This column originally ran in The Standard-Times on July. 11, 2016.

By Nick Tavares
Pʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ Tᴇɴsᴇ

The tiny country of Portugal sent a soccer shockwave around the world on Sunday. It also clogged up the roads an ocean away. 

About an hour after Portugal’s ridiculous 1-0 win over France for their first European Championship, I was leaving my cousin’s house and decided to try to drive near Acushnet Ave. After just a couple of minutes on the road, I wanted to check out what had to be the craziest scene before heading towards Route 140 and eventually home. 

But that was impossible. Traffic was backed up at least a quarter mile on Route 18, and it was nothing but horns honking, flags flying and people screaming. Zipping left and back through the rest of the city that was still drivable, it was more of the same — corners packed with people waving flags, more horns honking, high fives, shouts, singing, everything.

It was vivid proof of how much this meant. Across an ocean, a long-awaited title was celebrated. On top of all that, it crashed a party.

* * *

I have a great titia who just turned 90, and my cousins had planned her birthday party for this past Sunday. Nothing fancy, just a cookout with good food at their house in the South End.

It’s been on the books for a while, but what wasn’t expected was Portugal’s bizarre march to the Euro final, a combination of a suddenly stifling defense with an opportunistic offensive attack that kept being in the right places at the right time. On the other side was France, ready to finish their own nation-wide bash by winning in Paris.

So the house divided into three camps. In the central living room was the flat screen where my dad and uncle were parked. Through the sliding door was a picnic table where some of my other aunts and cousins were sitting and talking. My great titia was at a table behind us, and the rest floated in and out, making conversation, checking in on her and the game, and repeat.

That was it. Not a massive viewing party but a backdrop to the day, where we could carefully watch and nauseously wait for France to rip everything away. That’s how these usually end for Portugal, with the worst coming in a 1-0 loss in the 2004 Euro final to Greece in Lisbon.

And it felt like that might happen when Dimitri Payet’s knee met Cristiano Ronaldo’s knee and Portugal’s captain hit the grass. Ronaldo struggled along for nearly 20 minutes, trotting at half speed and grimacing in pain whenever he landed on his left leg.

“He’s not the same, he has to come out,” my uncle said just before he hit the ground for a third time. As he handed the captain’s arm band to Nani and waited for the stretcher, the thought was that this was how glory would be snatched away this time. Portugal had played better and better around Ronaldo as the tournament marched on, but not having him to punctuate drives to the net would likely be too much.

But they stabilized. Instead of creating havoc near the goal, France was maintaining possession but struggling to punch holes through the defense.

Not that France didn’t have their chances. There were more than a few cries of “Saint Patricio!” for Portuguese keeper Rui Patricio who kept France at bay, with perhaps the loudest coming when he stopped Moussa Sissoko’s point-blank strike in the 34th minute.

So they kept it tight. It was 0-0 at the half, at the 75th minute, and through stoppage time, where Andre Pierre Gignac hit the post for France, with the ricochet zipping past a waiting Antoine Griezmann and sending the goalless match to extra time.

The close calls ratcheted the anxiety to an almost unbearable mark and more and more attention in the room started to focus on the game. Raphael Guerreiro’s free kick clipped the bar in the 108th minute thanks to a bad handball call on France, which sent the entire room reeling.

And then, Éder. Just a minute after Raphael’s near all-timer, Éder picked up the touch from Jose Moutinho, saw daylight, and skipped the ball through and into the back of the net from nearly 30 yards out.

By now, the entire party is tuned into the game. Accompanying the goal was one short, contagious shout punctuated by my uncle literally bolting from the room. I had heard a story from his son about him being deliriously happy in the wake of their win over Wales, but that was nothing compared to this. The goal came, we screamed and he was gone.

“I’ve been waiting 12 years for another Euro final,” was his first statement when he walked back in the room, smiling ear-to-ear.

And then, tension. There was going to be at least 11 minutes of just watching and hoping that nothing would suddenly rise up from the French side to take this away. On the sideline, Ronaldo hopped on his good leg next to manager Fernando Santos and helped in barking out orders and advice. Most of us just stood there. I started to pace.

* * *

It’s the legacy of this nation of about 10 million people scattered around the globe, some from Lisbon, some from Madeira, with most of this room from San Miguel. It’s a shared heritage and it’s channeled through soccer and a team that has spent the past two decades inching closer and closer to glory.

Anyone within earshot of New Bedford on Sunday could have seen a truck with flags flying from the windows, fans dancing in the streets, random hugs and high-fives between strangers.

At the final whistle, my dad got up and said, “I know we don’t usually hug, but come here.” No flags or screams, just a quick acknowledgement that Portugal finally saw daylight in its quest for a trophy, and that we were all there to witness it, more than 40 years after most of my family had moved from the Azores to New Bedford.

With all that squared away and safely tucked into the history books, we finally turned around and lit the candles on that 90th birthday cake. It was time to sing “Happy birthday.”

Nick Tavares' column appears Sundays in The Standard-Times and at SouthCoastToday.com. He can be reached at nick@nicktavares.com