So let me get this right; football isn’t coming home. Unless of course football has a lovely second home, in Spain? And let’s face it, we’d all like one of those.
Sorry, too soon? I’m new to this world of sport and I’m struggling with the whole inconsolable-nation-in-deepest-mourning element. Giddy over-optimism is a lot more fun.
The truth is, we’ve all been on a bit of a German journey you see, and, hand on heart, I for one never imagined I would make it to the end, never mind the Three Lions
Yet there we were. Mob-handed, the country a sea of red and white bunting and plastic beer glasses, we showed up, full of hope and military metaphors as England battled Spain. Where a recent landslide election result failed to unite the country, the meritocracy of the football field managed to bring us together.
Even 90-minute patriots like me who would once have struggled to tell Cole Palmer from Cole Porter were pontificating about the merits of stutter run-up penalties and how Mainoo could solve Southgate’s midfield dilemma (not this time, unfortunately, Kobbie but you have a lot more tournaments in you, unlike the manager).
See how I’ve got the hang of the gallows humour fits in? For newbies like me, it was such a lovely feeling to belong, And there were a lot of us. I know for certain because every time I’ve reached for my phone to Google something bleeding obvious – so does everyone else in the country. During the semi-finals I’d barely typed in the digit 4 when the answer popped up: “Phil Foden has the number 47 tattooed on his neck as a tribute to his grandfather.”
Come kick-off, my search engine has been delivering results almost without asking. Like a sporting version of a children’s alphabet book, A was for Aston Villa forward Ollie Watkins, H was for those holes cut into Bellingham’s socks, (though L now stands for La Roja).
See how much I’ve picked up? Ok, there were a few embarrassments; confusion over Rodri for a start. I thought he was a Welshman born on the wrong side of Offa’s Dyke rather than a Madrileño. Easy mistake to make, sí?
I also got a little overexcited about 16-year-old Spanish football phenomenon Lamine Yamal who turned 17 just before the final. I’m sorry, but he’s not only cute as a button but literally a billion-dollar baby. Yamal’s release clause stood at $1.08 billion last time Barcelona mentioned it.
But it now seems vulgar to speak of money when glory was up for grabs – and tragically it slipped from our grasp.
England did expect more than the final result. The King had issued a royal command (sort of) and one besotted nutter in Swindon was so confident of success, he had “England Euro 2024 Winners” tattooed on his leg ahead of the final. Uh-oh.
But that’s what comes of four nerve-shattering weeks of dull-as-ditchwater scraping through the group stages, penalties from heaven and last-gasp – what, he scored upside down? – goals that turned around our fortunes. Until they didn’t.
Meanwhile, I’m a changed woman. I’ve even started using surnames: Saka, Kane, Pickford with great authority and, my husband says, a weird basso profundo tone. That’s because female icons tend to be referred to by their first names. It’s not my fault Kylie and Adele just trip off the tongue in a higher key.
I could easily do a PhD on the comparative merits of a 3-3-3-1 over a 4-2-2-2 formation or how Foden has been linking play on the half turn but right now there would be no takers; the endless punditry and overoptimistic predictions were to no avail.
Was our faith blind? In the excitement of reaching the final, we certainly seemed to have forgotten the fight that the Spanish favourites would give our boys – Walker is 34 but the rules say anyone in football shorts can be legally categorised as a boy – no quarter.
Supporters hollered themselves hoarse from the sofa and ate incinerated sausages at BBQs the length and breadth of Britain. Washed down by lukewarm Prosecco in my case
But Spain, gulp, were by far the better team. Over the next few days, this will be discussed in granular detail, along with England’s flaws and Southgate’s future. Just not by me.
I’m done. I thought I could dig deep, I felt I had more to give but it turns out I don’t. I am that most shameful of sporting cliches; a fair weather fan. Conspicuously there for the good times, nowhere to be seen in the bad. Disloyal? Perhaps, but believe me, it’s a lot less painful in the long run….
I want a win for many reasons. One of them being it’s great fun to cheer on a victorious side and a bit boring to hang around in defeat. And I fear that unless the team triumph people like me will show ourselves up as that most shameful of sporting cliches, fairweather fans.
So please, England, bring football home eventually. For all our sakes.
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