Spanish Soccer as the Lady of Shalott

Waterhouse, "I Am Half Sick of Shadows Said the Lady of Shalott"

Sports Saturday

A week ago I was wondering what work of literature I could apply to the amazing Spanish national soccer team, which surely belongs in the same pantheon as those remarkable Brazilian teams for which Pele played.  My son Toby suggested Tennyson’s “Lady of Shallott,” an idea so off-the-wall that I became determined to make it work.

One warning: Toby suggested the parallel before Spain thumped Italy 4-0 in the final match. The parallels work better with the team that tied Portugal and only advanced thanks to penalty kicks. You’ll see why in a moment.

Here is the background you need to know. The poem itself is about a woman in Arthurian times who lives in an island castle situated on a river that flows to Camelot. There she spends all her time weaving beautiful tapestries, but she relies on a mirror for the scenes that she incorporates into her art. That’s because a curse will be unleashed if she ever looks directly at the world.

When she captures a glimpse of Lancelot in her mirror, however, she is so smitten that she looks out her window. Unable ever to experience peace of mind again, she climbs into a boat and sets off for Camelot to find him but dies before she reaches her destination.  All the knights and ladies gaze upon her beauty as she floats by.

Now for the soccer facts. Spain has long played the most beautiful soccer in the world, and over the past four years it has also been successful as it is the first country in history to simultaneously hold two European Cups and the World Cup. The Spanish are so good that, at this moment, they are currently favored to win the World Cup again in two years.

It’s not always the case that finesse teams win. Too often in soccer, brute force can overpower beautiful play. There have been any number of teams that suffocate artistry, opting for all-out for defense against more agile teams and playing for a single goal or a penalty shootout. Italy used to be notorious for such tactics (but not this year), and Holland almost made the strategy work in the last World Cup. Chelsea won this year’s Champion’s League playing such soccer.

Up until this European Cup, Spain’s wondrous passing—its tiki-taka style—enthralled us all and tested our poetic powers. (In past posts, I have compared it to Alexander Pope’s elegant couplets and Prospero’s magic in The Tempest.) This year, however, the style suddenly came under attack. It was beautiful, sure, but it wasn’t leading to goals.

This threatened to be a problem in the last World Cup when Spain, with its series of 1-0 wins, scored fewer goals than any previous world champion, even though it dominated in terms of possession. In this European Cup the frustrations mounted when Spain was unable to score against Portugal.

So here’s where “The Lady of Shallott” comes in. It’s as though Spain was so enthralled with the beauty of its soccer that it didn’t need something as worldly as victories. It didn’t need to look through the window at the world because it already had all it thought it needed. The Lady’s beautiful weaving is an apt metaphor for Spain’s pinpoint passing:

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

The criticism (which, as I say, disappeared with Spain’s resounding victory) was that Spain chose poetry over pragmatic power. And that, in a sense, is what the Lady of Shallott does before she sees Lancelot. Lancelot, in the parallel I am drawing, would stand in for the forceful road to a championship, and his power is tempting. Tennyson uses his full poetic powers to describe the impact he has upon the Lady:

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

Once she leaves her wondrous weaving, however, the Lady is doomed:

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Leaving its style of play for something more forthright—say, more shots from long distance—might have been Spain’s version of leaving the loom to follow Lancelot. But Spain chose to stay in its castle and weave its wondrous short passes. If it had done something different and lost, we would have found ourselves in the position of the citizens of Camelot, gazing upon her beautiful corpse as she glided below us. We would have engaged in the elegiac laments about how there is no place for true beauty in the world:

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”

Toby and I, however, were applying the poem before Spain got everything, both its beautiful weaving and a successful trip to Camelot. Ironically, some of the thanks for this goes to Italy, which chose not to play like the defensive Italy of old but engaged instead in beautiful soccer of its own. Unfortunately for the Azzurri, when the game is played vertically rather than horizontally, no one can match Spain. I understand better now why Holland chose to play ugly kick-them-in-the-legs soccer in the World Cup finals.

As I say, we need to prize such moments because they don’t come often. Too often, we have to settle for the Detroit “Bad Boy” Pistons or Chicago’s “Monsters of the Midway” or Mean Joe Green and the Pittsburgh Steel Curtain. But sometimes we get to see Muhammad Ali, the dancer who won out against the punchers. As recently as yesterday we got to see the graceful Roger Fedderer, who in recent years has been beaten down by the harder-hitting Nadal and Djokovic, prevail against the Serbian to regain a place in the Wimbledon finals. And last Sunday we got to see La Roja, playing soccer as it is meant to be played, carry the day.

Lancelot can have his brazen greaves and his powerful warhorse. Give me the tapestry of Spain.

 

Previous posts on Spanish soccer 

The Poetry of Spanish Soccer 

Spanish Yin, Dutch Yang, and Shakespeare 

Barcelona-Madrid Is Like Goneril-Regan

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Both comments and trackbacks are currently closed.

One Comment

  1. WordPress › Error

    There has been a critical error on this website.

    Learn more about troubleshooting WordPress.