The sportswriters paid homage to copy and paste.
Who among them could have stood in a Spelling Bee and spelled Sisphiwe Tshabalala?
His was the opening goal of World Cup Finals 2010. It was beautifully taken, with a short sharp strike into the top right hand corner of the net.
But Tshabalala was not the star of a hugely uplifting day in South African history, when the hosts drew with Mexico 1-1.
That was Archbishop Desmond Tutu.
He's fought for human rights for all his life.
He's been awarded a peace prize and a Presidential Medal of Freedom.
But medals and peace prizes are mere pieces of silver compared to this.
When Tshabalala's left foot kicked the door of supposed South African inferiority off its hinges, Archbishop Tutu, a team scarf around his neck, stood and applauded.
Oh, of course he didn't.
His hips swiveled like a belly dancer's. His arms made like Beyonce on a very good night. As he shuffled up and down the stands, his eyes told of a joy that most black South Africans could never have imagined would enter their veins.
Can you imagine, for example, the Archbishop of New York offering some kind of samba during Saturday's USA/England duel? If you can, then might I suggest you cease your fondness for tequila-chased beer for at least the remainder of this World Cup?
Archbishop Tutu expressed what every black South African felt.
Yes, in 1995 South Africa hosted the Rugby World Cup and won it.
But that's the white man's game. A game of brutality and crude subterfuge worthy of supposed gentlemen and actual farmers.
Soccer is the game for everyone played by everyone.
Soweto's field of dreams was an open field with rectangular goals at either end. Grass was a luxury. The ball might well have made out of rubber bands. It might well have been a tin can.
So as South Africa took to a perfect field Friday, to play with a ball designed by the world's most advanced scientists, the dream wasn't merely fielded.
It was realized before the world's eyes.
When the Archbishop stopped dancing and the crowds went home, they might have contemplated that South Africa should have won.
In the first half, the players' nerve endings poked through their shirts. In the second, they had the chances to beat a Mexican team that flattered, then revealed it had bought its shirts at the Emperor's store.
The South Africans gave away a goal because their captain, Aaron Mokoena, forgot to move up with the rest of his men, playing three Mexicans onside.
But still, they could have won if only, with just a minute to go, Katiego Mphela had enjoyed the perfect footwork of Archbishop Tutu.
Put through after his goalkeeper's punt, all he needed to do was maintain his balance and choose where to put the ball before rushing away towards permanent adulation.
The wonderful HD images from ESPN allowed us to see the face of Mexico goalkeeper Oscar Gomez as it told of his impending pain.
Instead, Mphela was too, too uncertain. He shot weakly against the post, and South Africa had to settle for a draw.
The Bafana Bafana, as the South African team is known, can still fulfill their (ba)fans' impossible thoughts. Especially given that France and Uruguay drew without so much as a goal.
Whether they manage it or not, one of their Ambassadors to Heaven reminded the world that free, boundless joy does exist.
Archbishop Desmond Tutu is 78. I hope he dances again.