Through sheer visibility, its very ethical dimension came into sharper evidence. Spitting can be seen as an act of rebellious insouciance or supreme arrogance. Totti's spit carried both meanings. A proud product of the Roman borgate, or working-class suburbs, Totti is a rich white-trash boy who was lashing out against a lesser colleague, presumably angered by rude tackling. His spit expressed a rebellion against a system that stifles creativity with rough play, as well as the insufferable attitude of a spoiled brat. Does that say something about contemporary Italian men? Undoubtedly, the combination of rebelliousness and arrogance defines the ethos of one of Italy's most culturally influential modern exports, the Mafia (full disclosure: I feel allowed to criticize Italy harshly, as I am Italian myself). Be that as it may, the Italian coach Trapattoni was sacked, and the new one (Marcello Lippi) promised to rebuild the team. Around Totti.

England was the most unlucky team of the tournament. It started the campaign with high expectations, fielding its best side since the legendary World Cup victory of 1966. The whole country was on a high. If you walked through the streets of London last Thursday, the day of England's ill-fated match with Portugal (I happened to be there), you couldn't go more than a few steps without passing by a Cross of St. George. Up until a few years ago, the national flag was hardly ever visible, a perceived anachronism that was best left alone due to its potentially inflammatory religious overtones, and the feeling that it had been co-opted and corrupted by the far right. The Union Jack was enough of a fashion statement to overcome such problems, but the Cross of St. George? Forget about it. Clearly, something changed over the last few years. A wave of popular enthusiasm for the national team reclaimed the flag and the desire to rally behind it (without having to go to war). England was on the verge of pulling a great upset in its debut match against France. Zinedine Zidane scored twice for France in overtime and crushed that dream. England regrouped, won the next two games with convincing efforts, and met Portugal in what will be remembered as the most dramatic match of Euro 2004. England scored first, Portugal equalized toward the close of regulation. Despite Portugal's spirited performance, England should have won with a last-minute goal that was unjustly disallowed by the Swiss referee. The game went into overtime and then to the penalty kicks. England had to do without its best player, forward Wayne Rooney, who was the victim of an injury in the early stages of the match. To top it off, team captain David Beckham missed his penalty (his third consecutive miss in international games). Such momentous bad luck reminds us of the ultimate reason why the world loves soccer (and America doesn't, at least not as much). A high-scoring game is best suited to ensure that the best team wins -- especially if you have playoffs. Soccer still leaves a much larger role to chance and human error. In this sense, soccer is more like life: not fair. An England victory would have been unfair to Portugal, who did more to win the match. Portugal's victory was unfair to England, who scored a goal that should have counted.

Still, there was a major consolation for England: In Wayne Rooney, not yet 19 years of age, it has the most exciting young player in the world. A stocky, rough-edged scouser (Liverpudlian), Rooney is the anti-Beckham. While Beckham graces the cover of Vanity Fair, is married to a Spice Girl, cheats on her with spicier ones, sports fancy tattoos not to mention ever-changing hairstyles, revels in his status as a gay icon and has once confessed a proclivity for wearing female underpants, Rooney harks back to pre-metrosexual models of masculinity. He wears a military haircut, already carries a few extra pounds, doesn't court the media and surely wouldn't be caught dead wearing a G-string. How refreshing to know he will be England's hero for the next 10 years.

The underwhelming performances of Spain followed the country's long history of choking. In a sense, that's also true of Holland, which always makes it a little further than Spain, but almost never goes all the way. The same cannot be said for France, reigning European champions and '98 world champions. In the last decade France took soccer by storm with a multiethnic team led by Franco-Algerian Zidane, and featuring several players of African, Caribbean and Armenian descent. They came from all the best leagues in the continent, bringing with them a wealth of skills, experience and tactical savvy. At its best, France looked like a world all-star team. At its worst, such as in this tournament, it resembled a foreign legion, battle-weary and demotivated. Thirty-one-year-old Zidane can still do things with the ball that most players couldn't do if you removed the other team from the field. What he can't do is outpace younger defenders, or save the day every time with a magic trick. Most of the French team isn't any younger than Zidane, and France's elimination is probably just a matter of wear and tear. Whether another great generation is ready to take over remains to be seen.

And so it was that the final came to be played by Portugal (the perennial unfulfilled promise) and Greece (the amazing dark horse, an 80-to-1 contender going into the tournament). Portugal was finally worthy of its self-image as the Brazil of Europe, defeating higher-ranking teams like Spain, England and Holland -- matches evocative of ancient maritime rivalries. Coach Luiz Felipe Scolari and playmaker Deco are from Brazil, and Portugal's dazzling wingers, old fox Figo and young hotshot Christiano Ronaldo, might as well be. Greece proved to be a well-rounded, hardworking, hungry team capable of beating the odds game after game (its victims include Portugal in the opening match, titleholders France, and the talented Czech Republic, who looked like a likely tournament winner until their captain Pavel Nedved, European player of the year, twisted his knee in the semifinal). Greece in the final is the inspiring proof, akin to the victory of the blue-collar Detroit Pistons over the superstar-laden Los Angeles Lakers in the NBA finals this year, that a team without stars but rich in commitment and tactical acumen can beat anyone. Interestingly, the team is coached by a German, Otto Rehhagel: Perhaps classic German wisdom is well suited to an emerging team after all.

It's hard to resist the temptation to read Portugal and Greece's success as a metaphor for their respective countries claiming a place at the table of the powerful nations of Europe. This final may not break most-watched records, but it's historically significant. To appreciate this significance is to instantly understand a paramount reason why soccer has yet to claim the U.S. It won't happen until this country can feel part of this centuries-old international drama of rivalry and envy, fate and willpower, generational grudges and karmic comeuppances. Ultimately, the international soccer fan is a different animal from any type of American fan because he brings to the game a stake in such larger narratives.

Soccer fever makes it clear why we need sports as much as ever. They are, of course, the last true meritocracy, where nepotism and lucky breaks can only take you so far (doping could change that, but not particularly in soccer, where size and strength don't count as much as skill and vision). Most important, they provide an outlet for collective feelings that are otherwise repressed by the twin constraints of traditional responsibilities and modern p.c. ethics. The sports fan can evade responsibility and regress to his childlike self, accessing a world of clanship, masculine bonding and competition (with its dark side of violence and prejudice). For a few hours, he can dip into a bubbling cauldron of intense passions that only war could express more powerfully. Euro 2004, like any such tournament, was a spectacle on the stands as much as on the fields. Grown men and women dressed like oranges, roosters, Vikings, bullfighters, commedia dell'arte characters, singing, screaming and crying. There must be something to it. Watch the game Sunday, and judge for yourself.

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