WORLD CUP 2002: Curious that a tournament of such novelty should have such a traditional ending. It was as if it ended with a formulaic "and they lived happily ever after". Curious but fitting.

Cafu, veteran of three finals, lifted the small golden trophy into a darkness shattered by flashbulbs, goalscoring hero Ronaldo was carried shoulder-high through the happy mayhem and the drums beat out the most famous rhythm in football.

Brazil's fifth world title was annexed using one of their most modest teams but it was done ultimately with an adherence to the principles which have made the South American country the true home of the beautiful game. They took on a manager whose heart yearns for the qualities which are written across the centre of the Brazilian flag, order and progress, but the same Luiz Phillipe Scolari ended up with the alliterative front three of Ronaldo, Rivaldo and Ronaldinho and all hope of making this a commonsense team was lost.

Brazil strolled to this World Cup. They came as an ordinary side to a competition crammed with ordinary sides but they came with a recuperating star and a tradition which buoyed them. They grew with each passing game.

Grew as they observed each shock exit. Grew to love the notion that they would pack away all their troubles by becoming champions.

This win was their therapy for the years when Brazilian football descended into the mire of the ordinary. Worthy it was. Seven wins from seven games.

Some of the sweetest goals and the best storyline too.

Ah, Ronaldo Luiz Nazario da Lima. This was the night they had in mind for him when they christened him "the phenomenon" back when he started playing as a goofy teenager for Cruziero on Belo Horizonte. He was a little different back then, more innocently feckless, more inclined to beat six or seven players and then double back for the fun of it, but in Cruziero they knew that the kid they had plucked from the slums would be going all the way to the top of the pantheon. Garrincha, Pele, Zico, Socrates, Rivelino, Ronaldo.

Last night he closed the book on the first half of his career. He came through this tournament playing at maybe 70 per cent of his full capability but the wonders were twofold. First, that he came through it at all. Second, that he dominated and eventually won this World Cup.

Sixty-seven minutes into the game yesterday and he pounced mercilessly on a ball spilled from the chest of the great Oliver Kahn. A lesser player would have been paralysed by the surprise or would have snatched a shot straight back at Kahn. Yet at his best things unfold slowly and vividly for Ronaldo. He spliced it into the corner of the German net. One-nil.

Germany, on the canvas for the first time in this tournament, had to go for it. You could almost hear Ronaldo rubbing his hands. On the sidelines a fleet of German subs were made ready. Asamoah and Bierhoff arrived just in time for Ronaldo's second goal. Kleberson came thundering down the right wing, Rivaldo retailed a fine dummy to the German defence, Ronaldo pounced again.

His influence on proceedings went beyond that. Eight goals in seven games is one thing but he brought a certain infectious joy to the Brazilian team which had come here with furrowed brow and tight lips. Brazil needs that smile.

"Brazil had one brilliant player," said Germany's Marco Bode afterwards. "And he virtually brought them today's result. He must have had a hard time with injury but he is a great player and a nice person. If only he was not playing against us I would be happier for him!"

"He showed again what a footballer he is," said Dietmar Hamann. "He was largely instrumental in Brazil winning the World Cup." And that was about as bitter a word as anybody could utter in the aftermath.

Germany had come to this final from a strange place: they had journeyed from the ranks of the long-odds outsiders, they had come without a handful of their best players, those who would make them a better team, and at the semi-final stage they lost Ballack, their last outfield ace. Yet last night they surprised us. They battled and they invented.

When Oliver Neuville's free kick came off the fingernails of Marcos and on to the post to the left of him just after half-time there was a sense in the stadium that this team of tanks was about to perform an act of suffocation.

"If it had been a goal," said Christian Metzelder afterwards, "we would have won the match."

For Germany the period of grieving should be brief. They got more than they ever hoped for from this tournament. They reclaimed their dignity and their self-respect. They became a team when not so long ago, after their infamous defeat to England, they were a shambles.

And they contributed handsomely to a final which crowned an enjoyable if not classic tournament. The stories were weird and plentiful as they unfolded. We Irish had the preamble of the Keane affair to digest before that opening night when Senegal mugged their old colonists, France.

Back then Brazil were a name in the bunch of second-ranked contenders.

Having used virtually every player in Brazil and four managers during a hectic qualifying campaign they were as unfancied as any team from that country.

Last night they won a victory for tradition and the possibility of dreaming.

"This," said Roberto Carlos, "has renewed the respect for the great yellow jersey of Brazil." The respect is back.

And thanks to the kid with the grin, so is the joy.