She looks at her watch. She claps her hands. She points at things. She shouts at people. Trinity Rodman runs past her on his way down the left flank and she pats her on the shoulder. She’s trying to convince herself that there’s still work to be done, when in fact her work is done. We’re in the middle of injury time and Emma Hayes has no more influence on this Olympic final than the fan in the Uncle Sam hat sitting 50 metres above her.
Finally, the whistle. The explosion. Hayes raises her arms, looks up, lets out a roar. It may be the only moment of personal indulgence she allows herself. As her victorious players dance in a huddle, Hayes has no desire to force herself into the middle, a move now known as the “Jorge Vilda.” Instead, she walks toward the devastated Brazilian players, offers them a word of comfort, seeks out the retreating Marta to pay her respects.
Mission accomplished, then. And maybe this wasn’t a masterclass or an exhibition. Don’t hang it in the Louvre. A one-goal win, which was perhaps offside, after being punished for the first 45 minutes and relying on two huge saves from Alyssa Naeher at the end of each half. And honestly, does this really shock you? What did you really expect when the most results-driven coach in world football took on the most results-driven nation in world football?
Well, this is what we got: a deadly finish to perhaps their only clear-cut chance. Tactical fouls that, frankly, deserved an Olympic medal in their own right. And even more intangibly, an utter, unwavering confidence in their work, even when the walls are on fire and the smoke from a million armchair fans feels like it’s bursting through smartphone screens and rattling the gates of the Parc des Princes.
Which is why, even as Brazil tore the US to shreds in that first half, it was impossible to shake the image of Hayes on the touchline, in her trademark suit and trainers, still looking like the security detail at a Buckingham Palace garden party. You’ve ditched Rose Lavelle, a 107-cap national team legend, in favour of a 20-year-old rookie. You can’t string two passes together. What do you see here that we don’t? Why don’t you change something?
It had been a long tournament, the matches exhausting and just a little too close together for comfort, the heat on this bleached Parisian Saturday sticky and sticky, too hot for high pressure, or indeed any pressure. In a way, this was a match that was almost beyond tactics, the kind you get when you force footballers into places of extreme discomfort and see what happens.
Brazil had so many chances. The American midfield was swamped and stunned. Lindsay Horan and Korbin Albert, who replaced Lavelle, completed 17 of 29 passes in that first half. Combined. Why don’t you change anything? But the same team came back after the break and soon after a stroke of luck: Yaya, a mainstay of Brazil’s dominant midfield, had to leave the field injured. “We want to play fast!” Hayes shouted from the touchline and as Brazil slowly lost their grip it became clear that despite all the continuity in personnel, Hayes had something changed.
For 45 minutes, the famous triple espresso tasted distinctly decaf. Mallory Swanson, Sophia Smith, Trinity Rodman: lots of sacrificial runs up front, but also lots of exasperated pointing and, crucially, too little energy off the ball. After the break, they were much more aggressive, buzzing and pressuring the Brazilian defence and eventually forcing the Thais into a mistake. Albert cleared it up and let Swanson go quickly. Goal. The golden moment. A coach who knows that trophies are decided on the small details and players with the talent to find them.
Marta was coming into her farewell match and of course every touch still exuded that old class. There was the classic feint where she took the ball with her left foot, opened her body and then turned it back in with the same foot, sending Albert home on the RER. But apart from that – and come on Korbin, have you never seen Marta play before? – the Paris Saint-Germain midfielder was one of the best players in that final phase, as unpleasant as that may sound to many.
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And so, 10 games were enough for Hayes to make her mark. But while it still feels like a harbinger, this was a title she desperately needed. Defeat would have caught her off guard from the start, raised legitimate questions about her lethargic style, about Rose Lavelle not getting a minute in the final, about Crystal Dunn at left-back, about the whole “programme”. Instead, she now has credit in the bank, buy-in from players and crowds.
There’s been a lot of talk here about nail salons and karaoke, new vibes and new eras, a team rediscovering its joy after last year’s calamities. But Hayes is not a coach who’s ever been interested in a holistic journey of healing and growth, in soccer as group therapy. The road to hell won’t be strewn with rose petals. The only catharsis American soccer really needed, it turned out, was winning again.