Every night Bukayo Saka reads his Bible. Well, last night in Dortmund God returned the favour. England fans had kept the faith – just about – for three crushingly mediocre matches redeemed by last-minute and not entirely deserved salvation. They were shafts of magic to keep us in Euro 24. Bellingham’s bicycle kick (“WHO ELSE?” Jude roared at the crowd, so reminiscent of Maximus’s defiant, blood-stained challenge in Gladiator, “ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?”) five perfect penalties taken as if England penalty shoot-outs don’t inevitably spell 28 years of PTSD for the player who misses them (Gareth Southgate, Euro ‘96). Has a failure to exorcise his own demons made the England manager ultra-cautious with the mental health of the boys now in his care? Does his innate defensiveness prevent attack? Can England go forward when they seem doomed always to look back? Well, that is the charge anyway and it certainly seemed to haunt our team since the start of the tournament. At times against Slovakia they were so slow they looked as if they were running underwater. You’ve seen more pressing on Duchess Meghan’s unironed dresses than among the England forwards.
Now, we were up against The Netherlands for a place in the final, and we couldn’t expect to wing another jammy “result” instead of delivering a proper victory. At half-time, with the score 1-1, my son, who was watching in a London pub, texted me: “Been a much better performance but, frankly, history has built me up for heartbreak.” The nation will have shared his trepidation. Even people like me (who have to have the offside rule explained every match) are in a passionate but masochistic relationship with our team. No matter how much they let us down we return; hope springs eternal that this time they will prove that we were not deluded. This time, they will play like the team we believe them to be. For decades, the default setting of England fans has been slump-shouldered, “Oh, well, what did you expect?” At Pearson Towers, my son’s father sighed (deep as the exhalation Harry Kane gave when he stepped forward to take his penalty) and said: “Just typical of us to finally play brilliantly and lose.”
But we didn’t lose. Boy, did we not lose. Southgate’s much criticised and tardy substitutions (“Get Cole Palmer on!” shout my resident Chelsea fans about once every three minutes) came good. Palmer (deceptively gormless, haircut from 1542) did come on and with him Aston Villa’s Ollie Watkins. What Watkins did, a few moments before the final whistle, was more of a snooker shot than a goal; he found an angle so implausible that the ball should not have gone in the net. Oh, my God, the sheer joy, the ecstatic relief, the billion hoorays, the crowd going insane, the tears that jumped into eyes unbidden, the players embracing, all the clanking ghosts of Failures Past despatched, the misery and the disappointment, the cringing expectation of failure, all blown away when it did go in. From pubs to palaces, millions knew it was safe to stop holding their breath. (Prince William, a Villa fan, tweeted, “What a beauty, Ollie! Congratulations England! Euro2024 Finalists.”)
In an atomised, alienated world, these moments of togetherness offer matchless communion. “I’ve been waiting for that moment for weeks,” Watkins said after. “I swear on my kids’ lives that I told Cole, ‘We are going to come on today and you are going to set me up.’” They are a new generation, those lads. Palmer wasn’t born until six years after Southgate’s Calvary. Bellingham is still only 21, but a captain in waiting. Kobbie Mainoo, who looks at least 11, is the youngest player ever to represent England in a major semi-final. Asked once if he worried about taking penalties, Cole was genuinely bewildered: “No, no, I’m not gonna miss the penalties, am I?” Duh! Could the fearlessness that comes as a free gift with youth have lifted England’s curse?
Colleagues who live and breathe football will write better than I can about the way the game unfolded. It was stormy in Dortmund, pelting rain. Sunak levels of downpour. “The Dutch brought the fans. England brought the weather,” the commentator joked, “In three hours we could be celebrating a second successive appearance in a European championship final,” he said and the nation on the sofa shrieked, “Don’t tempt fate!”
The ITV panellists fretted about Kane’s fitness. “Harry is not quite happening,” said Ian Wright. “You look at him and you think ‘Is he carrying something?’” Only the weight of 60 million Britons’ hopes, Ian. Nope, not heavy at all.
“Here we go, then … Try and enjoy it.” Optimism soon plummeted when the Dutch scored a fabulous goal. “Rice got dispossessed, Jordan [Pickford, my hero!] had no chance.”
Next, Harry Kane was felled by a talented brute who sounded implausibly like a Scottish marmalade: Dumfries. “That was never a penalty.” All the commentators agreed it couldn’t possibly be a penalty. The Penalty Check decided it was a penalty. Kane, complete with gouged leg, went to the spot and scored. Immediately, everyone agreed that it had been the clearest case of a penalty ever witnessed on a football pitch. (If the Dutch had been awarded that penalty, we would still have been fuming 30 years later.) “I don’t think that’s a penalty, but I really don’t care,” said ITV’s Sam Matterface, speaking for the entire nation. Even the saturnine Roy Keane softened: “Sometimes you do need a helping hand.”
What came next was the best 40 minutes of football England had played in the whole tournament. No more stagnation followed by panic; the pattern of previous matches. Little Phil Foden looked like a hyper-alert meerkat. Despite the downpour, Phil was on fire. In a blur of feet, he turned on a sixpence and narrowly missed the goal. As with all the great sportsmen, the world slows down around him, so he appears to have all the time he needs. Bellingham is the same. When either he or Saka gets the ball you have this blessed sense, unprecedented in English footballing ordeals, that things are going to be OK. Take a sad song and make it better.
England were unlucky not to be 3-1 up at half time. As often happens, a thrilling first half was followed by anticlimax. “It’s gone a bit stale,” admitted Ally McCoist. The Dutch were stifling England and had moments of distressingly good play. Bastards. Pickford had to make two excellent saves to avert the disaster we all knew in our heart was coming. “Get Palmer on,” the cry went up at Pearson Towers. And every place where Brits were watching; by now, we were craning forward to keep the Dutch away from our goal. That always works, doesn’t it?
With less than 10 minutes to go, two new sets of legs did come on. Cole and Ollie. “The Dutch looking dangerous on the break.” Oh, hell. Three minutes to go. Agony. Come on, please, come on, you can do it. The ball was punted back (by Kyle Walker, a man who has filled half a stand with his offspring but a total rock throughout). Then Palmer fulfilled his promise to Watkins who was ready. It was a matter of a second for him to turn, nimble, astonishing, and find that impossible angle. YESSSS! We did it. They did it. For us.
On Wikipedia, some wag immediately added to our young hero’s entry: Sir Oliver George Arthur Watkins. (Why not – he deserves it more than the names on Sunak’s Honours List). Outside our house, the streets of the town rang with a chorus bellowed at the top of their voices by jubilant kids: “Hi-ho, Ollie Watkins” to the tune of “Hi Ho Silver Lining.” In all the streets, in all the cities; England, our England.
Sweet Caroline has become the fans’ anthem but they could pick another which would make more sense, I think. On Sunday, our glorious boys meet Spain and the cycle of dread and hope begins again. “Very fluid, those Spanish, better than us.” That’s what we’ll tell ourselves anyway while praying it won’t be so. History has prepared us for heartbreak, but maybe this team – Jude, Cole, little Phil the Feet, sublime Bukayo, Jordan, Kyle, Declan, Kobbie, Luke, Harry, Conor, Kieran, Marc, Eberechi, Ivan, John and the rest, will write another story, another song. God has answered Saka’s prayers. Gareth’s ghost is exorcised. Don’t Stop Believing.
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