Spanish Is the Language of Football

Forget the politics. Forget the ticket prices, the dynamic pricing and the kick off times built for television schedules rather than supporters. There will be weeks and months to dissect all of that, and dissect it we will. But for ninety minutes on Sunday none of it matters, because Spain and Argentina are meeting in a World Cup final and Spanish is the language of football.

The European Champions against the Copa America holders and reigning World Champions. The first World Cup final ever contested by the champions of Europe and South America, and the first meeting of the top two teams in the world rankings in a final since rankings began in 1992. Both sides are in recovery mode after brushing aside France and England in the semi-finals, and both arrive protecting long unbeaten runs in competitive football. One of them ends on Sunday. That is the beautiful cruelty of it.

Spain’s 0-0 draw with Cape Verde in their opening game feels like a lifetime ago, as does Argentina’s 3-0 win over the Desert Foxes of Algeria, a night when a thirty nine year old scored a World Cup hat-trick as if he were knocking them in at training. Football is all about two things. Stats and opinions. The stats say these are the two best teams on the planet. The opinions will rage in every bar from Buenos Aires to Bilbao until kick off. But only one of them leaves New Jersey with the trophy, and either Spain or Argentina will be saying goodbye to their World Cup dream.

Argentina’s phenomenon keeps finding ways. Against England he did not score, and it did not matter. He created the equaliser for Enzo Fernández and then, in the second minute of stoppage time, curled the cross that Lautaro Martínez headed home to break English hearts all over again. Argentina have made a habit of the impossible at this tournament. Extra time against Cape Verde, two goals down against Egypt, extra time again against Switzerland, then the late mugging of England. They keep coming back because they do not know how to do anything else. It is as if they wear those colours like a second skin.

Spain have their own architect in Rodri, a player who glides across the pitch with his shirt tucked in like it is the 1990s all over again. He was magnificent against France, winning every physical contest in midfield and shrinking Kylian Mbappé’s tournament favourites into a supporting act. Many said Spain were finished without Xavi and Iniesta pulling the strings. A European Championship and now a World Cup final tell a rather different story.

Around him the pieces keep clicking. Dani Olmo goes from strength to strength, and his give and go with Pedro Porro produced the second goal that killed the semi-final. Mikel Oyarzabal has five goals and a penalty taker’s nerve. And then Spain have their own version of the boy wonder in Lamine Yamal, another product of Barcelona’s youth system, who turned nineteen on Monday and celebrated by winning the penalty that put France to bed. He arrived at this tournament carrying a hamstring problem. He arrives at the final looking like the future of the sport.

As an England supporter I had to doff my cap at full time in Atlanta. Argentina have now sent England home from a World Cup for the third time in my life, after 1986 and 1998, and each one has its own particular flavour of pain. England never seem to learn. Argentina, meanwhile, eye a fourth star and a place alongside Italy and Brazil as the only nations to win back to back World Cups. Nobody has managed it since 1962.

So pick your poison. The relentless champions who refuse to die, dragged forward by the greatest player most of us will ever see. Or the passing machine from the Iberian peninsula, sixteen years on from their only crown, playing the most complete football at the tournament. Stats and opinions. On Sunday we finally get an answer.

England fans can watch the third place match on Saturday, which is a bit like being invited back to watch someone else open your birthday presents.