It’s coming home
Just to make sure I never dreamt it, I woke and overdosed on video clips of delirious Englishmen and women this morning. It happened didn’t it. It’s coming home.
Our office is shut today, it’s Independence Day somewhere, so bleary eyed I put the TV on, and the American news shows talked that whilst the English lost 242 years ago, we won a World Cup match last night. Sorry, American friends, it is much more than that.
The game was a scrap, a nasty affair against a cheating and loathsome Colombia side led by the odious Falcao, but to a young man, the English players stood firm and calm against every kick in the calf, push in the back and scream in their faces. Stones and Maguire were immense. Kane pastoral. Trippier unruffled. Henderson defiant. Pickford a superstar. That save before the corner before their equalizer mustn’t be lost in the noise because it was a thing of beauty.
For once when the towering Mina headed an injury time equalizer, and extra time flew by in a matter of seconds with Danny Rose almost winning it, the script was not written, but a new one was. Not the inevitable failure, but the glorious scene of an Englishmen scoring the last penalty and a sea of red shirts (like a certain team in 1998) sprinting down the pitch screaming.
It’s coming home isn’t it.