LOS ANGELES – The VAR had exterminated Danish Cinderella. Raheem Sterling had fainted in the area, like Tchaikovsky’s Odette, at minute 104. The tragedy of power victimizes from the stain. Harry Kane shoots, Kasper Schmeichel repels. Divine justice? Incomplete justice. Kane is unforgiving in rejection. England 2-1 Denmark. The swallow died in midsummer.
The feat ends in the Athens of Soccer, at Wembley. 66,000 fans witness the burial of the 55-year-old curse. England returns to a Final. The VAR had sullied the feat. The VAR, created to breed justice, has promised to breed injustice.
Mason Mount escapes the mass celebration to make it particularly unforgettable. Walk to the rostrum. A guy wants to block him and raises a sentry box with his hand. The Chelsea midfielder ignores him. He makes only a gesture, towards there, towards the crowd, where Danes and English coexist.
Mount approaches in silky armor, steeped in glory, history, hysteria. Among that euphoric crowd, stands out a noisy, effervescent bit of jumping humanity. Short, skinny, snowy, with curly red hair.
The number 10 shines on the torso of his shirt. And a name: “Belle.” Bella, then, like the game itself, like the night itself, like the Euro itself.
The player gives him the eternal testimony of the feat, in the satin humidity of the shirt. To her. To Belle, to her, when they screeched for that same flag made T-shirt, others of those present, such as Prince William or Prime Minister Boris Johnson, who would have market for her, the hands of Big Ben.
Belle is paroxysm, hysteria, euphoria. Serendipity itself is. Receive the garment, wet, sprinkled with traffic, fever, fervor, struggle, the blessed glory of victory. And the little girl tucks her against her body. The homeland, festive and whole, against his chest. A flushed, transfigured face. More red, redder, more crimson, than her own unruly hair.
Never has so much happiness overflowed into such a powerful grimace of tears. So much joy that it hurts, that hurts, that tears, that snorts, that only finds in the howl of tears the genuine understanding of happiness.
Belle’s father hugs her. And his face also contracts, contorts. Her daughter’s joy unfolds her own joy. She retains the most powerful trophy from that night’s epic, beyond the perverse filth of VAR.
In the background, Mason Mount turns to see the reaction. Scrutinize, poke around. Unable to multiply loaves and fishes, at least it multiplied the most explosive and longed-for sensation of the human being: happiness.
This moment had me 🥺 @ masonmount_10 👏🏾 pic.twitter.com/tzWWlPijW6
– Rem Williams (@remmiewilliams) July 8, 2021
Belle, her name. Bella then. Like the scene itself, like the gesture itself, like the Euro itself. The 22-second ode was immortalized by Rem Williams (@remmiewilliams). It has four million views. So many souls huddled around her, so snowy, so redheaded. Belle and her offspring of four million Belles.
Because yes, because we are all Belle. Not for England, not necessarily for Denmark. Nor for Italy. But for football itself. A fantastic, squeezing, captivating, furious Euro Cup, with players who have exalted the most fascinating fantasies of a sport brought to the very purity of its origins, of course, with the exception of that intruder called VAR.
Because yes, because we are all Belle. Because the battles have been prolonged to the physical and spiritual exaltation of the overtime. Because they have spread to the fickle destination from El Manchón, where the collectives consume their heroes and consume their villains.
Because yes, because we are all Belle. Because, although Mason Mount will never come close to our lives, to our children’s souls, but in exchange for that smooth silk breastplate, which will wrap Belle all her life, everyone, everyone, we always have memories.
Because yes, because we are all Belle.