Epilogue. Owen's POV

And they've gone on to win the cup. Quick footed Rivaldo, who wears the number ten shirt, like Pele, like me; Roberto Carlos, the only left back in the world who can bend a ball like Beckham; Ronaldinho, who's been called the luckiest man alive after the free kick that put us out of the competition; Marcos, the keeper, who no one really thought much of, who never made a heroic save, who never rescued his team from almost certain defeat, who is now, perhaps, the only keeper in the tournament who's mistakes will never be questioned. Cafu, the only man ever to have played in three world cup finals, who has now taken off his captain's armband for the last time. And, of course, Ronaldo, winner of the golden boot, with his hairstyle even more outrageous than David's and his wide, wide smile; Ronaldo, who's fitness to play was always questioned, like mine, like David's; Ronaldo, who, like David, carried the guilt for his team's defeat in the last world cup, carried it until today, when twice the ball thundered home into the back of the net, and twice the stadium exploded into cheers of relief and delight. They've gone on to win the competition, as we knew they would. They've gone on to lift the world cup, as they have done four times before. They've gone on to win the dream, as we all fought so hard to do.

Can I feel glad for them? I sit here and watch them on my television screen, far away and unreal, when just last week, I was on the pitch with them, close enough hear the thud of their feet, their breathing, their muffled cursing, close enough to smell their sweat, to see the green grass stains on their yellow shirts, to notice the tense muscles working as they showed off their seemingly effortless ball control - the powerful, shifting muscles and the look of extreme concentration and fierce joy. On the screen, they are only a few inches tall, but I know that in life, they are giants. Not physically tall, not as imposing as the Argentineans or even the Danes, but giants nonetheless.

So can I feel glad for them?

Not, perhaps, for Rivaldo, whose incredible football has been badly overshadowed by gamesmanship, whose dive was so obvious and unfair when seen on the replays that he received a five thousand pound fine from FIFA. Not for Marcos either, who has come out of this tournament looking so good despite his faults and failures, when he could never be as good a keeper as Seaman. Not even, really, for Ronaldinho whose goal I still can't help feeling was sheer dumb luck, however much David says he'd sell his soul to the devil just to once shoot a free kick so perfectly.

But for maybe for Cafu, who wears the captain's armband, I can feel glad. And perhaps even for Ronaldo.

Sometimes, I feel that I know them all so well, although I've only played them the once that mattered. I've seen them play so many times, followed their every move, tried to understand the psychology behind their brilliant game. We saw them playing Belgium, the whole England team together, as preparation for our own quarterfinal meeting. Although, actually, I barely watched the game. David, perhaps in an attempt to keep relaxed, perhaps simply to make sure my attention was focussed on him, was sucking a lollipop - childish, smiling, raising an eyebrow at me, hoping that no one else would notice. Seems like years ago now. Back then we still thought we had a chance of beating them. Perhaps we did, a better chance than any other team in the tournament at least, but it doesn't really feel like it any more. What happened feels as though it was always inevitable. Perhaps it was. Perhaps this year was never meant to be our year. But then, we thought that maybe, just maybe, luck would be on our side, and so we watched for their weaknesses, refusing to be intimidated.

'What do you think?' I said to David, after the final whistle had blown. He sucked his lollipop thoughtfully, and I blushed and had to look away.

'I think they're the best,' he said simply, after a while. 'We've beaten Germany, we've beaten Argentina. I think this'll be the real test.'

But we'll beat them, I was hoping he'd say. We'll beat them. Just like we did Germany. Just like we did Argentina. And when we've won, and when we've lifted the world cup, I'll hold you in my arms, and kiss you fiercely, passionately, for all the world to see, just like I did when we beat Denmark, only more so, and the whole world will know it was done in love. Then we'll go back to our hotel and make love and I'll hold you in my arms forever and nothing else will ever matter...

He didn't say it, of course. He couldn't. Not any of it.

'I think it'll be a great match,' was all he said. I was almost disappointed. But while no one was watching, he ran the lollipop playfully, teasingly, along my bottom lip, and for hours afterwards, I could taste a faint ghost of its sweetness, and in a way, it meant more to me than any words he could possibly have said.

There was only one other thing I remember him saying about that Brazil game. Later in the evening, a debate was raging amongst the team as to whether, at five goals each, Ronaldo or Rivaldo was the strongest contester for the golden boot.

'Rivaldo's good,' he said slowly, 'But Ronaldo's playing as though he's got something to prove,' he finished thoughtfully, with a slight shrug, and then he looked away, as though he'd seen in Ronaldo something that he was almost afraid to recognise in himself.

I wonder where he's watching this final. I wonder if he's sharing it with his wife and son, or if he's watching it alone. Maybe he's avoiding it altogether, unwilling to see Brazil's success. But I don't think so. When he swapped shirts with Roberto Carlos, his respect was genuine. And anyway, remembering his comment and the look in his eyes, I think that he'd be glad to see Ronaldo lifting the cup and finally wiping out his past mistakes.

I turn back to the screen. Cafu has jumped onto the podium, is reaching down to take the cup from Pele's hands. Ronaldo's in tears again, his face buried in a Brazilian flag. My heart twists, and just for a moment, I wish desperately that I could have given that moment to David: the tears, yes, and the pride, and the relief, and the knowledge that whatever else he's ever done, however badly he's messed up in the past, no one has the right to judge him now.

I can see the scene so clearly in my mind's eye: a red and white Saint George's cross in place of the yellow and green flag; David, not Ronaldo, in tears of joy, of relief, with his face buried not in the national flag, but in my shoulder, with my arms around him and my hands tangled in his hair; and then David, not Cafu, on the podium, stretching, reaching, gripping the world cup as though it was the most precious thing in the world, which, perhaps, in a way, it is, lifting it high above his head; the samba music replaced by God Save The Queen, or perhaps even We Are The Champions. In fact, definitely We Are The Champions; the Queen can hear her national anthem any time, but we are only champions when we've done something amazing...

Fantasy. Dreams. Cafu, not David, lifts the cup. The Saint George's flags are for the tennis now.

It's not the winning that matters; it's the taking part. All players hate that saying. Looking at Ronaldo, at Marcos, at Cafu, it feels like that can never be true. But perhaps, for me and David at least, it's more true than we think. Even if we'd won, he'd have gone back to his wife afterwards. All that we can have is the moments. Like beating Argentina and wiping out history; like beating Denmark in the pouring rain, and the feel of his lips against my cheek, and the knowledge that whatever else happened, in that moment, I was his and he was mine.

And then the moment passed. Maybe, despite my dreams, winning the world cup would have been nothing more than just another moment. Sweet, and beautiful, and worth fighting for, and always, always tainted with the sharp, bitter knowledge that it cannot last forever. Like every other moment I share with him.

To tell you the truth, I'm glad he's watching this match with his wife, and not with me. If we were watching it together, we'd only be able to share our bitterness and our disappointment: it's not us playing there, it's not us winning, not us lifting the trophy... and it might have been, it could have been, if we'd only played a little better, worked a little harder, pushed ourselves that little bit more. With her, maybe, and without me there as a reminder of his failure, perhaps he'll be able to feel glad for Brazil. Maybe he'll be able to smile in understanding for Ronaldo's tears, Cafu's elation. He'll be able to remember the moments when we felt an echo of the joy that they must be feeling now - matches we won, evenings we spent in each other's arms. He'll be able to hold on to all that, and, of course, he'll be able to look forward to the future, to a time when we can play together, when we can win together, maybe even, if he dares, to a time when we can lift the world cup together. Together. Like Seaman asked us to.

For a while, it looked like it would be a goal-keeping mistake that lost Germany the cup, too, when Kahn, their keeper, their captain, let the ball slip from his hands straight at the feet of Ronaldo. I was glad when Brazil got their second goal, glad that Germany could relax in the knowledge that they were fairly beaten, and no one man's mistake had been, or could ever be said to have been, the cause. Not like young Duff, who missed that vital penalty for Ireland, or poor bloody Seaman, closing his eyes against the tears as the final whistle blew. No, the Germans knew that no one player could have been blamed. No tears for them, as they left the stadium. Not like France who shed tears for their shock defeat, their early exit from the tournament, not like Argentina, or Italy, or Spain. Germany knew they'd done the best they could.

Perhaps it's easier to have the comfort of that 'what if?' What if Duff had hit that penalty? How much further could Ireland have gone? What if Seaman had saved that goal? Could it have been us lifting the cup now? And if David hadn't been sent off, all those years ago, would we now be world champions two years running? Perhaps...

Perhaps. Maybe. I've used those two words over and over again today. With a bit of luck, love. It might have been. It could have been. Maybe. Perhaps...

Perhaps it's easier to believe that it was possible, that it could have been, than to know finally, irrevocably, that you are only second best, as Germany must. Missed chances are better than no chances. Every shot that bounces of the post or skids over the bar and never makes it into the back of the net gives you another 'might have been' to hide behind, to protect you from the shame of not being good enough. That's why we blame individuals: better to blame it on that one mistake than to believe that nothing we could have done would really have changed the outcome. And if we can bring ourselves to tell Seaman that it's not his fault, what we really mean is that the fault is ours. We might have done, maybe, perhaps¡K but we didn't. We didn't. We couldn't win. We lost. To Brazil.

And they've gone on to win the cup.

But it was still worth it. Worth the sweat, and the tears, and the pain. Worth the pressure and the uncertainty. Worth the bitter disappointment of defeat. I keep hold of the moments we created: the look on his face when his penalty turned out to be the winning goal against Argentina; the feel of his arms around me and his lips brushing my cheek when I scored against Denmark; the indescribable, unbeatable feeling of putting us a goal in the lead against Brazil. And the other moments, too: my hands tangled in his hair, his breathing loud in my ears, the erratic pounding of my own heart, in the hot darkness of a Japanese hotel room.

I miss him already.

On the television screen, Cafu lifts the cup high again, and the crowd goes wild. Silver streamers float down, the samba pulses frantically, and the players smile their wide, wide smiles, almost unbelievingly. Even apart, we are sharing this moment, watching it on two different television screens, thinking, I'm sure, the same kind of thoughts, remembering together the disappointment and the joy.

We've had our moments. And we'll make more of them in the future, of that I'm sure. So how can I begrudge them theirs? They've gone on to win the cup. As we knew they would. And suddenly, I can smile with them, glad for their victory, knowing that somewhere far away, he will be smiling too.

And knowing that whatever else happens, even if we never go on to lift the world cup - and no matter whose bed he goes back to at the end of the tournament - I have a place in his heart.

He loves me.

And nothing else really matters.