Ronaldo’s World Cup dream dies in Dallas at the hands of Merino & Spain

His eyes were cold, almost numb. It was perhaps the moment he reconciled with his unfulfilled dream. He walked without emotions, immune to the commiseration of his own men, to the handshakes and hugs of the victorious Spanish team, including the gate-crasher of his dream, Mikel Merino. Perhaps, he was emotionally drained; or devastated beyond belief, or the pain of parting an arena that was never his.

Then the tears rolled down; he tried to resist, shutting his eyes and clutching his eyelids. But he could no longer girdle his emotions when the applause and chants of the crowd swept in the stadium. The moment moved him and tears gushed forth, as he waved at them. For the one last time perhaps. Maybe not. But at 41, beaten and weary, he would not be deluded by the illusion of a fairy-tale at home in 2030 (where Portugal are co-hosts with Morocco and Spain). He could continue his exploits in the Saudi League, may globetrot for exhibition games. But this was it. The last moment. The end of a dream that he can’t dream again. A space that he would never grace again. He would be celebrated as an all-time great, for the goals and personality, for his capacity to inspire a generation of players, but he leaves without the crowning glory.

The World Cup was never his grandest stage. The numbers pale—11 goals, only one of those in a knockout, and two assists in 26 games. Fewer goals than Miroslav Klose and Harry Kane, as many goals as Sándor Kocsis and Jürgen Klinsmann. His most memorable night came against Spain, eight years ago, when he slammed four past them in a group game. But most days and nights in the tournament brought him pain and tears, misery and dejection. In six World Cups, the furthest he and his team progressed was in 2006. He could not inspire his country, neither in his youth nor in the middle age. He would wonder how he failed to inspire his country like he had the numerous clubs he has lifted to dizzying heights.

There are other legends who were denied the sweetest taste on a football field. Even more cruelly. Like Johan Cruyff and Roberto Baggio. But he was, rather he believes, no ordinary legend. Ronaldo without the crown and sceptre is akin to Caesar without the Empire.

If his wish literally ended at the legs of a midfielder turned false nine, Merino, into the field only six minutes ago, or when the headers of Joao Neves and Bernardo Silva in stoppage time veered wide, it had metaphorically come to a grinding halt long ago. The vaulting ambition blinded the reality that he had been a burden for his teammate as well as his own image. He ignored his body, his team, and the game changing indiscernibly around him. He was scoring goals, his fans and manager Roberto Martinez retaliated, but plenty little else. And then the goals dried up too, the unforgiving sign that his dreams and days were over.

Yet he insisted, yet the manager, who deserves some slack, persisted.

The force, the whip and precision too have forsaken him, the tools with which had counteracted his waning athleticism. His 15 attempts fetched only three goals—a brace against minnows Uzbekistan and a penalty against Croatia. Against Spain, he had three shots, none of which really bothered Unai Simon. The first was his sweetest strike, but from an acute angle that Simon parried around the post. Moments earlier, he was distraught when Rodri’s tug on his shirt inside the post went unpunished, even without a routine VAR check.

There was a flash of improvisation, around the 40th minute mark. He received a headed ball across the goal from Joao Felix. His back was facing the goal, but with a svelte touch, he turned the ball goal-wards. But his shot had neither the power nor the placement to trouble Simon. Upon resumption he won a free kick that Bruno Fernandes flapped over the bar. Ronaldo was aghast, but his own free-kicks had lost its bite long ago. A few times, Nuno Mendes released him through on goal, but he was beaten and outnumbered by the Spanish defenders. Felix, after flitting past red shirts, pinged a long cross for Ronaldo. He was late, he stretched his legs to connect, and the shot was weak. His body rebelled against the mind’s orders. For much of the remaining half, he was reduced to casting stink eyes at his own men. For the pass they didn’t give, for the shot they hoofed over the post, or the lapse in the defence.

No player perhaps wanted to win the game quite like Ronaldo. But perhaps no player stood between him and dream than Ronaldo himself. That was the cruellest paradox in Ronaldo’s last act (probably!) on the stage that never loved him back.