Beyond.

Let’s remember Wales’s victory over Belgium for the twenty minute period after Nainngolan smashed in that drive. When rather than capitulating or panicking, Coleman’s side played some of their best football of the tournament. They passed and moved  – and with both wingbacks pressing high up the park wherever possible – they played.

This was beyond. Beyond the reasonable and the likely and quite possibly beyond even the expectations of their myopically magnificent supporters. And yet it was foreseeable.

Wales – the team with arguably only three genuine international players – doing an Italy or a Spain or a Croatia. Playing confident, skilled, rhythmic football in a tournament; going right past doggedness and defiance into mature, composed, attacking tournament football. For the manager and the fans this was a dream, yes – but it was also a culmination, or (as this story is not yet done) a consequence.

This team had (has!) a pattern they understood, not just the much-vaunted and essential togetherness but a pattern. This fella Coleman (that many of us have never rated, hugely, that has shown no real signs of the genius and understanding that we now have to credit him with) has drilled and instilled something authentically kosher into his posse. Wales know what they’re doing – with and without the ball.

This isn’t to say that they don’t have the occasional lapse. There were horrendous moments when defenders both central and wide simply did not know where their oppo’s were: even the towering and inspiring Williams was guilty of this. Similarly the concession of four rank yellows for offences that were criminally unnecessary smacks more than a little of non-elite awarenesses. So there is very much that possibility that they may get found out.

I may divert briefly  here. Because I have a wild theory that often, actually, international football is not played at a hugely high standard.

This is no way to either undermine or demystify the achievement of Wales (or previously Denmark or Greece) or anybody else. Clearly much of the romance of the Euros or the World Cup is about precisely this roaring after opportunities. I love that. But in this tournament, for example, I may argue that only Germany are playing all over at such a patently higher level than (say) Wales that we might expect them to confound even the wonder that is Welsh togetherness and organisation. Consequently – now – Wales are, as Coleman has been at pains to emphasise ‘really here to compete’. Legitimately and with real hope.

That hope re-doubled last night in Lille. With the result, and with the manner in which Coleman’s team applied themselves.

Broadly, the triumph of last night was about Wales’s comfort within their plan. They read the moment, gathered and they flowed forward.

All this is general. The 5-3-2 system morphing into a 3-5-2 in possession, with Bale allowed or expected to roam (and then race forward). The stout narrowness in defence, challenging the Belgians to conjure something extraordinarily laser-like from out wide. The conviction that neither Hazard nor anyone else can score from the wing. The epic numbers of shutouts and blocks in central positions.

Simple but clearly beyond execution for the England’s of this world – and yes that IS relevant to the Welsh psyche, it being powerfully valedictory for Dai and Gareth and Lleuci that England’s weakness contrasts so gloriously sharply with Welsh tightness and brotherhood.

Lukaku R and de Bruyne were marginalised: more importantly perhaps, so was the skipper, Hazard. As the second half wore on, so the overwhelmingly more gifted and favoured Belgians slid from view – or were ushered from the scene, dispirited. That thing where folks *cannot believe* we’re gonna get beat by…. kicked in. Fellaini inevitably had a clear, headed chance but yet again the Manchester United anti-cult doinked it emphatically wide. It felt increasingly fated – whatever that means.

Maybe we should note that the first half was pret-ty close to a great game game of footie. And that both sides must take some credit for an open, entertaining 45. Coleman again must be applauded for clearly instructing his wing-backs to get high up the park from the start; many might have been more cautious against a side heavily loaded with attacking threats.

In truth I rate this recognition from Coleman that a) Belgium might be exposed by both the real and psychological threat of positivity from deep on the Welsh flanks and b) his *actual commitment* to set up that way as his greatest achievement so far. An obvious alternative from Wales might have been to be essentially defensive but allow Bale to raid and Ramsey to gallop in occasional support.

Wales were braver than that. More confident and competent than that.

For all the brilliance and powerfully unifying success of the #togetherstronger campaign, maybe its whiff of minnow-ness, of underdog-ness undervalues the Welsh achievement here. Wales (particularly last night, particularly when under pressure) have come out and played.

We have to talk about the goals. Goals do everything from pay the rent to raise the roof to change everything.

Belgium’s stunning early strike felt like an affirmation of quality and a potentially ‘deadly’ thrust into Welsh hearts. This was bested, however, by subsequent, outrageous interventions.

William’s committed header (and celebration in response) was a magical, sub-Tardellian moment – a gift to us all. The skipper and stopper-supreme (okaay, English-born but come o-on) has epitomised something wonderfully blokey and genuine and Welsh in this Big Red Adventure. If you failed to find his post-nod charge to the gaffer and the support team uplifting you must be reading this from inside a coffin.

For Robson-Kanu (of all people?) to cap even that with a Cruyffian swivel and prompt despatch confirmed, surely that something major was in the offing – like Judgement Day, for example. The out-of-contract striker is something of a cult figure precisely because of his membership of the Endearingly Honest No-Hoper School of Forwards, so this further moment was one further, improbable step beyond.

But not the final one. When Vokes raced on to flick a near-post header across the keeper (and therefore disturb another prejudice about him too, being a non-striking striker) the thing – the universe, the laws of everything – seemed gloriously done in or over or something. Something mad and beautiful. Wales were there and it really was beyond, mun.

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That’s so-o welsh, that is!

  • After today’s ‘sport’ I could do one of many things, including;
    • buy a pint for Pete from Merthyr, who had that nervy but jovial but mainly Welsh thing going on, live on Radio Wales’s (footie) post-match phone-in. Garrulous and neck-deep in val-leees singsongaciousness, Pete started by saying
    I’m on top a the moon boys! – clars-sic, mun, surely? – before reeling off more homespun but genuinely heart-warming clichés than your favourite uncle. (Actually, I think Pete is my favourite uncle.)
    • or… I could buy a few tinnies for the Aussie rugby boys, who out-Walesed Wales, by turning adversity – two men down – into some bloody, black-eyed, backs-to-the-wall Alamo/exemplar.
    • or go off on one about how even though I’m as fed up as you lot with hearing the word ‘execution’, Wales surely really did need to execute one of the forty-three chances to get points on the board whilst Genia and some other bloke were unemployed for ten minutes each. Because that would have been the difference and mostly there had been no difference in the levels at which the two sides were playing – unusually, for a contest between northern and southern hemispheres.

I may do all three – or I would like to. Or one of many other things which reek of or speak of the cultish-crazy, leeky, drunken, stolid, donkey-derby wonderwallness of the day.

Wonderwall because hope is somehow scorching dizzily through. Rightly and deservedly if not entirely predictably for Biggar and Roberts and Davies; amaaaazingly and deservedly for Ramsey and Hennessey and Bale.

But donkey derby? Dare I be ‘avvin’ a pop at the lack of quality somewhere here? In (let’s say) that team of Coleman’s? How could I? Why would I? ‘Fraid I must. Though I’m the daydreamiest of believers in hwyl and teaminess, I do have guilty concerns about Wales’ football achievements; or rather about what happens next.

On the one hand it’s clearly and unarguably marvellous that a side with only three international players – Ramsey/Bale/Williams – has shown such a durable mixture of organisation, work-rate and (crucially) togetherness that they’ve fair scooted through the qualification process. That Coleman fella – who many of us were labelling simply out of his depth in elite level togger – has engineered an inviolably significant and maybe particularly personal achievement here. But the thing is that despite remaining unbeaten against Belgium and that stand-out 3-0 away win in Israel, Wales have shown little quality other than those qualities that have seen them through. They’re gonna need more.

Many hackles will rise at this point and I understand why, when – DOH! OBVIOUSLY – those qualities are all part of the spirited package that is sport. I get that. In fact I spend much of my working life and most of my scribbling time BIGGING UP the notion that soulbrother or sisterhood is both an essential and a hugely rewarding facet of these daft games of ours. And yet.

And yet there must be skill; we should aspire to the beautiful and the profoundly pleasing as well as to brothers-in-arms resolution, a) because it’s philosophically right and b) because that’s how the success builds. So though I absolutely applaud what is an undoubted success for Coleman’s crew, I exercise my right as a fan to want more/advise for more. Please.

For much of today’s game Bosnia struck me as a team playing close to the lowest acceptable standards for international football. Consequently, early in the second half, without ever looking fluent or (actually) entertaining, Wales were coasting. But they lacked the quality to pick off their poor opponents.

Even with Bale on the park, Wales lacked a real threat, a focus, as they fluffed the opportunity to dismiss the Bosnians. (Incidentally, despite his goal-scoring record, I think Bale has been decidedly average, or certainly disappointingly inconsistent, too often in this campaign. Am I alone in that?) Robson-Kanu meanwhile, epitomises the Willing But Limited category that the bulk of the side (regrettably) fall into.

Some of this sounds spiteful and/or simply illogical. Let me swiftly express again my suspiciously amorphous disquiet at the relative absence of refined talent in the group… and then we’ll move on. What I suspect we can all share and enjoy is the delicious Welshness of the moment of qualification; via a crap result against a crap side. And that not mattering.

Plugged in as usual to the twittersphere, I loved that so much of the day’s #bantz seemed to belong to The Principality – and no, don’t be daft, I don’t mean the mob who’ve just bought the rights to the Millenium – I mean Wales. Before dropping back into events at Twickers, mind, we should really be noting the further hike in #RWC2015’s dander during and following the boshtastic Scotland Samoa game.

The evident passion, commitment and commitment to drama in this encounter re-lit the tournament for the umpteenth time and was again a proper fillip for rugby globally. This was a match where onslaught followed onslaught and the world again shared Samoan grief as though it was our own. The pride and the bonkers levels of what we may have to call bonding or devotion were sensational… and the boy Laidlaw dun well again.

But on The International Day… for Welshnesses we need to conclude with a flash through other worthy daiversions. I’ll remember
• timelines full of jokes about how appropriately (i.e. welshly) Gatland’s and Coleman’s teams achieved their notable successes; firstly by both getting roundly defeated and secondly by acquiescing in the universal conspiracy to give them what they deserved, anyway.
• And I note the kind of start – in fact the kind of first half from Wales rugby – that said something rather profound about being comfortable in the challenge. Perhaps this then was the Welsh Haka? An expression of confidence… and a welcoming for the trial? It did feel like a validation – like Wales were being clear that they knew they were worthy – and ready. And that may yet project forward (who knows?) to powerful advantage.

However, turns out Wales rugby too wasn’t quite skilled enough to execute/penetrate/skewer the enemy. When those endless yellow moments came the Roberts-centricity of the Gatland era was maybe exposed? Phase after phase was rebuffed by the inspired bison in gold ‘n green. Whether this was an opportunity criminally and terminally missed (I suspect it was), or whether this Hen wlad will resurrect yet again in all its perversely gog or cardi or starless and bibleblack glory, who can tell? But in defeat, in squeaky-arsed glory, the day belonged to Wales.