Brazil knocked out of the World Cup by Norway

 Brazil knocked out of the World Cup by Norway

For those of us who have always felt a deeply emotional affinity with Brazilian football throughout the ages, this must have felt like the heaviest of setbacks. Of course it wasn't the end of the world because football has always risen above such considerations. But last night this was the end of the road for Brazil because on the night the sensuality and sensitivity of their football had gone missing and everything we take for granted about the Brazil of old and yesteryear was no longer relevant. 

Last night Norway, who have failed to qualify for the World Cup Finals on so many occasions throughout the years, quashed the hopes and dreams of a nation whose hitherto footballing heritage and tradition had become so impeccably untarnished that you wondered what would happen next. Norway beat Brazil on an evening in New York when the entire Hollywood film industry seemed to be watching them and the Americans, who have so embraced soccer, now found themselves witnessing the faded grandeur of a famous empire. Here was a rich footballing powerhouse flattened, aching and hurting, wounded beyond belief. 

For make no mistake Brazil are in a state of mourning and grief, mortally offended by the very thought their national team is no longer the formidable force of 1970. They no longer have the Gersons, Tostaos, the Rivelinos, Carlos Albertos and the untouchable genius of Pele. Their football is singularly and painfully lacking a Zico, Socrates, the fecundity and stunning ingenuity of Gilberto Silva, Ronaldinho, Rivaldo, that vast array of footballing tapestries which have so decorated the Beautiful Game. 

As last night's last 16 World Cup group match unfolded, we became aware that we were watching vulnerability, the end of a generation, a hollow emptiness, a real sense of loss and desolation and an overwhelming sadness. This is not the way it was meant to be since we thought Brazilian football would never ever be damaged by severe limitations and embarrassing deficiencies. 

During their defeat to Norway there was a flatness to the Brazilian game, a side who had relinquished any hold on our imagination, something they probably felt was their prerogative, their imprimatur, their divine right to success, the way they do things on the international stage. But the primary colours, the varnish and polish of their game, is now scratched and ruined with the passage of time. This is not the Brazil we have grown accustomed to, a side quite clearly lacking the decorative embellishments and footloose flamboyance of old. 

How we've grown used to the technical brilliance, the instinctive touches, the delicate dabbing and prodding of the ball into space, the individual awareness of their colleagues on the pitch and the sheer, unsurpassable artistry of their football. Suddenly, the majesty and beauty their game once possessed is simply history. Brazil are now a broken mechanism, their football no longer fluent or flowing, more a pale shadow of their former selves. It would be safe to assume that the pomp and ceremony that normally accompanies their football is now extinct. 

Last night the samba rhythms were reduced to a military two step and all of the idealism within the Brazilian soul, has become no more than wishful thinking. You could have been forgiven that you were watching some ghoulish ghost story but then most of us would have been horrified to know how it all ended. And indeed this was the case for Norway were quicker of thought, much more cohesive and much more of a collective unit working for the common cause. 

Norway must have known that if they could reduce Brazil to a mere nonentity and stifle all their more stylish attacking movements, then half the job had already been done. They also knew that they had a certain Erling Haaland up front and one of the most lethal strikers in the world game. For Manchester City, Haaland has been imperative and indispensable, a player so guaranteed to score goals by the barrowload that it would have been foolish to ignore or undermine his ability or free scoring prowess.

Slowly but surely Norway have adapted and worked their way into this World Cup almost unobtrusively, a side of real character and now a genuine contender for the ultimate prize in world football. They have been a side of silent assassins, quietly going about their business, gently teasing the great and good before now announcing themselves with grand flourishes and highly impressive credentials. 

But for the likes of Danilo, Marquinhos, Gabriel, Douglas Santos at the back, this was probably one of the most traumatic evenings any of them will ever experience. Their simple, economical passes out of defence were simply blocked out of sight and there was no real structure or framework to their game. Brazil crave self indulgence in their football, the possession game invariably stitched into their DNA. None of the fundamental qualities we normally associate with Brazil were present. They were careless, too casual with the ball, wild and wanton in possession, totally overlooking the simplicities and just reckless in the extreme. 

In the middle of the park Casemiro, who has thus far, enjoyed a magnificent season with Manchester United looked like a wandering soul, desperately seeking some comfortable sanctuary where he knew he could thrive. It just didn't happen for him. He hovered around with honourable intent but the drive and ambition were somewhere back in Rio De Janeiro Then there was Rayan, busy, forward thinking and always conscientious but never hitting the right notes or pitch. 

Around Rayan, both the normally spectacularly accomplished Newcastle striker Bruno Guimaraes and Arsenal's Gabriel Martinelli would normally have been on exactly on the same wavelength. But both were firing dud bullets and their feet lacked any of the basic ball control on a consistent basis. When Guimaraes missed a penalty in the opening stages of the game, you somehow knew that this would not be the day Brazil were hoping it would be. Stuttering and hesitation would be his downfall. 

Brazil threatened to impose their familiar stranglehold on the game but the movements were too clever and far too elaborate for a Norway side now closing down their esteemed opponents like men hounded off the ball, harried, hassled and pestered as if they were a nuisance that had to be dealt with. And then there was the exceptional Vinicius Junior, a player so wondrously talented and full of invention that Brazil could only wonder why Junior kept heading into some confusing cul de sac. 

For much of the game Vinny Junior was the very embodiment of the delightful old fashioned winger, feet constantly twisting one way and then the next, deviousness and duplicity in his every movement. Then there was the lightning acceleration, the burst of pace towards the byline, shredding his opponents to pieces. It seemed Junior couldn't possibly be caught and yet there was no tangible end product to his mazy runs. 

Then deep into the second half Norway, who were eating away at Brazil's intimate close passing manoeuvres, were more than a match for the South Americans. Martin Odegaard became much more of the proactive influence who guided Arsenal to the Premier League title, while Sander Berge and Patrick Berg were pressing back the Brazilians with direct and purposeful running, always supporting and available on the ball. 

Half way through the second half, Norway made the decisive breakthrough their football had thoroughly deserved. Andreas Schjelderup, beautifully balanced on the wing, floated over a simple cross and there was Haaland, perfectly placed to head the ball firmly past Allison Becker in the Brazilian goal. 

Now Brazil were stung into life but their response to going behind was never going to be enough to unsettle these doughty and determined Norwegians. Frequently, their football had a rarely seen composure and dignity that none of us had ever suspected. Then minutes Norway put this game to bed and made sure that the lights had well and truly been switched off. Brazil were hunting around in haunting darkness.

Schjelderup, now running rampant on the wing, once again moved into the right position. He shimmied and swerved, swayed and darted again, laying the ball square for Haaland who drove the ball low and powerfully home for the second goal. Brazil were down and out and their Italian manager Carlo Ancelotti cut a forlorn figure, like one of those gangsters from Hollywood's golden age, sharp suited but helpless. Only a late Neymar Junior penalty could provide anything in the way of consolation for Brazil but by then it was far too late.