C’MON ENGLAND! … err, hang on?!

There’s a seismic shift in the air, a levity, optimism, wilful abandon of merciless mocking and eye-rolling ennui, for I am, hold the phone… slowly, gently, softly with a side of trepidation, kinda, maybe, sorta beginning to almost back this England side. How VERY dare you?! Why of COURSE you shall be supporting our Three Lions! Well, yes, but no but, and well ok here goes. Let me explain.

To give a bit of context, I arrived on these fair shores in 2001 and for seventeen glorious years have enjoyed being a true Anglophile-American abroad, embracing the crumpet, PG Tips and Britain’s endearing pre-occupation with the weather. (Not cricket. I will never get cricket.) But every four years I have observed with head-scratching bewilderment and dead-eyed dread the weeks, months and well, YEARS of entitled expectation and unwavering deification of a handpicked group of silly, overrated, overpaid, egomaniacal, club-loyal, underwear-flogging, granny-hooker-hiring, preening, and ultimately epically disappointing, uninspiring, overgrown Nancy boy prima donnas who have in years past come to represent the England football squad. The endless media coverage and column inches dedicated to chronicling every movement of all the players from hamstring health to achilles woe (who could forget Metatarsal Watch 2006? Groan) was mind-numbing. Then there was the  perfunctory but all too unjustified glorification heaped upon the managers– from stoic spam-headed Swede Sven to the litany of underwhelming Wallies who succeeded him all too insipid or incomprehensible (Fabio Capello, anyone?) to deliver what England sought, but if we’re being honest, never truly deserved. That is, until now.

Being American I confess, the beauty of the Beautiful Game always eluded me. Football, or Soccer as we Yanks say, isn’t really on our radar and is well, kinda, how do I put this, revered as a girls’ sport. (Not my words. Ok, maybe they are.) An entry-level game the preserve of little kids and middle-class europhile boys too willowy and smug for American football. In any case I never got the appeal.

 

Then there is the game itself. It’s too simple, uncomplicated (and please, let’s stop pretending the offside rule is something akin to Einstien’s Theory of Relativity). 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 3-2-1 and 1-2-3? My eyes glaze. (Yes, smarty pants I made the last two up.) Americans love their encyclopedic list of rules and regulations that nobody but us can comprehend, games so utterly baffling, bamboozling and complicated that only we can play, compete, perfect and, PRESTO consequently claim to be World Champions in. This is Americans’ god-given right as Masters of the Universe. Then there’s the whole head thing. In every other sporting pursuit and, umm, human endeavour from birth one’s natural instinct is to protect that orb above our shoulders. Repeatedly banging one’s skull against a hard object in order to win a match flies in the face of common sense. I see that large sphere hurtling through space from the corner kick and my instinct is to shout, “DUCK, you IDIOT!” Not these men, no, no. Mild concussion? Good lad. Give the man a knighthood. (Not so fast, Beckham. Best stick to what you know, flogging boxer briefs and desperately seeking your relevance.) I guess we could toss Rugby into this mix of cranial-carefree crazies, but then they’re just mental. Lastly, for Americans, sport is all about hand-eye coordination, so a game where one is penalised for using them is just, well, weird. I won’t even get into the prissy, shameful, oh-so-Oscar-worthy diving and theatrics. Too easy. But, I mean c’mon, REALLY???

Saying all this, after England’s peerless display against Sweden, to this uneducated footie-layman’s eye at least, Southgate’s men are displaying the qualities of a squad that maybe, just maybe, deserve to win. This young group of unflappable, and dare I say, likeable players are at last exhibiting the pluck, class, team spirit, dignity, humility and determination worthy of a proper England squad, led by a manager with more know-how, grit, (not to mention fierce sartorial flair) than ego. This is the team better known for their playing and hex-banishing penalty taking than off-the-pitch antics.  A team who for once believe they can win, rather than should win. It’s a remarkable thing, that win or lose they will come home knowing they’ve done their country proud. So C’MON ENGLAND! (Did I just say that?) Why yes, yes I did! It’s coming home! It’s coming HOME! IT’S COMING HOME! (Perhaps.)