Solomon Islands have done it.
They have defeated Brazil in the grand finale to win the Beach Soccer World Cup 2013. Ironically, it was courtesy of a Brazilian differential by the name of Paulinho, who made the difference in the finals. Commiserations to Brazil, who almost created a very special story. So close yet so far, as they say.
Solomon Islands manager The Shadow, now remarkably winning two back-to-back FFS UEFA team competitions, was all emotional at the BSWC party. We reproduce his legendary recital on the beach:
Some may wonder how I was so confident of the Solomon Island chances going into today’s games. Well you see I had a dream last night. And that dream went like this:
‘Twas the night before the final, when all thro’ Shadow’s house
Not a creature was stirring, not even GYBOuts;
The shin guards were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a trophy soon would be there;
The Islanders were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of goals danc’d in their heads,
L’il Dancer in a Mankini, and I in my suit,
Had just nominated Konehead for the Golden Boot —
When out on the beach there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes was there,
But the team bus, and ten Solomon Islanders ,
With a little old driver, so lively and tan,
I knew in a moment it must be Philman.
More rapid than eagles these Islanders they came,
So I whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
“Now Namtab! Now L’il Dancer! Now Arselot and Gooner!
“On Zan! On Konehead! On Trolls and Goaldigger!
“To the top of the bracket! To the top of the table!
“Tomorrow score goals! As many as you’re able!”
With crisp passing down the flanks we’ll fly,
Have fear of no obstacle, the limit’s the sky;
They executed all the drills that I drew,
All of the boys— even Sir Arselot too.
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of what sounded like a hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And in his sack I saw the Golden Boot;
And a bundle of trophies was flung on his back,
He was fat as Seth Blather, that old quack:
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples: how merry,
His cheeks like Danny Rose, his knees like John Terry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like Martin Jol,
And the beard of his chin was as white as Joe Cole;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
His butt cheeks clenched like Mourinho’s beneath.
He had a broad face, and an Anderson-like belly
That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, with a red nose like SAF,
I looked at him and could not help but laugh;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, and kept his best poker face,
Then he placed the Council Cup right in our case!
And laying his finger aside of his SAF nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like RVP from the Arsenal:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight —
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
Thank you to everyone who participated in the Cup and made it such an exciting competition. We hope you have enjoyed the banter and made some friends (and more enemies) along the way. Before we bow out, special thanks to the Brazilian duo – Grav God Zepinho, who was patient enough to make exquisite BSWC themed gravatars for countless players and Pratikaka for his superb live scorecast.
Solomons, enjoy the hysteria tonight! You truly deserve it.