You’re holding history in your hands
Something very strange happened to me on Sunday night. “Isn’t there any football on?” I demanded. Never in a month of Poldarks would I have expected such a thing to come out of my mouth. See how the 2018 Fifa World Cup has worked its sly magic, making football fans of us all?
The glorious performances of Gareth Southgate’s squad have reinstated patriotism as a guiltfree pleasure. No longer would Labour’s Lady Muck, Emily Thornberry, dare to sneer at a house draped in three England flags.
Yes, our team happens to be an advert for diversity – 11 of the 23 players are black or mixed race – but even better is the fact it doesn’t matter a jot.
Who cares whether it’s Harry Maguire, a big, lumbering farm boy of a defender, or darting, delightful Dele Alli that heads the ball into the net?
They both scored, so now there is no Us and Them, just us.
I love that, only two years ago, Harry travelled to Euro 2016 to cheer on England from the stands. I love the list of lowly teams our lads have represented on their way to the semi-final of the biggest tournament on Earth: Halifax, Alfreton, Darlington, Welling, Aldershot, Stocksbridge Park Steels. (John Betjeman would have made a poem out of them.)
I love Southgate’s thoughtful
modesty, the way he beams his approval, cupping a player’s face in his hands. I love that natty waistcoat, which signals a proud determination to look the part, to be worthy of the great task that was handed to him.
I love that British Airways made a special ticket on which the name of passenger was “Football” and the destination “Home”. The Gate was “South” (of course!) and Gate Closes was “1966”.
I love the fact my son is old enough to witness this, his own potential 1966, to rejoice in England’s success and to lay down memories like fine wine.
At seven o’clock tonight, the nation will start breathing in and out together. Some of us will not even dare to dash to the loo, convinced that our fervent attention is the only thing standing between Croatia and the English goal. (I’m right, aren’t I?) This communal wishing and hoping will feel a lot like prayer.
So, God speed to both the Harrys, and to Trippier with his corner kicks, and Lingard and Sterling, who is owed a goal, and Stones, our rock in defence, and Pickford holding history in his young hands. England expects.