Portugal. You have an hour and a half to change our lives!
There is little time for me to prepare to embark, the first national team did an internship of twenty years of hope, the most likely to cloud the universe of two years, the most effulgent since it had amazed the universe during during during during the European 2000 , Belgium and the Netherlands, and then to South Korea where we played in all three group stage games.
Three and only three defeats, with mazombas and bacocas defeats against the United States and South Korea, two teams that had no conditions to beat us if we hadn’t, with total lack of respect for the enormous quality of our members, made the impossible stop .
Because. Time not forgiven and, at the same time recording those games of Suwon and Incheon, with that stupid feeling that I continue, after all these, to write a wrong story. But defeats may have been mistakes, but they weren’t wrong or wrong. And there was great hope for one who carried his players to the airport and stayed, next to the Portela de Sacavé runway, waving his hands in farewells that shook with themselves the competitors of the triumph of a glorious feat.
too many live busy to know what time it is. “Tell me it’s time to start!”, half shouts a little man, not this long of me, pointing at the clock while he tells his friends. The watch may very well be contraband, but its time is right. Half an hour to go. Adriana Calcanho would say. “You have half an hour to change my life”.
In half an hour, Portugal will take to the pitch to, once again, as happened in the last twenty years, open the road in front of them for another presence in the final phase of a World Championship. Hardly anyone who lives in love with this team that carries in their chest, between the second and third ribs, in the place where the heart usually lies, the Cinco Escudos Azuis from the legend of the Battle of Ourique, is indifferent. D. Afonso Henrique and the five defeated Moorish kings. I got used to it.
I lived all the great and all the sad moments of these twenty years. I just don’t get ready to pack up and leave because this time, in order to have, for the first time, a World Cup in the old Gulf of Persia, where Afonso de Albuquerque became famous as The Terrible, I have to wait until November, the month that will kick off the finals in Qatar. But I have one certainty, as I am active before the game with Turkey: Portugal will win. And then the doors of the world open again. Again in Asia, like twenty years ago.
The opinion Since Italy, called, did not appear in Porto, beaten, by the impressive, Macedonia, not as the same country of Grande Alexandre without being from the North, the country of Grande Alexandre here, that one day in a shirt of the fans in this play -off incredibly expendable – I grew immeasurably immeasurably in the sticks on their own.
Despite everything, Italy was scary, it has to be agreed. Despite everything, in today’s football playing yesterday’s term, remember, tournament champions are still registered nationwide, with the application for approval that are still registered nationwide. If this one deserves to be cultivated, we won’t start in less than half an hour, according to the little man with the flashy clock, we’ll begin to know.
Already, the Portuguese and the Portuguese have been making them for years in a nice place on the well-kept lawn of this one in Antas, where an elegant and airy stadium stands. The public was already lining up, at the entrances, when it was five o’clock and we arrived here.
Opponents had their traditional dose of whistles – I imagine they would have been much more aggressive if they were Italians -, the speaker vigorously seeks – us all with excesses of decibels, species of detestable sambinhas appear on the loudspeakers of the venue as if, despite three Brazilians dressed in red, it was all the Portuguese who wore yellow. What the hell! But samba why the hell!? The truth is that it’s there, perforating the eardrums more, which pretends to be Brazil-North Macedonia), it doesn’t matter, the man yells through the microphone and is – “Do it! Make a lot of noise!”
I make clicking noises with my fingers on the QWERT keys but I hear it. No one is available to hear the sound of words, let alone written. You have to scream, howl. There’s even a prize for whoever gives the biggest shout of the night.
We must wait a little, the minutes go by wildly, for the loudest scream of the goal, the goal of Portugal, that yes, unison, tremendous. But it’s not yet time for that. The nervous little girl who is furiously biting her nails with a green and red scarf around her neck. The fascinated look of the little boy piggybacking his father. A world of people who concentrate in a world of concentration of 120 meters by 90. You have an hour and a half to change our lives. But why so long?