Aitana Bonmatí could not even manage a smile. The walk to the podium through an England guard of honour that, while generous in its applause, could still barely hold in its euphoria must have felt several miles long. She had just been named player of the tournament and it was just about possible to detect a bowing of the head as the award was announced. There were photos to pose for after taking receipt of the trophy and after what had just passed there was simply no point in putting on an act.
In those moments before Bonmatí shuffled up for her prize, Spain’s players stood motionless, wordless, in the penalty area that had eventually sealed their fate. How had it come to this? It had been billed as the rubber-stamping of a golden generation; the night when the world’s best team would follow success by reeling off more of the same. Everyone knew that Spain routinely performed at a level several notches higher than the rest. There was nothing to do beyond fold the arms and stare blankly.
