In the end they duelled with rapiers on a tightrope and we gazed up and held our breath waiting for one to fall. No blood was drawn and they went to a penalty shoot-out in the night. Holland and Brazil in Marseille. Another chapter of this rip-roaring World Cup.
Brazil won this semi-final in what was almost a footnote to a night of big adventure. After 120 minutes of football Phillipe Cocu and Ronald de Boer fluffed their spot kicks while Brazil finished with cold blood. Penalties were a trite way to finish an evening like this. Like great tenors submitting to a karaoke machine.
The teams stood in the centre circle, tired legs and arms locked around their comrades, the substitutes, mentors and hangers-on clinging to the borders of the pitch, arms locked around each other also. And penalties saw Brazil through. Semi-finals are generally made to disappoint. This one was a pontoon to Paris, a bridge to some place better and if they didn't make a Golden Gate out of it, it still stood as a sufficient aesthetic pleasure that its function became superfluous. There was lots to admire and if penalties were what decided it, well, it was always just a bridge.
It was compelling, whiteknuckle stuff to watch, the World Cup at its zenith, soccer at its best.
It began with a first half of almost constant probing which left Holland with the momentum. Zenden, the filler on a weakened team, constructed much that was useful and some things which were wonderful, while Kluivert and Bergkamp reminded us that they are the leading firm in this field.
When those three had created four chances in the opening 12 minutes and Junior Baiano had excoriated his troops, it seemed unlikely then that the half would remain barren. Stubbornly it did.
At the other end, Ronaldo was as lively as an eel. Unfortunately for him so was Jaap Stam. The Dutchman was at PSV Eindhoven when Ronaldo was learning his tricks. Stam had been dusting down the textbooks.
After quarter of an hour Ronaldo exploded through the lines and, as he cocked the trigger, Stam materialised from nowhere to disarm him. Timing. Timing. Timing.
By now the game begged for a goal but the half-time interlude interrupted its imperfections.
Play resumed and quickly turned furious. From the kick-off it seethed, an instant goal adding to the ferment.
A classic, too. Rivaldo looked up, chose to deliver a curling ball from the left. Ronaldo, one shoulder and two feet in front of Cocu all the way, steered it home from the penalty spot with a deft touch. The Dutch were behind.
The Brazilians responded to this welcome development by planting Dunga right at the edge of their defence in between Junior Baiano and Aldair. His presence there changed the shape of the Dutch strategy. The quick weaving of passes which Bergkamp and Kluivert needed became impossible. The next four decent chances which the Dutch all came from headers and moves which brought the ball out wide.
As in the first half, the Dutch enjoyed the bulk of possession from there on, but several things just didn't fall into place.
Zenden faded just when they needed somebody to reach the byline and whip it back. Davids began to show signs of suffocation as Ronadlo dropped back deeper and Cesar Sampaio stayed close.
With 17 minutes left and the Dutch committed to attacking they almost conceded another. Same old trick. Rivaldo into space for Ronaldo. Davids chasing this time. The Velodrome fell silent as the components were absorbed. The central presence of Ronaldo. The absence of an offside flag. The possibility of a penalty as he tumbled. The ball dribbling just wide of the post. Extraordinary.
The Brazilians were energised by their own inventiveness. Denilson cantered down the right minutes later, attempting to sell half a dozen dummies to the unimpressed Aron Winter. Finally he crossed for Ronaldo who fell on to the seat of his pants at the critical moment, yet still almost stabbed it home from a sitting position.
Into the last 15 minutes now and the Brazilian desire to win handsomely encouraged the Dutch. Van Hooijdonk, a late substitute with height and muscle, moved down the left and slung a low cross for Kluivert. Unforgivably and unbelievably, Kluivert lifted it over the bar.
It looked to be lurching towards the death of orangeism when the Dutch plucked another goal from the embers of yet another game.
Three times in a succession now the Dutch have scored in the dying minutes of a game. This time, with three minutes left, Ronald de Boer found some space on the right, got to the byline, cut it back and Kluivert, raising himself over the ball and making clean contact, headed down and home.
One apiece and we crossed into the land of the Golden Goal. Ronaldo was the hungriest prospector, going for broke with two extraordinary attempts, one an overhead flick cleared off the line by Frank de Boer, the other a swirling drive.
The Dutch, with less rest in their legs, were forced to absorb more of the punishment and rely on breaks. One such break saw Kluivert shave a post. It was that sort of game and when it finished we sucked in our breath and agreed as one: penalty shoot-outs do not become a game like this.
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