So many jokes, so
many sneers.
It's easy to be cynical
about football. I am vastly cynical about it. I've long lost deep
investment or love for football, though I follow (with stoic
resignation) the travails of Aston Villa, the club I arbitrarily
chose to support as a child.
C.S. Lewis contrasted
the two national spirits of Britain – “Logres”, close to the
land, noble, mystical; and “Britannia”, loud, blaring, brash,
arrogant, superior. Football in Britain, especially England, usually
tends to the latter. Whether you're playing with jumpers for
goalposts or watching the Premier League, the snarling spirit of
Britannia is never far. That nasty know-it-all attitude, the
opposition-blaming, the lopsided and unhealthy obsession. Whilst
nearly every accusation at Man Utd fans is just, that mindset is
really just the undiluted concentrate of English fans.
And then we get to the
footballers. Overpaid, whinging, effeminate, dive-happy. And the
clubs they play for – soulless, exploitative, life-destroying
businesses owned by shady businessmen. And FIFA, perhaps the worst
international body in any sport, and that's a crowded field.
Football is a frankly
depressing spectacle. Perhaps it always has been. That doesn't make
it better.
Three lions on a
shirt
For
most English boys when I was growing up football is social oxygen.
It's in the atmosphere. As a child, breaktime was football. After
school – football. I grew up in a pretty ordinary area, no more
football mad than anywhere else. Not a major club town. But that's
the point – football is the most fundamentally ordinary thing (or
was – I wonder how smartphones have affected that).
The
basic fantasy, for most of us – good players or bad – was playing
for England. In the interim, being picked for club or school teams
was the aim. Every match of World Cup Singles at lunch was practise.
Of course underneath the dream was a knowledge of reality – that we
were never going to play at any decent standard. That didn't dull the
fantasy. It heightened it. The very unobtainability of the goal
added sweetness to it – it became more romantic, more dream-like.
Football was real, concrete, daily, but it was also poetry and magic.
That
changed, eventually. As a teenager other things became more
interesting (girls). The performance pressure, the angry blares at
every mistake, became exhausting. The dream died upon contact with
reality – none of us were going to play for England.
Everyone seems to
know the score, they've seen it all before
And
England kept on losing, so why would you bother watching? There were
some grim experiences. Losing to Romania during the Euro 2000 Group
Stage. Not even qualifying for Euro 2008. Getting smashed by Germany
in the 2nd Round in 2010. Drawing with Costa Rica in 2014.
Losing to Iceland in 2016. And all those penalty shootouts.
It
becomes monotonous, supporting a poor team. Especially when so much
hope is put on that bad team, tournament after tournament. The
English cricket team was pretty awful in the late 90s, but nobody
expected much else from them (except, inexplicably, each Ashes
series). English football lets its fans down again and again – if
not on the field, off it, it's hard to care about the team between
primadonna players and managerial scandals (if you're not sure what I
mean, Google: Glenn Hoddle's views on disability, Ulrika Jonsson, the
results of sacking John Terry as captain, and Sam Allardyce's son).
The
magic of football is in the past for most of us, left beside jumpers
on the dry park grass of our youth. Watching our national team is the
definition of masochism. The 2018 World Cup doesn't change any of
that.
Thirty
years of hurt
The first football
tournament of which I was aware was the 1994 World Cup – for which
England didn't qualify. English fans broadly backed the Republic of
Ireland, in a blissfully naïve manner only possible for the imperial
home nation.
The next was Euro 96.
That was the first tournament in which I watched England. There was a
buzz about it. England were hosting – the last tournament we hosted
was the 1966 World Cup. Fate was with us. The manager was good
(thankfully no-one looked too much at his financial dealings
beforehand). The team was better. Consider these names: Seaman, G.
and P. Neville, Pearce, Ince, Campbell, Platt, Gascoigne, Shearer,
Sheringham, Anderton, McManaman. There was a lot of talent
in that squad.
England topped their
group. A 1-1 draw in the first match vs Switzerland, Shearer's first
goal of the tournament cancelled out by an 83rd minute
penalty. A 2-0 win vs Scotland, with Shearer scoring again and Gazza
finishing them off. And then a 4-1 thrashing of the Netherlands, with
two goals each from Shearer and Sheringham.
Then a quarter-final
against Spain. This wasn't a vintage Spanish team, but they held us
to 0-0, even after Golden Goal extra time. We'd gone out on penalties
in the 1990 World Cup semis, vs West Germany (a.k.a the old nemesis;
cf 1966, 1970), after Lineker scored late to drag us to 1-1 at
full-time. Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle had missed their spotkicks,
sending us out. But that was then; this was now. We breezed past the
Spaniards, going through 4-2 after 4 penalties.
Then to a semi-final
against Germany (fundamentally the artist formerly known as West
Germany). Wednesday 26th June, 1996. 7.30 start, prime
evening slot after work. The teams walk out at Wembley to a home
crowd in full throat - “football's coming home, it's coming...”.
3rd minute, Gazza crosses it from a corner, Shearer –
the archetypal fox – nods it in from close. 1-0. 16th
minute, Germany peg us back – Kuntz scores, 1-1.
That's how it stays at
full-time. Into extra time. Golden Goal rule in place, first goal
wins. Shearer doesn't quite connect with a high pass into the box,
but it drifts across the goal, and Gazza is running for it, skidding for it.
Gazza of the tears, the man who cared so much for his team that he
began to weep when booked in the '90 semi-final, knowing it would
mean he would be barred from the final if England won. Gazza of the
big heart, the big personality, the fragility, the oncoming
tragedies.
Gazza just misses. He
made a good effort, but just a feather more, and England
were through to the final – vs the Czech Republic, and we could
beat them. But there was no feather more. And so to penalties. We can do penalties.
And we did – the
first block went 5-5. Shearer, Platt, Pearce (redemption!), Gascoigne
(redemption!), Sheringham – all did their bit. Sudden Death. Each
pair of penalties, if one team misses and the other scores, the match
is over. An Aston Villa defender is sent forward. Sure-footed, steady
player.
“Gareth Southgate,
all of England is with you.”
Saved. Inevitably,
Moeller scored his, and England were out.
I remember every
moment. I remember the opprobrium heaped on Southgate – shifty and
weedy, lost his nerve, softly side-footed it to the keeper. The only
obstacle to our glorious march to a home title. The only man in the
way of ending 30 years of hurt. Britannia blared in fury for – I
don't remember how long, really. Til the '98 loss on penalties to
Argentina, I suppose. And his name would come up every Penalties
disaster thereafter. Gareth Southgate 96, David Batty 98, Darius
Vassell 04, Jamie Carragher 06, Ashley Cole 12. The list doesn't
start with Waddle 90, though he's bonus trivia on it. It starts with
weedy, shifty Gareth Southgate.
Gareth Southgate is
manager of the England football team at the 2018 World Cup.
Never stopped me
dreaming
England
go to Russia – who shouldn't be hosting, and whose team is on the
outskirts of a growing national doping scandal, but who end up, it
must be admitted, playing with heart – amidst low expectations.
No-one believes England can do it, and the grim monotony of the
McLaren-Capello-Hodgson era, the obviously mercenary nature of the
Premier League, the pall of wider political anxiety...they combine to
kill the interest of many. And England are managed by weedy, shifty,
waistcoat-wearing Gareth Southgate. I don't think I saw a England
flag hoisted before the first match. Surely there were some, but in
the midst of the heatwave, with news of troubles abroad and trouble
at home, they were few and far between.
First
match, England beat Tunisia 2-1. Two goals from Kane, the second a
last-minute winner We played like we wanted to win. We looked like we
might have won by more. The effect is electric – I see a flag of St
George in a window for the first time after this. Waistcoat sales
rise. Gareth Southgate looks less weedy and shifty – more calm,
more decent, more steady. Something England needs.
Second
match, England beat Panama 6-1. Panama are naff and violent, but the
sheer panache England show is rather alarming. We had looked good
against Tunisia, but this is something else. Two from Stones, three
from Kane, one from Lingard. We're through to the 2nd
Round. Of course, this doesn't prove much – we've finished off two
small teams. That's all. But you can hear the...not whispers. You can
hear the thoughts of the English football fan. “Maybe this
time...”
We
rest most of our team vs Belgium; they do the same. We lose 1-0.
There are grumbles about being so unambitious, but people are coming
in behind Southgate, Kane, and the gang. This is strategic. This is
wise. Despite the defeat, a few fanatics are starting to demonstrate
the English football insanity: “We can do it”.
2nd
round vs Colombia. Colombia are dirty like Panama, but much better.
Their main man is missing, however, and for 65 minutes England are in
charge, for all the fouling. England are singing, which is a good
sign, though “God save the Queen”, which is an odd choice. In the
57th minute, Kane scores a penalty. I say to a friend: “I
think we've got this”. I say to my wife: “I would rather it was
2-0”. 5 minutes of stoppage time are added at the end – making up
for endless Colombian time-wasting and transgressions.
Colombia
score in the 93rd minute. The script is complete. Extra
time passes without a goal, inevitably. Penalties. And Gareth
Southgate is the manager.
I
know the result already, but somehow I can't stop following the
match. I thought I got this out of my system when David Batty broke my heart in '98, but penalty shootouts have mythic power for me, like for so many Englishmen. When you don't have tales of glory, you might as well have tales of woe.
Colombia
slot in their first three penalties. We score our first two – Kane,
Rashford. Then Jordan Henderson misses. Jordan Henderson, 2018. Add
him to the list. The list that starts with Gareth Southgate.
Then
Colombia slip up. They forget the script. Uribe hits the bar. Trippier
puts the next away for England, redeeming his defensive error that
led to the equalizer earlier. Last Colombian penalty. Bacca steps up,
gives it a right smack...and it's SAVED. Jordan Pickford, criticized
for being short, reaches across and pushes it away.
England
can set it right, though. Eric Dier can miss. It can be Eric Dier,
not Jordan Henderson, who joins the list that starts with Gareth
Southgate.
Eric
Dier – 1 of 5 Spurs players in the team, along with the talismanic
captain Kane – does not miss.
England
win their first World Cup penalty shootout. Their first in any format
since that match vs Spain at Euro 96.
Gary
Lineker tweets that he's crying.
All
the magic floods back, unasked for. The sun is shining and my green
school jumper is marking a goalpost. Silent poetry buzzes in the air,
behind every fan on the news singing - “it's coming home!” (the Queen has,
for now, been adequately saved). It brings to mind the 2nd
Test at Edgbaston in 2005, in the greatest cricket series of all time
– Kasprowicz ct +Jones b Harmison, England win by 2 runs. A moment
where sport – frivolous games played by overpaid primadonnas –
transcends its gross material nature and becomes dream. A moment
where blaring Britannia is in full force, but suddenly, unexpectedly
joined by misty, mythic Logres. Bobby Moore tackling Jairzinho.
Headingly '81. Hurst's hat-trick. Wilkinson's drop kick against the
Aussies in Sydney. These are crystal memories which are no longer
about the match, the man, the historic context – they're true at
the level of Gawain and the Green Knight now. They are legends of
this island people, immutable amidst disappointment, whether sporting
or political, talismanic in the face of the next jousting contest.
Southgate
is humble in the post-match interview. The English interviewer, in a Britannian tone, exclaims: “...and they say penalty shootouts
are hard for England!” Southgate replies quietly: “They are.”
The interviewer tries to draw him on England's chances: “The field
has opened up, hasn't it?” Humble, restrained Gareth Southgate
focusses on England's previous struggles against Sweden, our next
opponent. He doesn't mention that the final will likely be against Brazil or France, neither of whom we have any hope at all of beating. He's thinking
one match ahead. But then, quietly, with just a hint of – emotion?
excitement? determination? - something, he concludes: “I don't want
to go home yet”.
Gareth
Southgate, all of England is with you.
I
turn on the Lightning Seeds.
We still believe.
