It was a saga that began with the hollow ache of a broken heart. 

To grasp the weight of that moment, one must return to Johannesburg in 2010. There was Andrés Iniesta’s sudden, piercing strike, and the golden trophy slipping through Dutch fingers amid a sea of orange-clad tears.

On 13 June 2014, as the Netherlands stepped onto the turf of the Arena Fonte Nova in Salvador, those memories hung in the air. 

Standing before them was the same Spain side that had mesmerised the world with the intricate web of ‘Tiki-Taka’. When Xabi Alonso converted a penalty in the 27th minute, it seemed history might repeat itself. 

However, as the sun began to dip over Salvador, the game’s internal logic quietly shifted.

As the first half approached stoppage time, the Netherlands found a moment of clarity. The ball reached Daley Blind on the left, just inside his own half. He looked up, saw the space, and delivered a pass that swept across the pitch like a measuring line. Ahead, Robin van Persie slipped between Sergio Ramos and Gerard Piqué with perfect timing.

What followed lasted only a second, yet felt suspended in time.

Van Persie did not break stride. Instead of the conventional chest-down, he leaned forward and launched his entire frame into the void. In that fleeting second, he became the Icarus of myth -- the man who dared to touch the sun with wings of wax. 

Contrastingly, where the legend fell, Van Persie transformed into an immortal sculpture, hanging weightless in the humid Salvador air.

The contact was flawless. The ball arced high, looping over Iker Casillas before settling into the net. Casillas could only take a step, then freeze, watching the impossible unfold; he was a man witnessing the collapse of his own empire. 

For a heartbeat, the stadium held its breath. Then came the roar. Van Persie skidded across the turf, sprinted toward the dugout, and high-fived Louis van Gaal – a gesture of triumph and release all at once.

In maritime folklore, the Flying Dutchman is a ghost ship doomed to wander forever. That night in Salvador, the legend found new meaning – a flight of liberation rather than a curse. 

This strike represented a psychological earthquake. Spain faltered. The Netherlands surged. By full-time, the scoreboard read 5–1.

Years will pass; stars will rise and fade. Nevertheless, whenever a conversation turns to pure footballing beauty, hearts might drift back to that afternoon in Salvador. 

They will remember the number nine in orange, and the day a man truly took flight.