To have lost 3-0 would have been better, far better, than this. Sport, mirroring life, can be cruel. Very cruel.

Ghana had showed such character and discipline in withstanding Uruguay’s sustained initial onslaught, carefully restoring parity in possession, to the point whereby with the first half on the point of expiration, the Black Stars had created the better chances and were in the ascendancy. The much-maligned Muntari, having apparently lost about 20kg in the 10 days since his lumbering performance as a substitute against Germany, produced a cunning, reverse-swinging shot that opened the scoring with the last kick of the first 45 minutes. I am not sure they ever regained their rhythm thereafter, but certainly nor did they cede sovereignty to the South Americans. And when the game went into extra time, with Suarez and Forlan tiring, one believed that the Black Stars could do it.

In the 120th minute — the final one of extra time — Ghana won a free kick. Pantsil was to take it. Why him, we asked, his crossing having deteriorated throughout the tournament. But it was a good kick and when the replay showed that Suarez had handled, we were in ecstasy, jumping deliriously.

But football is not rugby. There are no “penalty goals”, only penalty kicks. And they can be missed, as we were soon reminded. As the tournament has progressed so too has my respect for Asamoah Gyan. He is not the most talented centre forward that has ever graced the World Cup. Not by a wide margin. But he knows his limitations and he works well with and around them. He is diligent, resourceful and occasionally brilliant (though he also misses too many straightforward chances). As he prepared to take the fateful kick, I implored him to score. I think I said something like “Gyan, you know how much I have come to love you”.

Football can make you crazy; it can make you say and do the most absurd things. For I know that a penalty kick is not a formality and until it was safely nestled in the back of the Uruguayan net I would not be happy. This is football’s great power: to forge such profound allegiances from such slender connections. I mean: why do I care so much about the Ghanaian national team that now, three hours after their loss, I cannot sleep? Yes, I admire Ghana’s democracy and the dignity of its people; yes, I spent time there a couple of years ago making a film about African football based on the Black Stars. But does this provide a rational basis for my passionate support for them? Watching them was worse than watching my beloved Arsenal, so agonising was it at times. Can I remember feeling this sore after an Arsenal defeat? Well, I can remember feeling very sore, but I can’t remember the specific game. So either there wasn’t one or else the memory — and the pain — fades and time will quickly heal this one. Yet every time I close my eyes I see the goal that should have been. And every time I open them, he has missed. Again.

These little moments of agony happen every hour of every day in some sporting arena somewhere around the world, both professional and amateur. I have been there, as has every sportsman. Mine was in March 1982, the semifinal of the English Schools Cup. I was playing right back. 1-1 half way through the second half I miraculously volleyed a corner into the roof of the net and set off on a wild run of celebration, screaming “Karen, I’ve scored’” — or so my teammates claimed later (Karen was my girlfriend at the time, in case you’re wondering). Then, with minutes to go, I miss-kicked a clearance in my own penalty area against one of the opposition forwards and it cannoned into the net. We lost 4-2 in extra time. I was thoroughly miserable that night. It’s only a game, they say. Those that have never played it. It’s not a matter of life and death, they say. And they are right. As the great Liverpool manager Bill Shankly once retorted: “No, it’s not. It’s far more important than that”. And that is how it seems at times like this.

Just as the idea that the only thing hosting a World Cup successfully shows is that you can successfully host a World Cup does not apply to a developing country like South Africa, so too is a defeat as harsh as this a far bitterer pill to swallow for an African team like Ghana. We shed no tears when Brazil lost earlier in the day. In fact, we celebrated the demise of the conceited, cheating Brazilians — the Manchester United of the World Cup. All around the globe there are mindless “neutrals” who think that it is cool or politically correct to support them. But, like the Liverpool sides of the 1970s, and the United sides of more recent times, they are anything but pretty. Their so-called “samba” football is laced with cynicism; they are just plain dirty. This is not the team of Gerson or Zico, let alone Socrates, who would gracefully swan around midfield for 90 minutes before smoking another pack of Gitanes after the match. And they have won it before, several times. Not so the Black Stars, or any African team. Which is why tonight meant so much. Usually, losing a semi is the hardest thing to bear, because no one remembers the losing semifinalists. But this would have been different.

It was not necessary for Ghana to have won the whole damn thing or even to have got to the final. Currently, they are far too flawed a team to have deserved either. But for the Black Stars to have got to the last four would have been something really special, something so thoroughly uplifting for this continent, something so thoroughly inspiring for its people ( as well as a potent rebuttal to the racists and African naysayer pessimists). And they deserved that much and it’s unfuckingbearable that they didn’t get it.

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