Portugal has lost.

I took time out of rehearsing the upcoming album to head down to our local Cervejaria for what I thought would be a celebration. The bar was packed, but the place was silent. The last ten minutes of that game, you couldve reached out and plucked the prayers from the air. We knew. There was only a slim chance. A miracle.

But no miracle would be granted this day and so, as the time ran out on the clock I and 200 other Portugal supporters gave a round of applause for a tournament well played. Heads hit the bar, women swore under their breath and children began to cry. Im serious. There was in fact a moment of silence. Untill the battaria master unzipped his drum from the casing, the sticks were passed out a woman blew her whistle. They took to the streets and began the party; a second line for La Forca.

The mayor was on hand for a photo op with an old man waving a full sized Portuguese flag strung up with a Canadian flag on the reverse side. The women began to dance, the men let their banners fly, but one girl, about ten years old refused to celebrate. Her mom grabbed her hands and tried to get her to twist her hips, but she kept her head down and rubbed her eyes. Her dad wrapped her in the Portuguese flag but she shrugged it off and stamped her foot. Finally her mother passed her a samba whistle. And then she lifted her head, squeezed her wet lids together, wrapped her mouth around the whistle and literally blew her stack. Once, twice, three times she blew all her frustration, her deal with God, all her sense that the world was ending away. When she inhaled the fourth time the only thing that came out was laughter as her mother grabbed her in her arms and began to dance. At the end of this game it is still good to be the people of the red green and gold. Or in my case, it is still good to be people.