On an unholy afternoon in New Jersey, football got lucky and a game got redeemed. In a one-sided final, Argentina were dragging the game into tedium and disrepute, littering it with 25 fouls, soiling it with six yellow cards and one red, burdening it with cynicism and zero shots on target, when beauty belatedly overcame the thuggish. Ferran Torres’ Spanish left foot was not just a brilliant instrument but a lifeline. It saved football.

Sport never takes a moral position. The deserving team don’t always win and neither do the fairer ones. Possession doesn’t always translate to goals. Flukish strikes sink dominant sides. Somehow we escaped all that on July 19. Somehow a red wave from Europe, which resembled most faithfully the idea of team, tied together like beads in a necklace, are owners of the trophy. Somehow justice prevailed.

Winning this Cup should be hard, but this was a slog. One team had an eloquence, the other was purposely inarticulate. Spain spoke in calm lyrics, Argentina in moody grunts. At one point it seemed it was 11 against one, the single Argentinian not being Lionel Messi but goalkeeper Emi Martinez, who nobly defended his net like a winged creature might its nest. Imagine if Argentina had taken it to a penalty shoot-out. Actually, let’s not.

No sport can promise the gripping finale, for this is the unscripted allure of competition. Rafael Nadal once tamed Roger Federer 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 in a French Open final but even that never felt as dispiriting as this. Somehow we thought, two glittering Cup nations, a kid with winged boots, a footballing Yoda at 39, Ethan Hunt and Odysseus in the stands, something heroic had to be in the offing. Mostly we found villains in blue and white.

We’re sleepy now, hungover, tired, frustrated, yet part of me is already missing the Cup which refreshes us like nothing in sport can. It reminds me the tournament itself is always bigger than a final and what we’ll take with us is not Argentina’s abysmal 32 per...