It wasn’t exactly David versus Goliath.
But it was unquestionably a win for the little people, those that believe in the more beautiful things in life.
Like flowers. And trees. And Pamela Anderson before thirty-two surgeries.
Perhaps the most bizarre part of a pleasantly pulsating Euro 2008 Final was that Spain decided that they would do the naive thing.
They would continue to play football and history be damned.
This is like a politician standing up and deciding to tell the truth about something as ridiculous as, oh, I don’t know, politics.
Or his sex life.
Germany carried on being Larry Craig.
Deny, deny, deny. And if you keep on denying, you might sneak one between someone’s legs in the very last minute.
In truth, the Germans were very lucky to lose by a mere goal.
The Lilliputians from Spain wriggled around the Germans’ crudity like so many children avoiding the advances of suspicious-looking men outside the gates of their school.
No, they did not want a sweetie, thank you.
They wanted to pass the ball to each other and enjoy the simple pleasure of the opposition not being able to get it back.
Because the opposition did not have the brains, the skill or the imagination to engage the ball in anything other than a sad hoofing.
Michael Ballack was a drunken cousin at a wedding.
For most of the game, he would bump into people, pretending it was by accident.
Then, when the bouncers would occasionally step in to admonish, he would blow self-righteous snot down his nose at them in an attempt to gain the upper hand.
The Italian referee, probably an admirer of self-righteous cynicism, let him get away with it for most of the match.
The German captain should have been red-carded, if only for his awful impersonation of Judas Iscariot at a Charity Telethon when Germany were denied a penalty.
There was, though, something terribly comforting about seeing so many perfect German specimens be Arnold Schwarznegger trying to bed Scarlett Johannson.
In their clumsiness, they revealed their inadequacy.
In their preening, they revealed their sense of entitlement.
And in their incapacity to even get a shot on goal, they proved for every man on earth that size really does not matter.
There perhaps was no greater example of the depths to which German football is prepared to sink than to see goalkeeper Jens Lehmann, a sad old trollope at the best of times, kick out at Fernando Torres, even after the Spaniard had put the ball beyond Lehmann’s reach for the game’s only goal.
Watch the slow motion.
Lehmann, as he realizes he has gone down too early and in the wrong direction, tries to give Torres an Ballackesque accidental kick on the leg as the Spaniard moves away from any potential contact with the German.
If only we could all lose as gracefully.
If you did not see just a little poetry in those empty German faces watching the Spaniards, still surprised to have finally proved they are as good as they secretly thought they were, reliving a relieving victory, then you are not human.
Or you are Franz Beckenbauer.
This was a Kaiserslaughter.
And when you look at that word ‘Kaiserslaughter’, one that I invented not ten seconds ago, what do you see tucked away near the end?
Yes, the word ‘laugh’.
I can only hope that you are laughing too.
The Pond thanks David de Groot for stepping in with a picture of a happy pizza when we couldn’t find one of a happy paella.