Bulletin from London: Reflections on England at the World Cup - so close, and yet so predictable
It couldn’t last, we all knew that from bitter experience, but was there no possibility this time that it would be different? That this time the fates might shine kindly on us, rather like the weather itself in this most glorious of summers?
But no, England went out of the World Cup, succumbing to a rather charmless Argentinian side in the final minutes of their semifinal. So close, and yet so predictable. For the better part of a month the sun shone as if it were the Mediterranean and the nation grew ever more dreamy and elated, as England moved nearer to the elusive prize.
There is a song England football fans sing called Three Lions. Its chorus promises “It’s coming home, football’s coming home.”
That line refers to England being the place where the rules of football, by which the world plays the game, were first codified. It was written in 1996 and originally mentioned the “30 years of hurt” – the length of time since England had last won a major football trophy, the 1966 World Cup, England’s single triumph.
That hurt has now doubled to 60 years, almost a lifetime of hurt, almost, in fact, my lifetime (I was 4 in 1966 and can’t remember the event). Twenty-five people crowded into our living room to watch the quarter-final against Norway, which began at 10pm British Summer Time.
By midnight, when Jude Bellingham scored the winning goal at the beginning of extra time, the place was a scene of delirium. People of all ages jumped around screaming in a fit of ecstasy, as if it was some experimental encounter group from the 1970s.
That’s what football can do to you, lift you up to a dizzying high, in which crazed patriotic desire becomes somehow benign and inclusive. Strangers smile at each other in the street, an air of optimism – not a local specialty by any means – takes hold and life suddenly has a unifying sense of purpose.
All of that came crashing down to Earth when Argentina did to England what England had done to Norway, and scored a late winner in injury time. Argentina, who’d beaten England in controversial circumstances in 1986 and 1998. Argentina, with whom England fought a war as recently as 1982. Argentina, who’d been treated with kid gloves by the Fifa officials throughout the tournament, despite being one of the most aggressive of teams.
It was the country that we least wanted to lose to. But we – the English – did lose, due to a fatal lack of belief. That’s our dark guilty secret. We love sport, and love to crow about it, but we don’t really think we’re good enough, even if our sports teams often put on a front of confidence bordering on arrogance.
There’s something in the English psyche that has reached an accommodation with defeat. We’ve grown used to it. We expect it. There are some sublimely talented English players in this generation – some of whom German coach Thomas Tuchel elected to leave at home. But there were enough on the field to beat an ageing Argentinian side.
The very second England went ahead, however, the team withdrew into a terrified, defensive mindset, the product of decades of underachievement. The fear of losing was far greater than the drive to win.
It’s an English sporting trait. The cricket team abandoned it for a while, thanks to New Zealander Brendon McCullum’s “Bazball” revolution. But even that experiment failed, and McCullum was recently shown the door after losing to … New Zealand.
The sun continues to shine but the weightless joy has departed. Next time, we tell ourselves, next time. But does anyone really believe it?
