Torres (16 page)

29 June 2008

When the players walk onto the stage of the Ernst Happel stadium in Vienna and Iker Casillas, captain of the
Roja
, receives from Michel Platini the European Championship cup, King Juan Carlos asks Fernando Torres what they give him to eat in England to make him so strong.

Earlier, three hours earlier, another old man, Luis Aragonés, gives Torres a kiss. On the eve of the final, Aragonés had said: ‘I must tell El Niño something. Tomorrow, after the meeting [with the players], I will have a private talk with him and I will explain it to him then.’ he says. The manager knows that the boy from Fuenlabrada isn’t happy with his performances, so before the match he makes a prediction: ‘Today you are going to score two goals,’ he says, then he touches his forehead as if to banish bad omens and then gives him a kiss like you might kiss a favourite son who makes you furious but whom you forgive everything.

It’s the same gesture that he made many years earlier when Torres was a youngster at Atlético Madrid. Then, he scored. And ever since then, the Number 9 has stuck to the same ritual. He gets on the team bus listening to very loud music through the earphones of his iPod, and he gets off the bus in the same way. And he recalls a meeting with another old man, in May at Las Rozas, La Ciudad del Fútbol, where the Spanish national side was preparing for Euro 2008: ‘Are
you the one who scored that goal?’ Torres asks. Marcelino Martínez, the Zaragoza forward who clinched the European Championship victory for Spain at home in 1964 against the USSR – the first and last major win for Spain in 100 – looks at him and responds: ‘Yes, I am. Let’s hope you can do the same and achieve something really great in Austria.’ Fernando thinks about this for days – he wants to be the new Marcelino.

In the dressing room, he knows that the Championship is slipping from his grasp. There are only 90 minutes left and he still hasn’t managed to make his mark in the tournament. He’s certainly played well, but he’s only scored one goal, whereas Villa – who will win the Golden Boot – has scored four and Güiza, a substitute, has notched up two. Yet again, despite an outstanding season at Liverpool, Torres has not become the national hero he longs to be. But there’s still the final to come – the most important game. He leaves the dressing room and, as always, stands behind Sergio Ramos with a face that indicates he wants to be left alone. Don’t touch me. But the Wise Man of Hortaleza is ready for a joke, as Torres recounts a year later:

‘For several days before the final match with Germany, the gaffer didn’t stop talking about Wallace. At the beginning we were all looking at each other not knowing who was he talking about. Until we realised he was talking about Michael Ballack. Then he told us that he knew his name but that he called him Wallace because that’s what he felt like calling him. But if you know Luis, you can imagine the actual expression he used. It didn’t stop there, though. When we were in the tunnel leading to the pitch, Aragonés went on in front of us, winked in our direction, and went to Ballack. He said to him, in Spanish, “Good afternoon, Mr Wallace”, and went on speaking to him for a while. The German didn’t understand a word and Aragonés didn’t understand
what Ballack was saying to him, either. We couldn’t help it, but we were laughing our heads off as we went out to play the final.’

A nice way to start the most important game of your life …

And then, in the first fifteen minutes of the game, Spain stutter. They’re uptight and can’t reproduce the form they’ve shown up to this point. On the pitch, in the stadium and across the country – for once crazy about its team – they fear the worst, that the giants in white shirts will slot home a couple of goals without even trying and finish the game before it’s started. But Spain get their act together with the help of Torres. In the 23rd minute Sergio Ramos crosses the ball from the right and Torres leaps up for a header, hitting the ball full-on. He doesn’t know how he manages to do it, given that Mertesacker is two heads taller than him, but El Niño manages all the same and the ball hits the post. It could have been the first goal – it will be just the beginning of Spain’s recovery. The clock in the Happel stadium shows the time as eighteen minutes past nine and on the pitch, 33 minutes have been played. Marcos Senna, the man from Sao Paolo, steals the ball in midfield. He looks around and sees Xavi through a crowd of German players. He’s far from Mertesacker and next to Frings. The Barça player sends a pass into space, where, from behind, Fernando is arriving at speed. Good control and past Philipp Lahm. The Number 16 looked to have had it under control. ‘Xavi’s pass was spectacular but Lahm was already in a good position,’ Torres will explain later: ‘If he had gone a bit to the right the ball would have been for the keeper, but I think that maybe he doesn’t have a good understanding with Lehmann. He gets too confident, he relaxes … This gives me a fraction of a second in which I am able to move to the other side and seize the opportunity to shoot. Maybe if the pitch had been
dry I could have tried bending it but the ball skates across and enters just inside the post. I knew it was going to go in.’ It’s the goal he’s been dreaming about. Fernando Torres puts his thumb in his mouth like a dummy. It’s dedicated to his nephew, Hugo, the son of Israel, born little more than a month ago, then he dives across the Viennese grass. He shouts his head off and is lost in a sea of hugs from his team-mates. He doesn’t forget Villa, who’s not playing in the final. He reciprocates the dedication that El Guaje had made to him in the first match of the tournament. ‘This victory is for David, who has been suffering on the bench like one of the fans,’ he says.

Germany are nowhere. Michael Ballack, whose eyebrow is split open after a clash of heads, is doing all he can to motivate his side. He gets furious and takes it out on everyone, the referee included, but he is a symbol of his team’s impotence.

In the second half there are chances for Ramos and Dani Güiza, but for the Spanish it’s hard work. In the 78th minute Torres is taken off, but then comes the final, liberating whistle of Roberto Rossetti. And the Spanish party starts. Everyone goes mad on the pitch and across the country, where, after 44 years, they can finally shout: ‘Champions! Champions!’

‘When you are a boy, and see these matches on TV, you dream of being there. Now that I am here I find it difficult to realise what I’ve achieved. At last justice has been done and this team has recovered its due place in Europe,’ says Fernando Torres as he walks off the field, the Spanish flag wrapped around him. At a press conference, having been chosen best player of the game – as he was twice in previous junior European Championships – he makes an intelligent and concise speech for the world’s media: ‘I am happy because Spanish football needed a success like this one after
so many years. Besides, this triumph is really going to help football in general because it has been the best team that has won the European Championship, a team that’s had a great tournament, and that doesn’t always happen. We are proud that we have promoted the idea of attractive football, which is enjoyable to watch, even for a neutral spectator. We are a team that knows how to use the ball. This has been a success for both the manager, who persevered with the idea, and for the players, who knew how to take the concept on board and apply it. The group is the main weapon of this team. All of us – the players who have been on the pitch a lot, and those who have been on the pitch less, as well as the technicians and the rest of the staff – have to feel just as happy. It is the victory of being together. To win is always good, but to do it like this is even better. We have kept the style, our way of playing throughout the whole tournament. And we’ve won. That shows that it is possible to play well and get results at the same time.’ Almost a masterclass in the art of football and the Beautiful Game – traditionally the territory of Brazilians. Torres lays claim to a certain style. His goal matches this philosophy and it’s a sign of how the mentality of the national side has changed. ‘Yes, it’s another indication that this national side has known how to mature. Maybe before, we’ve lacked those elements, like continuing to chase loose balls or the quality of the team’s defending. Now we are champions and we have more experience to go after more trophies. Let’s hope this is just the beginning.’ He’s just won but already El Niño is looking to the future, but he’s clearly one of those people in life who are never satisfied. As he waits for his future to unfold, he knows he has scored the goal of a lifetime; he is aware that he has had a profound influence – just like Marcelino – and he knows that he’s entered ‘in people’s hearts and in the history of Spain for ever’.

Next day the headlines in the Spanish press pay homage to this sensation:

And it is not only the Spanish press that praises him. Newspapers from
The Times,
to the
New York Times,
from
La Gazzetta dello Sport
to
L’Équipe,
from the
Guardian
to
Clarín,
Torres is the unquestionable hero. He’s the King, agree both
The Times
and
La Gazzetta dello Sport
. After being hidden from the rest of Europe he has taken the sceptre and crown and assumed the throne of Europe. Journalists from around the world recount his life and his performance as if talking about Orlando. Even his tattoos are talked about, such as the Number 9 in Gothic letters on his right arm, his name in the
tengwar
alphabet as created by J.R.R. Tolkien in the
Lord of the Rings
, and on one of his legs, in Roman numerals, the date 7 July 2001, which is said to be the date of his first kiss with Olalla. The ratings given to the Little Prince by journalists are exceptional.
The Times
, ungenerously, gives him an 8, saying: ‘Magnificent. Did it time and
again with Liverpool last season and did it time and again last night. No one could stop him.’ And the picture on so many front pages is that of his arms outstretched like a red angel, Lehmann beaten and on the floor and the ball with its chequered panels rolling towards the net.

The next day it’s back home for the parade with the cup through the streets of Madrid and a 24-hour party. At 19.55 on 1 July, the team plane lands at Madrid Barajas airport. The faces of the players betray fatigue – they haven’t slept much because of all the celebrations, first in Vienna and then in Neustift, where the squad trained. But no one wants to stop the fun at the moment. An open-top bus takes two hours to make its way to the Plaza de Colón, where, waiting for their heroes, are one million fans and a big stage, where Pepe Reina will be the master of ceremonies. Fernando Torres places himself at the front corner with the cup in his hands and his red shirt. From the crowd a boy calls out and hands him flags of Spain and Atlético Madrid. He holds them and waves them aloft.

Conversation with Liverpool and Spain goalkeeper, Pepe Reina

‘I gave my son two bits of advice: to be a good team-mate and, during the match, keep your eye solely on the ball. He’s a great goalkeeper and I don’t say that as a father but as someone who knows about these things,’ declared Miguel Reina during Euro 2008.

And he is right to say that he knows about these things because Miguel, the father of José Manuel Reina Páez – better known as Pepe – was also a leading goalkeeper. He played 312 matches in the Primera Liga with Córdoba, Barcelona and Atlético Madrid – the club where he ended his career in 1980. He won one league title, two Spanish Cup trophies, one Copa de Ferias cup, an Intercontinental Cup and two Zamora Trophies for the best Spanish League goalkeeper. His worst moment was losing the 1974 European Cup final against Bayern Munich. His son, who he admits is ‘better than me’, went through the same bitter experience in Athens in 2006, losing the Champions League final against Milan but, two years later, got the satisfaction of winning the big continental title, Euro 2008, with Spain.

And it is his son, who, as a child, wanted to be a winger but instead – thanks to his support – became the goalkeeper for Liverpool. Pepe arrived in the city of The Beatles in July 2005 and Rafa Benítez described him as the best Spanish
goalkeeper. He came from Villarreal, where he was on loan from Barcelona, the club where he had worked his way up from the junior ranks to the senior squad. He won two Intertoto Cups and was renowned as a penalty-stopper.

In his last season with Villarreal, he saved seven out of nine. Within a short time at Liverpool he managed to push out Jerzy Dudek, the hero of the winning side in the Champions League final in Istanbul, gradually gaining the confidence of manager, team-mates, fans, and increasing his reputation. For three years running (2006–08) he won the Golden Glove award for the highest number of clean sheets in the Premier League, only just missing out (by one) on a fourth consecutive title in 2009 to Manchester United’s Edwin Van Sar. The goalkeeping son of a goalkeeper has become more famous than his father because, explained Miguel, ‘He is a very safe, all-round keeper, who dominates his area and who is also very good with his feet.’ But Pepe is not only a great player, he is a charming character, the ideal dressing room companion who can give you a boost when things are going badly or when someone is feeling down. And that’s not all, the Number 25 of Liverpool (Number 23 in the national side) is also very funny and a bit of a performer. Few Spaniards have forgotten his display on the podium in Madrid’s Plaza de Colón, the day after the Euro 2008 victory. With microphone in hand he introduced all his team-mates, inventing a few humorous lines for each of them, and then almost lost his voice during a six-minute audience participation routine, which made a million people go wild with delight: ‘It was an unforgettable moment for everyone, for them and for me. It was a moment of celebration and affection for my team-mates. We were all on a high and it just came out like that. Nothing was prepared, everything was improvised. The truth is I’m proud of having done it and that people have fond memories of it.’