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The first time the men’s football team have been in a final in my lifetime (even including the glorious time when I was a foetus) and maybe the only time they will be in my kids’ lifetime, so even though neither of them are interested in football yet we agreed they could stay up to see it. They were more excited that they would be allowed to have snacks, but my daughter was a bit more excited about the game and the prospect of England winning. She got a piece of paper and a pencil so that she could keep a note of the score.
The 8pm kick off was a little bit late, even for the adults if I am honest and it was a bit cruel to all the children and the adults that had been drinking since 8am that the match would be at a time when they’d be asleep. My son was keen to go to bed even before the match had begun and once the crisps were gone declared it to be boring (we were just on the national anthems, so he had a point). He lay down on the floor and was pretended to snore, but it was only just a pretence. He went to bed before a ball was kicked.
My daughter was more engaged and very excited to be able to make a note of the goal so soon in the game. If I was manager I would tell the team not to score until the end of the match and I was pretty worried about getting the lead so early on, though England were supreme for the first half.
Phoebe went to bed before the interval, excited that England were winning, wanting the news of the result in the morning. I feared the worst.
And correctly so, of course. The early goal only really works if it’s followed quite quickly by two more goals and Italy bossed the second half and England were maybe fortunate to get to extra time. But still England had got to extra time in a final against one of the best clubs in the world. I decided to assume defeat and then be pleased if luck went our way.
Penalties, inevitably followed. And my managerial advice for penalties is always be the first team to miss one. So when Italy missed I knew in my heart England were sunk. Of course Pickford would give us hope (and think about the fact that he saved two penalties in a cup final and still lost) and in doing so just give another player the opportunity to have a penalty miss hanging over him.
I felt sorry for our team and sad that we’d got so close and failed and also that I wasn’t unable to publish my unique tweet “Football has come home.” I was thinking of just putting “It’s home,” but was worried people wouldn’t understand I meant football. In any case I couldn’t use it. I’ll save it for the World Cup and pray that no one else thinks of doing that in the meantime.
Disappointment is our national drink and it was a shame that after weeks of subverting expectation we fell at the last hurdle. But fucking Hell, look what that team achieved. They led the European champions for an hour and drew with them after 120 minutes before losing on a stupid lottery. Those young men were bold enough to step up and we wouldn’t have got to where we were without them. And as crushed as they will be, they have been great ambassadors for our stupid firework up the arse, tiny willy windmilling country. It’s Monday as I write and Phoebe shed tears this morning (and my wife compared it to the experience of going to bed thinking Brexit had been defeated and waking up to find it had won), but hopefully the hungover, burnt arse-cheeked country is mainly feeling pride and happiness at what the team achieved.
Just as it always suits me to crash and burn at the last minute and come second, it’s the English way. You are excellent, excellent young men and you will overcome. And I hope the country will overcome that part of us that we desperately need to overcome too.
