Memories

On such a night are memories made. Memories that last a lifetime and bring a smile in the sleepless hours…..

The sun was dying as I arrived and a soft breeze was taming the day’s heat. The shore-side café was already crowded, and tables and chairs spilled onto the sand. The owner was pinning up a large white sheet that would serve as a screen and a young waitress flowed smoothly between the tables with a laden tray.

Spain was playing the Netherlands in the World Cup final and although the kick off was an hour away, the atmosphere was exuberant and the noise deafening. I looked over the pulsating sea of red and yellow - the colours of Spain - and saw friends beckoning to an empty seat.

On that night, in that place, no-one could be neutral so, like most around me, I draped a Spanish flag around my neck like a scarf.

Then it started, heads turning to the sheet as the teams emerged. The whistle blew, the shrill blast signalling the start of the match and a surge in excitement and noise.

The action swung from end to end. When Spain attacked I joined in the addictive chanting: “Yo soy espanol, yo soy espanol.” When a Spaniard was fouled I leapt to my feet with them screaming “hijo de puta” at the offending Dutchman.

Half time came and there was no score, but all around me I could hear confident predictions of ultimate Spanish success. Patriotism does not countenance failure.

The second half started with a roar. Spain was playing better and we were soon chanting once again. There were several near misses, but the goal that would put the trophy in Spanish hands was elusive.

Then it happened. In the final minutes Iniesta received a pass, took one touch and stuck. The ball powered towards the goal and the Dutch keeper dived to stop it. We all leaned forward, half raised, eyes wide, hearts racing.

The ball struck the back of the net and as one we leapt into the air in an explosion of celebration; chairs scraping, tables rocking, drinks toppling and arms punching the air. Inhibitions were swept aside as friends and strangers hugged. A young woman embraced me, her red and yellow face paint smearing my cheek.

We chanted to the end of the match and all the way through the trophy presentation and the lap of honour. Then we raced to our cars and formed a cheering, hooting cavalcade that weaved its way around the town. Young and old lined the streets, shouting, clapping and waving flags, their faces alight with joy.

It was late and quiet when I arrived home. I was tired, but my mind was back in the cafe. I sat in my garden listening to the cicandas buzzing, replaying the memories of the evening, sleep a long way away.

On such a night ………