World Cup 2018: Hope dies last while supporting ‘Engurland’
At 7pm, the clocks will stop. There’ll be a collective intake of breath as millions whisper: “Come on, Engurland.”
Pringle tubes will pop, dogs will cower behind sofas and bottles of Bud will crack.
Football widows will get the ironing board out while secretly signing up to Tinder. “I’m just flicking through some photos,” they will lie, as their partner immerses himself in overlapping fullbacks.
The referee will blow his whistle in the Volgograd Arena and Gareth Southgate’s team will take on Tunisia. It’s a game we ought to win. We’re ranked 12th in the world and have one of the best attacking line-ups in the competition. Tunisia are ranked 21st and are making their first World Cup appearance since 2006.
The bookies reckon we’re 66 per cent likely to earn three points – but then the bookies told us the Titanic would reach New York in one piece and said Leicester City could never win the Premier League. And let’s not get started about their odds on Donald Trump becoming President or meeting the despotic dictator of North Korea and becoming bosom buddies.
English World Cup games are seldom straightforward and fans face an anxious wait as Harry Kane and co try to tame Tunisia’s star, Wahbi Khazri.
Takeaways will be consumed with the gusto of a pig in a field of apples, bottles of sparkling continental lager will be knocked back to sooth the nerves/celebrate/commiserate* (*delete, as appropriate, when the final whistle blows).
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The pessimists and lovers of hopeless causes will have turned off long before then, of course, switching allegiance to Iran and urging Sardar Azmoun to score against Spain. C’mon, Sardar.
England’s class of 2018 don’t find themselves under the same pressure as England’s so-called Golden Generation – an inaccurately described group of players including Owen, Gerrard and Beckham. They flattered only to deceive and were more tinpot than gold on the biggest stages.
Gareth Southgate’s men find themselves in the unique position of not being suffocated by unrealistic expectation. Let’s face it, since Roy Hodgson humiliation against Iceland at Euro 2016, the nation has become more realistic.
Carping on about ’66 has been noticeable by its absence. Nobody seriously expects England to overcome Germany, Brazil, Spain, France or Argentina in Moscow.
And with the world-ranked number three side, Belgium, in our group – along with those dangerous Tunisians – Kane, Cahill, Sterling, Vardy, Welbeck and Butland may yet have time for a relaxing summer holiday surrounded by paparazzi as the competition gets to the sharp end. Love Island, here we come.
Because, let’s be truthful: does anyone really expect a Burnley goalkeeper to deny Ronaldo and Messi, or the might of the Germans by lifting the Jules Rimet Trophy?
No, didn’t think so. But hope dies last. Though we know deep down in our hearts that Southgate is unlikely to follow in the footsteps of Scolari, Lippi, del Bosque or Low, it won’t stop us dreaming.
Like the gambler who imagines the next dice roll will bring changed fortunes or the fantastically delusional who believes in unicorns; we’ll all have the smallest glimmer of hope that logic and reason lose as dreams come true.
And dreams do, of course, come true. Just ask Brandon Flowers, Gabrielle, Westlifee, Tony LeBron, Disney and scores of other 21st century lyricists.
Einstein dreamed about the principle of relativity before writing it down. McCartney dreamed the melody for Yesterday before singing it. Though things can just as easily go wrong – just ask Mary Shelley. She had a nightmare about a crazy fool called Frankenstein then woke up in a cold sweat.
One imagines Nick Pope would do a Shelley if asked to face down Germany in a penalty shoot-out with the World Cup at stake. Miracles happen. And it’s the hope that kills us, every time.
