As a lifelong Portugal supporter who inherited love of side and game from generations of long-suffering ancestors on the idyllic mid-Atlantic Isle of Madeira, I must confess some confusion at Chris Jones’ sweeping indictment of Portuguese football.

 

I’m unclear when stunning extra time upsets against unbeatably deep favorites in the heart of their vast empire became the epitome of tedium, but then, I’m partisan and admit it openly.

 

I’d be fascinated to read Jones’ review of Return of the Jedi. “Rebels used tedious tactics against the Empire’s Death Star. Vader merits better.”

 

A campaign which began with a much-mocked draw against Tournament highlights Iceland – a more than respectable result, in retrospect – ended in one of history’s great Finals upsets against possibly the best French team since Zidane and Henry in the heart of Paris.

 

Through three torturous Group Stage draws, each of which presented unique challenges, and a similarly tight Playoff run, Portugal persevered without exception in the face of increasingly histrionic detractors. Let’s review.

 

I suppose Jones’ crushing boredom must have begun with Iceland’s spirited match at St-Etienne. Minnows? More like angry Narwhals. As I prophesied in response to the derisive SMS mockery of English mates at full time: this won’t be the only surprise out of the Viking heirs. They’re damned good, as you may find.

 

As many wrongly assumed: drawing Iceland means you’re shambles, and destined for the ignominy that’s rightly Portugal’s eternal lot.

 

It must have been the 0-0 draw against Austria – whose FIFA ranking had skyrocketed pre-tourney with an impressive qualifying run. Portugal dominated offensively, garnering 16 shots, 2 bars, forcing 7 blocks and 10 corners against a firm Austrian D. Yet Austria refused to quit, the eventual champs pushed to the very brink of elimination as Iceland’s richly-deserved success continued.

 

Then came the part where Jones must really have sighed impatiently. One of the most frenetic, insanely unpredictable matches in recent memory produced a crazy 3-3 draw. By sheer force of will, another Madeirense of some repute pulled Portugal equal thrice. Any one of those goals, including a trademark soaring header and simply masterful no-look back-heel redirection, being denied and Europe would have a different champion through 2020. The single match featured nearly as many goals as victorious Spain's entire 2010 World Cup.

 

Boring stuff, that. Strange that both my group and the rival Hungarians we commiserated with couldn’t stop buzzing for two hours after full-time.

 

Then came a grinding, defensively implacable match against a formidable Croatian squad who, bizarre hair fades of both camps aside, were serious contenders. A counterattacking sprint, through-ball and rebound header at ‘117 ended it.

 

Then there was the doubtless boring feat of 18-year old phenom Renato Sanches, whose physical intensity and speed attracted wide admiration, equalizing after one of the best strikers in the world, Lewandowski, hit his stride at just the right (or wrong) moment.

 

A Davies and Ramsey-less Wales played with the ferocity and skill which defined their run, but couldn’t respond to spirited 50’ and 53’ strikes by Ronaldo and Nani. The former equaled Platini’s all-time Euro scoring record, already the only man in history to score in four.

 

I caught most matches at a beloved Churrasqeira in Toronto, one of the world’s great unsung, diverse football metropolis’. Following the match, several of us approached a lone, courageous and dejected Welsh table. We expressed limitless respect for their run, their tenacity, spirit and hopes for their bright future.

 

In one of those beautiful moments only football affords, a few beers and hugs later, we were friends. They were as classy as I’ve always known the Welsh to be, and wished us the very best of luck moving forward, mirroring the Portuguese fans’ respectful election to fall silent so the proud echo of Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau might serenade the Welsh exit at Lyon.

 

Portugal, it should be recalled, represent the demographically smallest nation to ever achieve European football supremacy. At some 11 million, their population is exceeded even by 2004’s unlikely champion Greece, and by the combined ranks of the former Yugoslav and Czechoslovak Republics. Our love of the game has persisted through poverty and the scourge of Fascism, a touchstone of unity in a divided nation whose greatest historical constant has been hardship.

 

Few nations in the history of sport have so consistently over-achieved relative to their economic, demographic and political mass. Yet by consequence an equally narrow group had until this year so routinely fallen short at the decisive moment.

 

As a seasoned practitioner of the instinctive anti-Portugal belittlement that's been fashionable in certain segments of the football intelligentsia for decades, Jones will doubtless be familiar - or the author of - the serial criticisms which accompanied each Portuguese fall.

 

Too undisciplined. Too individualistic. Too emotional and prone to aggressive self-immolation. Too much drama and not enough character.

 

If you’re a Portugal fan, you know how deeply supporters of the big clubs – especially those you’ve repeatedly upset on big stages – relish our demise.

 

Portugal is widely and actively reviled by haters precisely because it's the institutional equivalent of the Icelands. The small, passionate nation who just won’t go away. The difference is that where many of these nations burn brightly but once and fade into obscurity, Portugal has sustained its position as a premiere world football power.

 

There’s a legitimate debate to be had about tournament size, about qualifying standards and a strategic bias towards defensive mid-field possession dating to the days when España were kicking offensive zone corners back to Casillas and being rewarded with total global domination. Or perhaps, even, to that fateful day in 2004 when Figo and Ronaldo together couldn’t beat lowly Greece in Lisbon.

 

But a true lover of the game doesn’t project illegitimacy onto victorious opponents when they ought to reflect instead on their own inadequacy and work to improve. Jones can have his asterix. We’ll take a star above the heart on our jersey.

 

Here’s to the small nations. To a European and global football where the big economies are complacent only at their peril, where teams can through hard work and discipline seriously contend for the top prize. Where Iceland can thrill, Wales can inspire and yes, at long last, Portugal can excise the demons of its past and reign supreme over the continent which birthed the world’s game.

 

With Eder’s superb low strike flew the hopes and aspirations of millions.

 

As euphoria coursed through Toronto’s Little Portugal Sunday, as tears of agony replicated through generations turned to tears of joy -- on the pitch for a wounded legend carried by the team in his hour of need, and for a nation of exiles scattered about the globe in search of opportunity too long so elusive at home -- I heard a familiar voice.

 

It was the Welshman from the semis, who’d shown up again. He extended his hand and said: “congratulations. You’re finally champions, and you earned it.” We shared a knowing smile, and embraced.

 

“Sometimes, the little guy can win.”

 

And with great respect, Mr. Jones, that’s what football - and sport - is all about.