The point is not that it couldn’t have been written, but that it wasn’t. A match can’t be a work of art because there is nobody playing God. When you watch a play or a film, even a film directed by Tarantino or Hitchcock, you are aware, somewhere in you, that there are many, many people who know the ending – not just the people who have seen the film before you, but the people who willed it, wrote it, shaped it. Whatever your definition of art, then surely there has to be manipulation, at least. But the glory of that afternoon was that all was chaos. Nobody in the world knew how it would...
Note: This. This is why it’s The Beautiful Game.