I hate football. But these clean-cut boys have won over women like me
HARRY KANE had just scored and my son was cheering in his home (about 100 yards from ours) when he glanced down at Facebook. There, on his mother’s timeline, was a big red box that screamed: ‘GO KANE!’
‘My God!’ Dan said to his wife. ‘Mum’s watching the football!’
It amazed me, too. What I know about football could be written on my thumbnail ( which might even be too big) and sport in general leaves me cold.
I’m the snooty woman with her nose stuck in a book when all around are cheering on their teams or watching a nail-biting Wimbledon final. To be honest, I always thought of footballers as (mostly) vain, vastly overpaid, slightly sleazy oafs.
But there I was on Tuesday night, nearly knocking over my wine glass as I clutched my head in anguish, raged, yelled: ‘Shoulda been a red card!’, sucked my teeth, dug my husband in the ribs, cheered, groaned, covered my eyes — and finally ran outside (clutching the wine glass, of course) shouting ‘Yaaay!’ to share in the jubilation with my son.
He simply shook his head and said: ‘I really can’t believe you watched, Mum!’
Why did I suddenly feel so happy? It’s simple. This lady is just wild about Harry.
England’s clean-cut captain, Harry Kane has a strangely timeless beauty. He has the calm authority that used to be associated with British officers, ready for any effort, any sacrifice.
And when I read that this (remarkably tattoofree) paragon is engaged to his childhood sweetheart . . . well, that was me: Gone Girl. Or should I say, Gone Granny? Yes, I know it’s foolish but I’m mad about the boy.
To be serious, it seems women of all ages have become captivated by this England squad.
Of course, they’re as rich as any other footballers, and some have been naughty, and no doubt there will be scandals in the future. But they have undoubtedly captured the hearts and minds of women up and down the country.
When the Colombians began to play dirty (and you don’t have to know anything about the game to recognise a deliberate headbutt), our boys kept their cool. They walked away — and it seemed the days of thuggery, dirty behaviour and exhibitionism had vanished in the wave of a flag of St George.
Friends who know about football remember when the likes of Wayne Rooney and John Terry seemed to rule the pitch with an air of menace — but with not enough goals to compensate for the bad behaviour.
In three World Cup finals, Wayne Rooney scored only one goal. David Beckham scored one goal in each of the 1998, 2002 and 2006 World Cups, and was famously sent off in 1998 when he kicked out in a fit of petulance. He was only 23 — but so what? At 24, our hero Harry is in his first World Cup and has scored (so far) six times.
Associating football with vulgar excess on and off the pitch, I used to wonder what those guys were paid for. Then on Tuesday I finally understood.
YOUreally got the sense that each and every man gave it all, digging deep for the extra time, facing the horrible shoot-out with rocklike calm. Amazed, I confess that all my maternal feelings were awakened.
Yes, I wanted to look after the lads — and why not? As various experts have said, the players could barely walk at the end. They had squeezed every drop out of themselves and that’s something even a novice observer like myself can really respect.
Curious to know if other women felt like me, I did a spot- check on Facebook. Sure enough, the words used were ‘ humble’, ‘enthusiastic’, ‘ hardworking’ ‘eager’, ‘fair’ and ‘sweet’.
One friend wrote: ‘ They seem like nice, self-effacing, hard-working boys who love their mums.’ And another commented: ‘There is something innocent and decent about them. Their manager has schooled them well . . .’
Ah yes, Gareth Southgate, steady in his waistcoat, shoulders squared, pulling his lads together — a man epitomising success after failure, doggedness after bitter disappointment, courage after criticism. Southgate has been called ‘too nice for football’ but it’s precisely his gentlemanly approach to tactics which paid off against Colombia.
What’s more, he’s a devoted family man who met his wife Alison when they were teenagers. They have two children they keep out of the limelight and Southgate often stresses the importance of his home life.
That’s rather different from SvenGoran Eriksson’s various canoodlings.
Of course, managers set the tone. Perhaps what has really enchanted women is that this young squad seems to exude something rather old-fashioned — the spirit of 1966, if you like.
They seem largely to be a team of pretty straight family men.
I doubt you’ll ever see Harry Kane staggering drunk as a skunk in a bar, then driving a strange woman home while under the influence and being pulled over by the police (a la Rooney). Kane abstains from alcohol during the football season and his fiancee Katie Goodland is nothing like the old-style fashionista wags. They have one child, another on the way and two labradors they dote on. How wonderfully conventional. Potted biographies of others make refreshing reading, too, with many married to girls they met as teenagers. I realise men will regard this as irrelevant fluff. What matters is the football, and who cares who’s married to whom, or whether they’re pillars of society?
But surely all Wayne Rooney’s quarrels with poor Coleen over his appalling behaviour with other women affected his game just as much as his drinking? Who’s to say Nancy Dell’Olio’s fury with faithless Sven didn’t affect his control of his team?
THE‘beautiful game’ is played by human beings who are even more subject to the old deadly sins (greed, pride, anger and lust, to name but four) than most of us, because they have the means and the opportunity. So if a team is ‘governed’ well, it must have an effect.
You only had to watch Harry Kane’s self- control and concentration on Tuesday night to see this in action.
This born- again football fan watched — and (like so many of us) liked what she saw.
And now you won’t tear this bookish lady away from the terrific boys who evoke beloved Shakespeare: ‘Cry God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’