The mood in Rio before Brazil's final game in the 2014 FIFA World Cup was as subdued as the weather. Where the sun had shone brightly before the opening game against Croatia it was now in no mood to come out, much like the flag-waving, shirt-wearing fans that have so typified this tournament.

Rio was as busy as ever, even in the depths of its winter it remains a tourist attraction and that is only heightened by hosting the World Cup final at the Maracana on Sunday, but the passion of the locals was conspicuous by its absence.

The bohemian Santa Teresa district, which resides on a hill overlooking the city, shows traces of how the last month or so has been, but one now has to look much harder for them.

City sanctioned graffiti is almost all that remains of the hope that consumed the host nation.

A wall showing Hulk, as his superhero namesake, pulling the tram that ordinarily links Santa Teresa with nightlife capital Leblon at the foot of the hill stands out in the sleepy arty district.

The tram's passengers are his fellow Selecao squad members, with the exception of Neymar who stands alone to the side lifting the World Cup trophy aloft. To the other side of the much-missed talisman is a sobbing Lionel Messi. This scene captures both the hope and the hubris that were the country's dream of a sixth title secured on their own soil.

It's death has been recognized. The people have abandoned their yellow shirts in the force that so captivated the cameras of the world's journalists, at least until there is another chance for victory.

As kickoff loomed for the game against the Netherlands, it became clear that this was no ordinary Brazil game. Sure, every bar and supermarket was doing roaring trade but it was with the air of a wake rather than a wedding.

I watched the game in the upmarket Leblon district and as I transversed the city to get there it was as if a figurative cloud had risen over the impending game to match the storm brewing above the city.

Leblon's bars were packed. It took me three to find one with room to see the TV but eyes were not glued to the screens as they had been. The game was an afterthought. People were out because it was an excuse to party and the excuse itself was to drink to the death of Brazilian soccer.

Even the fact that the national anthem, previously observed with the gusto of David Luiz himself, was not broadcast in the bar did not raise an eyebrow let alone a murmur of disquiet.

The hosts had been outfought, outthought and outgunned against Germany and they nearly began the third place playoff outmanned.

Thiago Silva, who had been so missed against the Germans in the semifinal, showed that he has his own lapses in defense by cynically bringing down Arjen Robben.

Contact was outside the box and that seemed to be the main concern of the suddenly vocal home fans, rather than the clear sending off, but the Netherlands were given a penalty and the Brazil captain a yellow card.

That was as loud as the packed bars on the busy street got in the first half as the Dutch sailed into a two goal lead. There were attempts to seem riled at perceived indiscretions but they were nods to a time when everyone cared what the result might be and this was not one of those times.

A meaningless game quickly became meaningless to the fans and before half-time people had turned away, more in distrust than disgust.

Their team lost 3-0 but no one saw, this was the time to sing anti-Argentina songs and cling to one final hope.