards.
The chat switched then to the “dark arts” oft, allegedly, displayed by both teams, notably Italy in this tournament, the Duffer recalling the time a manager of his shredded him at half-time for not practising said arts in the first half of a game. “I won’t name names,” he said, the words “Jose” and “Mourinho” not passing his lips.
The Spanish squad, as we knew already, contains not a single Real Madrid player, a little like rhubarb being left bereft of custard. The lowest previous Madrid representation happened in their selection for the 1950 World Cup when Luis Molowny was their sole Madrid man, him being of Clare stock, hailing from a family that didn’t know how to spell Maloney.
Darragh could have cited this, in a boastful ‘that’s my cuz’ sort of way, but instead he modestly directed us to a quick chat with George Hamilton and Ray Houghton over at Wembley, George wearing a dashing shirt featuring squiggly things that matched his handkerchief. It wasn’t until we saw Roberto Mancini that we realised George was only the second best dressed man in Wembley. It’s another unforgivably tired stereotype, but it’s true - Italians could wear bin bags and still look like they belong on a catwalk.
Match time. Sublimely cagey until Federico Chiesa did his thing, and then, of all people, substitute Morata entered the gorilla’s cage, stole Chiellini’s food, and equalised. “Tiki Taka how are ya, route one,” George declared, that description of the goal, to be honest, akin to describing the Mona Lisa as a paint-by-numbers job.
The Duffer saluted Italy’s “dark, sexy and ugly” sides, like he was reviewing The Handmaid’s Tale, the closing stages getting darker, sexier and uglier by the minute. In other words, pure bliss.
Extra-time. Penalties. If you weren’t moved by the mega hug between goalies Gianluigi Donnarumma and Unai Simón, you’re not actually alive.
Not even being put in a cage with a hungry gorilla could have been scarier for Jorginho. But he rolled his penalty in, the breezy fecker.
Italy, then, await the winners of the Ovaltine Derby. With any luck, the final will be dark, sexy and ugly.
