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How falling in love with the Dutch makes it hurt so good

Matthew Childs / Action Images

Maxi Rodriguez stepped up and fired his penalty to Jasper Cillessen's right. The Dutch 'keeper managed to get a hand on it, but the velocity of the kick was too much. The ball deflected upward, and into the net. 

Glory for Argentina. Agony for the Netherlands.

Whether you think of penalties as being a matter of skill or luck, or an unholy combination of the two, the Netherlands weren't done in by a specific kick. It's never so simple. The Dutch were done in by themselves, by a resolute Argentinian defense and Lionel Messi.

The good ones find ways to stop you even when you stop them. 

The Netherlands focused so much attention on stopping Argentina's superstar that the central midfield was rarely in a good position to link up play on the counter, and when they did advance into the attacking third, there were always four defenders stopping them from reaching the promised land. Far too often, crosses from Wesley Sneijder and Dirk Kuyt over Argentina's stalwart back line missed their mark.

That's what led to penalties, what led to Rodriguez sending Argentina on to meet Germany in the final, and what led to the Dutch being forced to participate in a third place match that no one wants to play. 

This is what leads to feeling heartbroken.

There's a part of you, as you wallow in the sadness of another defeat at the World Cup, that wants to believe this pain is unique. There would be honor in that. You could tell yourself, "At least no one else in the world has gone through what I just experienced."

You recount the specifics — the missed chances, the bad bounces, the calls that didn't go your way — and you imagine that no other supporters experienced such bad luck, such sudden loss of ability, such horrible officiating.

Why do things always conspire against my team?

But while the details might be different, the results are the same. As it is for countless others, your team isn't winning the World Cup.

The relationship we have with sports is rife with contradictions. Otherwise reasonable people become enthralled in a game, living (and often figuratively dying) vicariously through the performance of athletes that have very little real life connection to them. We dive headlong into an illusion, fully aware that it's meaningless right up until the point we first enter the mirage, embrace the ignis fatuus, and allow ourselves to get carried away. 

That's when we paint ourselves orange, yell involuntarily at television screens and find ourselves saying things we don't really mean.

At the World Cup, this relationship is condensed into such a strong concentrate that it's not uncommon to see people who would otherwise never shed a tear, overcome by emotion as a result of their side's losses and occasional wins.

In its own weird way, it makes sense. This isn't an everyday event. An average lifetime limits us to witnessing approximately 20 World Cups. Even for lifelong football fans, only a dozen to 15 of those will have the potential to be meaningful and memorable. Out of those, how many times will our team be in a place to compete?

Furthermore, our connection to a national team isn't as arbitrary as our devotion to a club side or other professional sports teams. We're often rooting for our countrymen or the representatives of our ethnic heritage at the World Cup. Occasionally, we might even identify with a side that embodies even more.

Nonetheless, it starts with a decision. For varying reasons, we choose to invest our time, energy and emotions into a side. We decide to do this. To work ourselves up. To hope for the heights, and experience the fall.

Like so many, my introduction to soccer came through the World Cup. I made a conscious decision to adopt the Netherlands because of an absent father who was born there. Maybe deep down I foolishly thought I could connect with him in some way through donning orange, but on the surface, it wasn't a consideration. 

There were no spy fantasies to explain his absence. I was never the single-parent kid who imagined his father to be anything more than simply not there. It says a lot about my mother's extraordinary parenting that a dad wasn't something for which I longed.

Having a father only proved useful on two occasions: 1) My inception; and 2) Finding a link to Dutch football. In the beginning it was a matter of convenience. Incidental Dutch heritage offered me a team to cheer for that wasn't England or Ireland like everyone else where I grew up. It's since evolved into something much more meaningful.

There are the friendships that have been borne out of it. The anecdotes of tournaments past. The sense of belonging to something bigger without having to believe in the supernatural. It's a distraction and outlet I genuinely enjoy.

However, more than any of that, it's informed a large part of who I am. The qualities stereotypically embodied by Dutch football — the innovation, the creativity — are the very same ones I most highly value in my own life. It's why I have an appreciation for things that don't come easily. 

I've read that the first person you fall in love with is the most important because your first love informs what you look for in every subsequent person.

Before anything else, I fell in love with the Netherlands national football team. That's the best explanation I have for the temporary insanity that comes from World Cup fandom.

It's why I've suffered through all of the losses in all of the tournaments. It's why I live and die through every Arjen Robben run up the flank, each of Robin van Persie's odd angled shots on target and all of Nigel de Jong's tackles.

It's why I savor these World Cup appearances, and embrace losing with as much enthusiasm as I hold on to the hope they'll win. It's how a semi-final loss in the World Cup can be sad one day, and promising the next.

It's Dutch football for me, and everyone else's football for everyone else. It's what makes it a beautiful game, even when it hurts.

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