There's no shame in confessing I've been snivelling and blubbering like a traumatised infant, since that flurry of four goals in six minutes, which sank the sambistas in far less time than the Graf Spee took to hit Davy Jones' locker. Here is an instance of the unbelievable becoming only too horrendously real. And therein lies the delusion and denial many of us in the western hemisphere have embraced and our facility for swallowing our own hype.
Sports pundits will offer their own deconstruction of the swift demolition Thomas Mueller and cohorts inflicted on Brazil, which to my Jewish Creole eye recalled a similar lightning strike through Europe in 1939, catching everyone unaware and pushing forward relentlessly and ruthlessly, until the Panzers hit the sea, or in this case the final whistle was blown. I'm not comparing the red and blacks to the Nazis; I doubt any of the team would endorse those right-wing extremists and racists whose growing numbers across Europe are as much a cause for concern as the rise of Isis in the Middle East.
However, one cannot help but observe that German discipline, organisation and preparation combined with undeniable talent triumphed over hype and pure fantasy. Anyone who's been following the canary-yellows in this World Cup and is not merely reliving the glory days of the past (a very similar syndrome afflicting Windies cricket management for the past decade and some) knew the fall was coming. Brazil, even with Prince Neymar and their captain Thiago Silva, barely scraped through the group stages.
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