5 min readUpdated: Jun 30, 2026 01:00 AM IST
Brazil makes grand stages; just as grand stages make Brazil. Down a goal, their ageing legs showing, Brazil produced a stirring comeback, masterminded by their sagely manager Carlo Ancelotti and his tireless troops. The 1-2 defeat was cruel on the persevering Japanese, heartbroken in stoppage time, but the mightiest footballing empire would live another day, even if precariously.
The Brazilians in the stands were exhausted after a game of seesawing drama that ended with Gabriel Martinelli’s serene winner. He didn’t start the game, was not hyped as his fellow forwards, but in the clutchest of clutch moments, a grand footballing tradition in jeopardy, he struck the goal of his life. There was nothing spectacular about the goal, but every element of it was note-perfect; from the pass, his first touch and the shot past a crushed Zion Suzuki, the Japanese goalkeeper who had kept them in the game.
He wept, his valiant teammates had expended every ounce of energy. They deserved a less callous ending, but Brazil’s second half turnaround was as delightful as any passage of play in the tournament.
The first half meltdown was not surprising. Given Brazil’s fragility, the conception of Japan’s goal was foreseeable. Receiving the mis-passed ball from Danilo near the centre circle, Kaishu Sano teed off, twisting and tearing past the slumberous Brazilian shirts, and nailed a low shot past Alisson’s outstretched arms. Casemiro was not far from him at one juncture, but was left chasing the shadow of Sano’s shadow. Only minutes ago had he been brandished a yellow card.
In the momentum of the shot, Sano slumped onto the ground. When he dragged himself back onto his feet, he felt the sweet taste of the earth again, as teammates piled on his back. It was his first goal for his country and celebrated ecstatically. The Japanese defensive midfielder starting the game proved to be an inspired choice. The yellow wave in the stands sat muted in shock. The Japanese revelled, the white flag with the red sun fluttering proudly in the arena.
A goal secured against the run of play, the narrative of the contest until Brazil equalised was predictable. Japan would defend resolutely, often with five men at the back, wait, latch onto any loose ball and maraud upfield, like an unstoppable wave. Brazil’s nerves snapped, a lurid fear seized them. In their overeagerness to equalise, they lost the cohesion they had exhibited in the pre-hydration break spell, when they had four shots. Japan gradually asserted themselves in the game, dripping Brazil’s will and hope, drip by drip.
No room
Japan’s backline functioned like an impenetrable wall, confiscating Vinicius Junior and reducing him to a passenger. The Brazil talisman hardly got a sniff on goal. Only Matheus Cunha breathed in relative comfort, and saw his low drive finger-tipped by Japan’s goalkeeper.
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Ancelotti is no magician. He had inherited the weakest Brazil iteration. No profound speech or novel tactic could rouse the team from mediocrity. In modern football, a team cannot win merely on its attacking riches. His face betrayed little anxiety, even though he hooked Luis Pacqueta, who looked discomforted, for Endrick in the second half. Brazil needed a surge of inspiration to defend its proud legacy.
The kiss of life nearly arrived in the 51st minute, but Suzuki defiantly blocked Guimares’ thunderbolt header. Japan stretched every sinew and spent every ounce of their energy as Brazil buzzed, ravenously seeking the equaliser. The Selecao finally barged the door open, Casemiro singing his redemption song with a bullet header.
Brazil then could have snatched the lead through a piece of unalloyed wizardry. Vinicius zig-zagged through narrow lanes, guarded by ferocious Japanese sentinels, and poked a shot from the outside of his boot, only to brush Suzuki’s glove and clank the far post.
The contest dribbled onto a knife’s edge. Brazil swept forth with purposeful intensity. Japan repelled stoically and counterpunched with blinding speed and energy. It was a union of two distinct footballing schools. Brazil displayed the flamboyant attacking fervour and Japan their feet of silk. Brazil could feel renewed energy; but Japan was not to wither away.
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The third quarter was a tactical triumph for Ancelotti. Endrick’s entry necessitated the shift to a more enterprising 4-2-4, a necessary gamble. An extra attacker at the front defanged the teeth of Japan’s supersonic fullbacks. They had to contain a quartet with considerable cunning and tricks. Their relentlessness harried them. It was such a tense game that the usually solemn Ancelotti whipped up into a blizzard of emotions. He nearly tripped himself when Ryan’s whiplashed free-kick deflected off a Japanese shirt. But by the skin off their teeth, Japan clung on, and even enjoyed a brief spell of possession towards the end of normal time. But the unkindest blow was waiting. After all, Brazil makes grand stages, just as grand stages make them.
