a TEAM won the World Cup. Viva España.

Football has a funny way of making fools of us all.

Every four years we become tactical geniuses, armchair managers, part-time statisticians and full-time prophets. We confidently predict the future based on absolutely nothing except vibes, YouTube compilations and a FIFA rating.

This World Cup was no different.

We obsessed over the eternal debate: Messi or Ronaldo? (For the record... Ronaldo is better. I'll happily die on that hill.)

We dreamed of Cape Verde becoming the greatest underdog story football has ever seen. Because every tournament deserves a fairy tale.

We looked at France's galaxy of superstars and decided they were practically unbeatable. A squad so stacked it looked like they could field two teams and still reach the semi-finals.

We desperately convinced ourselves that this was finally England's year. We pinned our hopes on Harry Kane's goals, Jude Bellingham's brilliance and enough optimism to power the National Grid. Surely those two would drag us over the finish line.

But football doesn't work like that.

Kane is one man.

Jude is one man.

Even superheroes need a Justice League.

We even thought that Donald Trump might somehow find a way to win the World Cup himself, announce it on social media before full-time and commission a trophy twice the size.

We waited for Brazil to summon the football gods. Surely Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Rivaldo and every samba wizard to ever lace up a pair of boots would descend from the heavens and sprinkle magical football dust over the Seleção.

We analysed every tactical system. We argued over formations. We crowned teenagers before they'd finished shaving. We searched for the next superstar who would carry an entire nation on their shoulders.

And while everyone was looking at the stars...

A team quietly got on with playing football.

Spain.

Not the loudest team.

Not the team with the biggest egos.

Not the team dominating every headline.

Just... a team.

Yes, they had world-class players. Yes, they had exciting youngsters. Yes, Lamine Yamal dazzled the world. But Spain didn't win because one player was unstoppable.

They won because every player knew exactly what their job was.

Every run mattered.

Every pass had purpose.

Every press was coordinated.

Every tackle was backed up.

Every player trusted the bloke next to him.

No passengers.

No ego trips.

No waiting for someone else to rescue the game.

Just eleven players pulling in exactly the same direction.

It's almost disappointingly simple.

Football loves to sell us superheroes. We crave the 35-yard screamers, the bicycle kicks, the solo runs past six defenders and the dramatic last-minute winner that breaks the internet.

Reality is usually much less glamorous.

Championships aren't normally won by the team with the biggest names.

They're won by the team that works the hardest, stays organised, trusts each other and remembers that football is still, despite what social media tells us, a team game.

Spain reminded us of something beautifully simple.

The best collection of players doesn't always make the best team.

Chemistry beats celebrity.

Organisation beats reputation.

Together beats talented.

Whether it's football, business or life, individual brilliance might win headlines...

But teamwork wins trophies.

A team won the World Cup.

Viva España.