France win the World Cup and a nation celebrates.
Phew! After three weeks of Robbie Williams, Russian president Vladimir Putin shaking hands with Arab oil sheikhs, blaring horns, gloriously atmospheric football matches and global entente cordiale, it somehow seemed fitting that France should claim that golden trophy at the end of an almost relentless onslaught of joyous, gorgeous football that fully restored your faith in human nature.
And so it was that France took the Jules Rimet trophy to Paris where 20 years earlier they'd won their first World Cup in their own country and on their own terms. Maybe this is a poetic justice for a country where terrorism on its streets and neighbourhoods in recent years threatened to destroy and destabilise France where once a petit dejeuner with baguettes in the morning seemed the perfect introduction to their day.
France have done it again and they've done with that joie de vivre and innately expressive joy and zest for life that the French love to think of as one of their essential characteristics. 'Les Bleus' have allowed history to strike up the same narrative as the one which accompanied them when Emmanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, Lauren Blanc, Zinedine Zidane and now Didier Deschamps once indulged themselves.
Then they flaunted their finest finery, revealing that peacock plumage to a stunned world and then demonstrating all of the virtues that announced to the rest of the world that the French had a football team to reckon with, never knowingly dismissed as some burlesque cabaret at the Moulin Rouges. This was a France that wanted to be recognised, applauded, eulogised and finally accepted amongst the footballing intelligentsia, the cream of the crop, the ruling elites of the footballing community.
Last night though, the current French incarnation dipped into the richest Proustian lyricism with some of the most colourfully illustrative, richly decorative and mind blowingly picturesque football. In a stupendous and highly enjoyable 4-2 victory against Croatia, France, although briefly rocked back by the lightning speed with which the Croatians had begun the World Cup Final, roared back into contention in a second half of outstanding counter attacking football that swept their opponents out on to some lonely rock.
Now is the time to pay homage to a French team who, perhaps for the first time, came together in a stunning show of unity where once discord existed. It was a France who may well have plodded their way through this World Cup but then moved much closer together because they knew that if they didn't the consequences may have been severe. This was not the France of the enfant terrible era where the players in blue stormed out of playing camps, sulking and sneering disdainfully at anybody who came anywhere them.
France are now back on the top of the world and at the end of their World Cup winning display manager Didier Deschamps, all suited and booted, was lifted high up into the Russian air. Over and over again Deschamps was thrown high into the night sky in a massive outpouring of appreciation, respect and fervent acknowledgement of everything he'd done for them since taking over as a manager. At times it must have felt like some religious ritual where a football manager is briefly worshipped just for 90 minutes.
Perhaps the French will be chiefly remembered for the way in which they flattened Argentina in the second round of matches. In quite the most extraordinary performance the France of Griezmann, Mbappe, Pogba and Kante stripped open an Argentina defence that were led the ultimate tango by a French team of slick flicks, subtle skills, explosive pace, tantalising tricks, beautiful first time football and soulful sentimentality. It almost felt as if the whole of the French team had been released from captivity and allowed to play in their playground.
When this World Cup exploded it did so with a vengeance. Completely against the run of the play France broke forward in a rare attack. A cross from the right caught out the whole of the Croatian defence and Mario Mandzukic accidentally got in the way of the ball before allowing it to glance off the side of his head for the opening first French goal. It must have felt like the ultimate punch in the stomach for a Croatia side whose tails were definitely up and were certainly in the ascendancy.
Then, within the space of an amazing couple of minutes, Croatia were back on level terms. After a well worked free kick, Marcos Brozovic, an immense footballing figure, headed the ball back firmly into the box where Ivan Perisic stole in forcefully like the fastest of steam train to drill the ball past Hugo Lloris in the French goal.
It was quite the most unbelievable start to a World Cup Final since Johan Cruyff danced through a static West German defence to earn a penalty for Holland in 1974 which was promptly converted. That penalty took mere seconds but France and Croatia were just as eager to score yesterday. Now we had a World Cup Final that would top the billing, live up to everything we expected of it and a football match that turned into a carnival, fiesta, a parade, a thrilling cornucopia of one and two touch football and a game that left most of us excessively spoiled. How privileged we were.
It was now that controversy took hold of this game. World Cup Finals do like to gorge
themselves on their moments of drama and melodrama. Now it sparked one of the most hotly disputed goals for ages. From a French corner the ball was played back towards goal and a Croatian hand was alleged to have been responsible for the most debatable penalty for quite some time. The referee, temporarily caught out for a minute, was surrounded by furious French players insisting that a handball should have been punished with a penalty. After a brief VAR consultation France were given their penalty and Griezmann slotted home France's second.
The second half though gave us the kind of intelligent and vastly cultured football that we've come to expect from France. It was almost as if somebody had flicked a switch in the French and somebody had forgotten to turn it off. This was France at their most magnifique, a stately blue galleon, surging and sweeping forward into attack, breaking out of defence like a marauding French Legion attacking on all fronts.
Now the French were in full flight, quite the irresistible force against an immovable object. Croatia could hardly believe what they were witnessing because the scales of justice had swung back in France's favour. What had happened to that quarter of an hour when Croatia were cutting open and dissecting the French defence with forensic efficiency? Had they mislaid their scissors or maybe mislaid the scalpels? There was very little evidence to prove that Croatia had been anywhere near the scene of any French crime because something had gone missing and they were clueless?
The World Cup loves to throw up its wonderkids, its prodigies, its superstar teenagers who suddenly appear from nowhere and leave us breathless. It's hard to believe that exactly 60 years have now passed since the inimitable Pele alerted us to his superlative brilliance when he scored for Brazil against Sweden in the 1958 World Cup Final. 60 years later it happened all over again.
Kylian Mbappe, still learning his apprenticeship, became a wondrous sorcerer for France. A vast majority of French supporters must have thought they'd seen it all when Thierry Henry, Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine scored goals for fun. Mbappe would now give the French a sharp injection of goal scoring genius that perhaps they'd privately thought they'd never see again. All over again France have been given a reason to believe, believing confidently that they've produced a gem.
Last night Mbappe was here, there and everywhere, running with the ball and sprinting over the pitch with all the majesty of a Usain Bolt, eating up the ground, leaving defenders with an air of astonishment on their faces. In a couple of seconds this World Cup Final was over because Mbappe had said it was quite emphatically. It was arguably one of the finest goals scored by a teenager in recent times. Even Pele, you suspect, must have been smiling.
With a blistering, burning burst of pace, Mbappe turned on the afterburners once again, pressed his foot on the accelerator and charged forward like a stallion striding across a beach. He burst forward into open space then checked himself momentarily. It seemed the moment had gone. But there was a wonderful surprise in store for us as he twisted and turned in the penalty area before laying the ball off cleverly and almost succinctly. In fact it reminded of you an author finishing off a sentence or a violinist completing a classical overture.
Paul Pogba, who has once again emerged as one of the most dominant defenders in world football, strode forward in anticipation of Mbappe's trickery. Pogba, in one movement, adjusted his body, quickly shifted his body before thundering home a shot that nestled in the Croatian net before anybody had had time to come up for air.
Minutes later Mbappe completed an unforgettable evening for France with the goal he was fated to get. Griezmann, now blossoming as an attacking force after a slow and sluggish start to recent games, came of age again. We knew that he would find centre stage but there is an undoubted goal scoring talent. He ventured forward toward into the attack and Mbappe somehow sensing that his colleague was somewhere in the vicinity, picked up Griezmann's perceptive ball across the area and blasted the ball home for France's World Cup winning clincher.
But that wasn't quite the end because there had to be that football and comedy join forces, thereby reducing us to gales of laughter. Hugo Lloris, the Spurs keeper, who'd had little to upset an otherwise quite and uneventful evening for France, put on his court jester's clothes. Grabbing hold of the ball for a goal kick from a harmless position, Lloris, perhaps assuming that his team mates had done the job, fumbling his kick and presenting Mario Mandzuvic with the easiest of chances for Croatia's second and consolation goal.
And so it was that the referee blew his final whistle and France were back on top of their Eiffel Tower of happiness, reliving the romance of a World Cup Final victory. There may well be some cynics who wrongfully think that the French have bluffed their way through this World Cup without performing at their best. But art and artistic appreciation has to be a personal thing, totally subjective as it always has been. Cezanne must have had plenty of doubters at the beginning of his career but then Cezanne would never have met Didier Deschamps. France have won the World Cup. It was the right time and place and on careful reflection it had to be France. Vive La France, a nation of bon vivants.
Monday, 16 July 2018
Saturday, 14 July 2018
England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.
England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.
Deep in the heart of England, the willows are still weeping, the chaffinches still chirruping, the magpies are melodious and the robins are still rejoicing. Far off in the countryside the sheep are bleating, the cows chewing on the cud, the stone walls sternly impregnable and the village bakery is a seething hive of activity. But all is well in England.
Two days after that night of all nights England, although nursing sore heads and a real sense of crushing disappointment, can still find reasons to celebrate even in the direct aftermath of a World Cup semi final defeat. Of course they could have been contenders but then the World Cup wouldn't have been a World Cup without an England who almost reached the ultimate summit before slipping up at the most crucial moment.
But this is surely not the time for regret, remorse or self questioning because back in 1990 we were doing exactly the same thing and where did it get us then? We kept cursing the Germans, always vilifying Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle because they'd somehow blasted their penalties into some obscure market town in Italy where everybody drops off to sleep at lunchtime. Surely, the English fans must have felt it couldn't happen again but history, without quite repeating itself, bore an uncanny resemblance to it.
These last stimulating three weeks or so England have entered a mystical land of fantasies, imaginings, dreams, occasional ghosts and demons before finally realising where they were and why they were. Sometimes the path has been littered with unnerving reminders of the past but when all was said and done, Gareth Southgate will sit down tonight with his England men privately convinced that it couldn't have gone any better. At long last it did go right on a number of occasions even if that final hurdle couldn't quite be overcome when perhaps the potential was always there.
And so England clutched its arms, buried their faces in some inconsolable state of mortification, grieved over something there was nothing to get all miserable about and then decided to console itself with the knowledge that maybe modest expectations were completely fulfilled. In Hyde Park, London and every town, city and village, bar and pub across the land, the fanatical supporters of England folded up their flags and banners, chucked their beer into the nearest available bin and just became very philosophical.
This is not the end of the world for the England football team because before boarding for Russia many of their carping critics had suggested that there was no point in going to the World Cup. They were no hopers. mediocre, simply there to make up the numbers, too young as a squad of players and inexperience at the biggest of all football tournaments would take its toll eventually. But this was far from the case. England were surprisingly good, sometimes very good and even exceptional at times. The journey was worthwhile and it could have been far worse. We did step up to the plate and we were absolutely brilliant.
From the briskly efficient dismissal of Tunisia in the opening group game to the wholesale destruction of Panama and then the somewhat more emotionally taxing second round match against Colombia before finishing off Sweden with businesslike professionalism, England did all the right things when they were required to do so. They ticked all of the boxes, followed the job description to the very bitter end and then found that the mood of the nation back in dear old Blighty was exactly in tune with them. They hadn't deserted the team when it looked as though they might have done so and they stayed onside with them all the way when the victories were reeled off one after the other.
England manager Gareth Southgate of course was the saintliest of all football managers, a paragon of virtue. calm, articulate throughout, enunciating all of his vowels and consonants in a very prim and proper manner, oozing cool, karma, that most sober of perspectives, sangfroid and utter nervelessness.
Southgate reminded you of one of those young investors about to open up a new account in their local bank. Of course he's worried about interest rates, mortgages and capital tax relief but they wouldn't be human if they weren't. There was something richly heartening about Southgate's behaviour, his impeccable handling of every challenge that came his way, that uncanny ability to keep everything at arm's length while everybody around him was literally getting over excited and dreaming the impossible dream.
We'll miss that now famously extensive wardrobe of waistcoats, the waistcoats that came to define Southgate because at times it looked as if they were some kind of lucky mascot. But Southgate will always be remembered for that moment after an England match when that cute and whimsical fist pump of celebration began to look like some therapeutic release for the man in charge and a lovely snapshot of what probably happens to us all when something simply astonishing has happened to us when we were least expecting it. Maybe this had been Southgate's Lottery victory.
Sadly, this was England's final curtain and final tantalising glimpse of a World Cup that had lasted for much longer than they thought it would. And yet it all started so promisingly, so encouragingly and then spectacularly for England. In retrospect England seemed to peak at the wrong time and found that there was too long to go and too much time on their hands. If only the match had worked out differently, if only that schedule could have been re-arranged and the time frame had been more to their liking.
England flew out of the starting blocks and spent the whole of the first half against Croatia bossing the game, dictating the flow and tempo of the game, calling all the shots, leaving their pronounced imprint on the game. For lengthy spells of that first half an hour England actually looked like a potential World Cup winning team, cannily constructive, building their movements with care, deliberation and stealthy cunning. It lifted the collective hearts of all English supporters watching back in England and made the rest of the world sit up and take notice.
Once the athletic and superbly mobile Kyle Walker found his bearings with those harrying, hurrying sprints up and down his flank England found both a first and then second wind. Walker was rugged, tireless and full of adventurous ambition. Walker was always first in the tackle, thrusting and lunging forward in a way that Mick Mills or Phil Neal would have been proud of during the 1970s. As they say Walker gave us sweat, blood but very few tears. He was committed, ruthlessly uncompromising.
Beside Walker was the hugely impressive John Stones, one of a whole handful of England players to have experienced the muck and bullets of English football in the lower leagues. Stones is rock solid at the back, a player of stylish interventions and interceptions, totally unflustered by the chaotic bedlam around him and completely equipped with all of a good centre half's technical resources. Stones glides forward out of defence, carefully taking stock of his surroundings and then using the ball with absolute attention to detail.
There was Harry Maguire who, while not quite a Phil Thompson or Dave Watson at the heart of the England defence yet, still looks powerful, quietly intimidating at the back against rampaging forwards and heading goals with the same ferocity as Stones from almost identical corners. In fact set pieces had successfully yielded a bumper crop of goals for England which may always have been the national forte anyway. But who were we to complain? Maguire had headed home England's first goal against Sweden and once again appeared capable of scoring in much the same way.
Alarmingly though, England's midfield, generally in complete control during the first half, still has to be a work in progress. The glaring absence of genuinely creative midfield playmakers is almost painfully obvious. England are in desperate need of another Paul Gascoigne, another definitive game changer, a sparking plug, a dynamic catalyst who, once in possession of the ball, will nurse and cherish it while at the same time plotting secret routes into the opposition's half. England need the elegance and beauty of a Trevor Brooking, a Tony Currie or the driving force of a Bryan Robson.
Still, for much of the game against Croatia they did have Jordan Henderson, a player of precise measurements and neat distribution of the ball. From time to time the Liverpool schemer can find his colleague with devastating cross field passes or damaging balls into critical areas of the pitch. But for all of his authority and assurance, Henderson is still missing something, a stronger influence perhaps although the panache is still there at times.
Jessie Lingard of course has been a startling revelation for England throughout this World Cup. Lingard hovers around opposition penalty areas like a predatory vulture, picking up the ball swiftly, hunting for space and then swooping down on his prey with hungry relish. Lingard's goal against Panama was simply outstanding, the result of almost exotic England build up play. Lingard curled the ball into the net like a seasoned golfer chipping out of a bunker and directly into the hole.
Dele Alli has been one of Spurs most consistent of midfield players and for England Alli has made the step up to the national side effortlessly. On one or two occasions some of us were beginning to tremble in the early stages of the Sweden game but then we realised that English vulnerabilities were always likely to be exposed. Alli does look a player of foresight and initiative, of all round vision and perceptive passes to those around him but there are one or two disturbing rough edges that may need to be ironed out.
Finally, there is the captain Harry Kane, whose meteoric rise to fame and prominence as an England forward has been nothing short of amazing. Kane could well pick up the Golden Boot for the abundance of goals scored at this World Cup. Regrettably Kane, although eager and dangerous in previous games, didn't really look like scoring. When England went in front against Croatia, Kane perhaps should have made much more of a goal scoring chance but this is forgivable. Kane, dare we say it, looked sluggish and off the pace slightly, a man aware of the immense contribution he'd made throughout the World Cup but then finding that he'd run out of petrol when it counted.
England though did produce the goal scoring hero against Croatia from the most improbable source. Kieran Trippier, whose name very few around the world had ever heard of us, made the vital breakthrough. After five minutes England were awarded a free kick just outside the area. Trippier, whose set piece expertise had yet to be acclaimed, did something that came almost naturally to David Beckham. He gazed at the wall in front of him, trotted forward like a silent assassin and sent a dipping, soaring shot which flew over the wall and bulged the net in no time at all. Croatia keeper Daniel Subasic could only admire the goal.
For the rest of the first half England continued to rotate the ball with short, smart and staccato passing cameos that looked as if they'd fully absorbed a German or Brazilian reference book from yesteryear. The passes were sugary sweet, arrogantly accurate, the result of studious research in quiet libraries rather than some ugly, ill designed building that looked to have seen better days. England were now in the driving seat, caressing the ball rather than neglecting it.
Then in the second half Croatia, now fully aware that the game appeared to be drifting away, snatched the ball away almost rudely and without ceremony. How dare those English tell us how or how not to play football. Croatia, were livid, incensed and fiercely intent on revenge and retribution. Suddenly, the team who normally wear red and white diamonds on their shirt, slowly wiped out England's attacking advantage.
Now in black Croatia, inspired brilliantly by their astoundingly imaginative playmaker Luka Modric and now ably assisted by the aggressively combative but ever available Ivan Rakitic, almost mercilessly pulled England from one side of the pitch to the other. It was rather like waiting for a public execution and finding that the gallows were about to be prepared. England looked weary, exhausted, condemned men, ready and waiting for their brutal punishment.
And so it was that Ivan Perisic, now apparently wanted by Manchester United, made his mark on the game. A ball just outside the England penalty area, was casually knocked back into an open, yawning gap by Mario Mandzukic where Perisic pounced immediately by clipping the ball back across goal and into the net for the Croatia equaliser. 1-1 with a large slice of the game to go.
For the rest of this World Cup semi final England just vanished into the dust, collapsing like a fragile sandcastle and toppling over like an old industrial chimney. England had lost the plot, fought themselves to a standstill and now reminded you of a once great actor fluffing their lines and being subjected to complete embarrassment by their understudies. It could have been 1990 revisited but this time there were no Germans, no penalties and you can only imagine what Sir Bobby Robson would have thought of it all.
Deep into extra time, with England flagging and wilting like long distance marathon runners, now fell back helplessly into the ditch. beaten, eventually overwhelmed and desperate for the final whistle. Madzukic, in the right time and the right place fired home the winning goal for Croatia. And now it was that a nation that had only achieved independence in recent times, demonstrated the full gamut of their emotions. Croatia had reached a World Cup Final and few could have begrudged them their place in the sun.
When the final whistle went England, who had come so far in the shortest time, sat slumped on the pitch, staring around them as if privately hoping that somewhere they'd find ample consolation for their gallant endeavours. This had, undoubtedly been, one of the best World Cups for England since that year of 1990 in Italy and none should readily criticise or denigrate this latest crop of very young English players.
So it was that the players in white shirts reluctantly left Moscow with hanging heads perhaps but straight backs in defeat. Among the crowd three handsome Israeli flags fluttered easily on the Russian breeze. The England band were still experimenting with variations of 'Earth, Wind and Fire' classics while far away the St George's flags and banners were forlornly waving their farewells. These last three weeks in Russia have told us much more about the England football team than we'll ever know. Our England, brave England, heroic England. We can never thank you enough.
Deep in the heart of England, the willows are still weeping, the chaffinches still chirruping, the magpies are melodious and the robins are still rejoicing. Far off in the countryside the sheep are bleating, the cows chewing on the cud, the stone walls sternly impregnable and the village bakery is a seething hive of activity. But all is well in England.
Two days after that night of all nights England, although nursing sore heads and a real sense of crushing disappointment, can still find reasons to celebrate even in the direct aftermath of a World Cup semi final defeat. Of course they could have been contenders but then the World Cup wouldn't have been a World Cup without an England who almost reached the ultimate summit before slipping up at the most crucial moment.
But this is surely not the time for regret, remorse or self questioning because back in 1990 we were doing exactly the same thing and where did it get us then? We kept cursing the Germans, always vilifying Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle because they'd somehow blasted their penalties into some obscure market town in Italy where everybody drops off to sleep at lunchtime. Surely, the English fans must have felt it couldn't happen again but history, without quite repeating itself, bore an uncanny resemblance to it.
These last stimulating three weeks or so England have entered a mystical land of fantasies, imaginings, dreams, occasional ghosts and demons before finally realising where they were and why they were. Sometimes the path has been littered with unnerving reminders of the past but when all was said and done, Gareth Southgate will sit down tonight with his England men privately convinced that it couldn't have gone any better. At long last it did go right on a number of occasions even if that final hurdle couldn't quite be overcome when perhaps the potential was always there.
And so England clutched its arms, buried their faces in some inconsolable state of mortification, grieved over something there was nothing to get all miserable about and then decided to console itself with the knowledge that maybe modest expectations were completely fulfilled. In Hyde Park, London and every town, city and village, bar and pub across the land, the fanatical supporters of England folded up their flags and banners, chucked their beer into the nearest available bin and just became very philosophical.
This is not the end of the world for the England football team because before boarding for Russia many of their carping critics had suggested that there was no point in going to the World Cup. They were no hopers. mediocre, simply there to make up the numbers, too young as a squad of players and inexperience at the biggest of all football tournaments would take its toll eventually. But this was far from the case. England were surprisingly good, sometimes very good and even exceptional at times. The journey was worthwhile and it could have been far worse. We did step up to the plate and we were absolutely brilliant.
From the briskly efficient dismissal of Tunisia in the opening group game to the wholesale destruction of Panama and then the somewhat more emotionally taxing second round match against Colombia before finishing off Sweden with businesslike professionalism, England did all the right things when they were required to do so. They ticked all of the boxes, followed the job description to the very bitter end and then found that the mood of the nation back in dear old Blighty was exactly in tune with them. They hadn't deserted the team when it looked as though they might have done so and they stayed onside with them all the way when the victories were reeled off one after the other.
England manager Gareth Southgate of course was the saintliest of all football managers, a paragon of virtue. calm, articulate throughout, enunciating all of his vowels and consonants in a very prim and proper manner, oozing cool, karma, that most sober of perspectives, sangfroid and utter nervelessness.
Southgate reminded you of one of those young investors about to open up a new account in their local bank. Of course he's worried about interest rates, mortgages and capital tax relief but they wouldn't be human if they weren't. There was something richly heartening about Southgate's behaviour, his impeccable handling of every challenge that came his way, that uncanny ability to keep everything at arm's length while everybody around him was literally getting over excited and dreaming the impossible dream.
We'll miss that now famously extensive wardrobe of waistcoats, the waistcoats that came to define Southgate because at times it looked as if they were some kind of lucky mascot. But Southgate will always be remembered for that moment after an England match when that cute and whimsical fist pump of celebration began to look like some therapeutic release for the man in charge and a lovely snapshot of what probably happens to us all when something simply astonishing has happened to us when we were least expecting it. Maybe this had been Southgate's Lottery victory.
Sadly, this was England's final curtain and final tantalising glimpse of a World Cup that had lasted for much longer than they thought it would. And yet it all started so promisingly, so encouragingly and then spectacularly for England. In retrospect England seemed to peak at the wrong time and found that there was too long to go and too much time on their hands. If only the match had worked out differently, if only that schedule could have been re-arranged and the time frame had been more to their liking.
England flew out of the starting blocks and spent the whole of the first half against Croatia bossing the game, dictating the flow and tempo of the game, calling all the shots, leaving their pronounced imprint on the game. For lengthy spells of that first half an hour England actually looked like a potential World Cup winning team, cannily constructive, building their movements with care, deliberation and stealthy cunning. It lifted the collective hearts of all English supporters watching back in England and made the rest of the world sit up and take notice.
Once the athletic and superbly mobile Kyle Walker found his bearings with those harrying, hurrying sprints up and down his flank England found both a first and then second wind. Walker was rugged, tireless and full of adventurous ambition. Walker was always first in the tackle, thrusting and lunging forward in a way that Mick Mills or Phil Neal would have been proud of during the 1970s. As they say Walker gave us sweat, blood but very few tears. He was committed, ruthlessly uncompromising.
Beside Walker was the hugely impressive John Stones, one of a whole handful of England players to have experienced the muck and bullets of English football in the lower leagues. Stones is rock solid at the back, a player of stylish interventions and interceptions, totally unflustered by the chaotic bedlam around him and completely equipped with all of a good centre half's technical resources. Stones glides forward out of defence, carefully taking stock of his surroundings and then using the ball with absolute attention to detail.
There was Harry Maguire who, while not quite a Phil Thompson or Dave Watson at the heart of the England defence yet, still looks powerful, quietly intimidating at the back against rampaging forwards and heading goals with the same ferocity as Stones from almost identical corners. In fact set pieces had successfully yielded a bumper crop of goals for England which may always have been the national forte anyway. But who were we to complain? Maguire had headed home England's first goal against Sweden and once again appeared capable of scoring in much the same way.
Alarmingly though, England's midfield, generally in complete control during the first half, still has to be a work in progress. The glaring absence of genuinely creative midfield playmakers is almost painfully obvious. England are in desperate need of another Paul Gascoigne, another definitive game changer, a sparking plug, a dynamic catalyst who, once in possession of the ball, will nurse and cherish it while at the same time plotting secret routes into the opposition's half. England need the elegance and beauty of a Trevor Brooking, a Tony Currie or the driving force of a Bryan Robson.
Still, for much of the game against Croatia they did have Jordan Henderson, a player of precise measurements and neat distribution of the ball. From time to time the Liverpool schemer can find his colleague with devastating cross field passes or damaging balls into critical areas of the pitch. But for all of his authority and assurance, Henderson is still missing something, a stronger influence perhaps although the panache is still there at times.
Jessie Lingard of course has been a startling revelation for England throughout this World Cup. Lingard hovers around opposition penalty areas like a predatory vulture, picking up the ball swiftly, hunting for space and then swooping down on his prey with hungry relish. Lingard's goal against Panama was simply outstanding, the result of almost exotic England build up play. Lingard curled the ball into the net like a seasoned golfer chipping out of a bunker and directly into the hole.
Dele Alli has been one of Spurs most consistent of midfield players and for England Alli has made the step up to the national side effortlessly. On one or two occasions some of us were beginning to tremble in the early stages of the Sweden game but then we realised that English vulnerabilities were always likely to be exposed. Alli does look a player of foresight and initiative, of all round vision and perceptive passes to those around him but there are one or two disturbing rough edges that may need to be ironed out.
Finally, there is the captain Harry Kane, whose meteoric rise to fame and prominence as an England forward has been nothing short of amazing. Kane could well pick up the Golden Boot for the abundance of goals scored at this World Cup. Regrettably Kane, although eager and dangerous in previous games, didn't really look like scoring. When England went in front against Croatia, Kane perhaps should have made much more of a goal scoring chance but this is forgivable. Kane, dare we say it, looked sluggish and off the pace slightly, a man aware of the immense contribution he'd made throughout the World Cup but then finding that he'd run out of petrol when it counted.
England though did produce the goal scoring hero against Croatia from the most improbable source. Kieran Trippier, whose name very few around the world had ever heard of us, made the vital breakthrough. After five minutes England were awarded a free kick just outside the area. Trippier, whose set piece expertise had yet to be acclaimed, did something that came almost naturally to David Beckham. He gazed at the wall in front of him, trotted forward like a silent assassin and sent a dipping, soaring shot which flew over the wall and bulged the net in no time at all. Croatia keeper Daniel Subasic could only admire the goal.
For the rest of the first half England continued to rotate the ball with short, smart and staccato passing cameos that looked as if they'd fully absorbed a German or Brazilian reference book from yesteryear. The passes were sugary sweet, arrogantly accurate, the result of studious research in quiet libraries rather than some ugly, ill designed building that looked to have seen better days. England were now in the driving seat, caressing the ball rather than neglecting it.
Then in the second half Croatia, now fully aware that the game appeared to be drifting away, snatched the ball away almost rudely and without ceremony. How dare those English tell us how or how not to play football. Croatia, were livid, incensed and fiercely intent on revenge and retribution. Suddenly, the team who normally wear red and white diamonds on their shirt, slowly wiped out England's attacking advantage.
Now in black Croatia, inspired brilliantly by their astoundingly imaginative playmaker Luka Modric and now ably assisted by the aggressively combative but ever available Ivan Rakitic, almost mercilessly pulled England from one side of the pitch to the other. It was rather like waiting for a public execution and finding that the gallows were about to be prepared. England looked weary, exhausted, condemned men, ready and waiting for their brutal punishment.
And so it was that Ivan Perisic, now apparently wanted by Manchester United, made his mark on the game. A ball just outside the England penalty area, was casually knocked back into an open, yawning gap by Mario Mandzukic where Perisic pounced immediately by clipping the ball back across goal and into the net for the Croatia equaliser. 1-1 with a large slice of the game to go.
For the rest of this World Cup semi final England just vanished into the dust, collapsing like a fragile sandcastle and toppling over like an old industrial chimney. England had lost the plot, fought themselves to a standstill and now reminded you of a once great actor fluffing their lines and being subjected to complete embarrassment by their understudies. It could have been 1990 revisited but this time there were no Germans, no penalties and you can only imagine what Sir Bobby Robson would have thought of it all.
Deep into extra time, with England flagging and wilting like long distance marathon runners, now fell back helplessly into the ditch. beaten, eventually overwhelmed and desperate for the final whistle. Madzukic, in the right time and the right place fired home the winning goal for Croatia. And now it was that a nation that had only achieved independence in recent times, demonstrated the full gamut of their emotions. Croatia had reached a World Cup Final and few could have begrudged them their place in the sun.
When the final whistle went England, who had come so far in the shortest time, sat slumped on the pitch, staring around them as if privately hoping that somewhere they'd find ample consolation for their gallant endeavours. This had, undoubtedly been, one of the best World Cups for England since that year of 1990 in Italy and none should readily criticise or denigrate this latest crop of very young English players.
So it was that the players in white shirts reluctantly left Moscow with hanging heads perhaps but straight backs in defeat. Among the crowd three handsome Israeli flags fluttered easily on the Russian breeze. The England band were still experimenting with variations of 'Earth, Wind and Fire' classics while far away the St George's flags and banners were forlornly waving their farewells. These last three weeks in Russia have told us much more about the England football team than we'll ever know. Our England, brave England, heroic England. We can never thank you enough.
Wednesday, 11 July 2018
France reach the 2018 World Cup Final.
France reach the 2018 World Cup Final.
If this was a French Renaissance then maybe we should welcome it with open arms. The World Cup has now reached boiling point and France have reached their third World Cup Final in recent years with a hard- earned, nerve shredding 1-0 victory over their next door neighbours Belgium. Napoleon Bonaparte may well have described England as a nation of shopkeepers but should England beat Croatia in their World Cup semi final we may have to lock our doors because the stampede for the pizzas and lager will probably exceed all expectations.
Last night there was very little in the way of a French resistance as the current generation of France snuffed out and nullified Belgium in a way that many of us might have suspected they would. This was no ordinary World Cup sem-final. It was much more than that. It was a private grudge match, a historical settling of old scores, fierce rivalry but nothing more than a local skirmish that shouldn't have been allowed to get in the way of a proper football match.
In the end France, now inspired by the sensational Kylian Mbappe and the remarkable skills of Antoine Griezmann, quite literally engaged Belgium in a gripping match of footballing arm wrestling, a contest of passion, furious pace and psychological warfare. Here was a World Cup semi final between two of the most evenly balanced of European teams left in the competition. None dared to catch our breath in case somebody blinked for a moment and you missed something vitally important.
Football need never be the be all and end all of everything and for much of this pulsating contest, it was hard to determine who was the superior and who was the inferior of these two teams. Something had to give and nerves were jangling like keys in your pocket. Would the French crack under the strain of it all or would Belgium give in to the temptation of chocolates and waffles? But this was far more serious than any of such frivolous considerations. There was a World Cup Final at stake and this one mattered enormously.
Belgium, at least for the first half hour or so, took the game right to France with deliciously accomplished football that made the backs at the end of your hair stand up on end. When Kevin De Bruyne, Eden Hazard and Romelu Lukaku passed and passed and passed the ball in ever increasing circles, France found themselves chasing red shadows. In and out, round and across, sideways and then gloriously forward Belgium glued together a thousand mosaic tiles of passes that left the French looking at a meek surrender. It was a pleasure to watch but then you began to wonder when the Belgians would find their end product. It was not forthcoming so the French just looked on.
With Jan Vertonghen and Vincent Kompany once again conducting themselves with utter distinction, the fuzzy headed Marouane Fellaini and the tireless Axel Witsel providing streetwise knowledge in good attacking positions, Belgium were looking both suave and sophisticated with a nod to high fashion and cool, avant garde movements on the ball. Belgium looked the better and more technically equipped of the two sides but then they found themselves lost in those complex avenues and alleyways that football can often throw up in front of them.
In the second half the wondrously gifted Kylian Mbappe, Paul Pogba an immovable rock at the back, Benjamin Pavard now developing into one of the most dependable defenders of the World Cup, N'Golo Kante, forever winning tackles, breaking forward with beautifully timed runs into Belgium's half and generally looking the most complete of midfield players in the modern game, France snatched back the initiative and never looked back.
Slowly but surely the French pinched back possession of the ball and while never entirely sure what to do with it, still glided and wafted around Belgium with intricate touches of their own. Once Griezmann found the spaces he seemed to be looking for and Olivier Giroud finally discovered that this could be his night after all, France began to run at Roberto Martinez's side with well organised breakaways that often caught Belgium on the hop and baffled by the dramatic change of tone of the game.
Then just before an hour of the game completed the stale mate was broken. Belgium, who by now must have felt like one of those frustrated shoppers at the winter sales, were suddenly caught by complete surprise. You were reminded of that circus high wire act where the intrepid performer wobbles precariously and knows that things will be right. Belgium must have thought nothing could shake their composure but it did and how shocked they would become.
A routine corner was whipped in with threat and menace. Samuel Umtiti, full of strength and conviction, jumped powerfully and confidently before flicking home his header for France's opening goal. It would be the last time that Belgium would ever leave their hallmark on the game. They strove marvellously and gallantly with every fibre of their being but the French wall would not be blown down and breached damagingly.
And so it is that France return to a World Cup Final exactly 20 years since their first excursion in their homeland when Brazil must have felt they'd been swept away by a rampant French team including the majestic Zinedine Zidane, Laurent Blanc, Emmanuel Petit and Thierry Henry. France are now back in the place they must feel is their rightful place after losing to the Italians in a World Cup Final.
For England of course their night among the stars against Croatia is yet to come. But all the signs are that the next few days for both England and France could become very personal. The prospect of a cross Channel derby gracing a World Cup Final stage still sounds a slightly bizarre prospect given the strained relations between Britain and her closest European acquaintances. Perhaps the French could have never have anticipated this would happen. Time for a re-assuring entente cordiale.
If this was a French Renaissance then maybe we should welcome it with open arms. The World Cup has now reached boiling point and France have reached their third World Cup Final in recent years with a hard- earned, nerve shredding 1-0 victory over their next door neighbours Belgium. Napoleon Bonaparte may well have described England as a nation of shopkeepers but should England beat Croatia in their World Cup semi final we may have to lock our doors because the stampede for the pizzas and lager will probably exceed all expectations.
Last night there was very little in the way of a French resistance as the current generation of France snuffed out and nullified Belgium in a way that many of us might have suspected they would. This was no ordinary World Cup sem-final. It was much more than that. It was a private grudge match, a historical settling of old scores, fierce rivalry but nothing more than a local skirmish that shouldn't have been allowed to get in the way of a proper football match.
In the end France, now inspired by the sensational Kylian Mbappe and the remarkable skills of Antoine Griezmann, quite literally engaged Belgium in a gripping match of footballing arm wrestling, a contest of passion, furious pace and psychological warfare. Here was a World Cup semi final between two of the most evenly balanced of European teams left in the competition. None dared to catch our breath in case somebody blinked for a moment and you missed something vitally important.
Football need never be the be all and end all of everything and for much of this pulsating contest, it was hard to determine who was the superior and who was the inferior of these two teams. Something had to give and nerves were jangling like keys in your pocket. Would the French crack under the strain of it all or would Belgium give in to the temptation of chocolates and waffles? But this was far more serious than any of such frivolous considerations. There was a World Cup Final at stake and this one mattered enormously.
Belgium, at least for the first half hour or so, took the game right to France with deliciously accomplished football that made the backs at the end of your hair stand up on end. When Kevin De Bruyne, Eden Hazard and Romelu Lukaku passed and passed and passed the ball in ever increasing circles, France found themselves chasing red shadows. In and out, round and across, sideways and then gloriously forward Belgium glued together a thousand mosaic tiles of passes that left the French looking at a meek surrender. It was a pleasure to watch but then you began to wonder when the Belgians would find their end product. It was not forthcoming so the French just looked on.
With Jan Vertonghen and Vincent Kompany once again conducting themselves with utter distinction, the fuzzy headed Marouane Fellaini and the tireless Axel Witsel providing streetwise knowledge in good attacking positions, Belgium were looking both suave and sophisticated with a nod to high fashion and cool, avant garde movements on the ball. Belgium looked the better and more technically equipped of the two sides but then they found themselves lost in those complex avenues and alleyways that football can often throw up in front of them.
In the second half the wondrously gifted Kylian Mbappe, Paul Pogba an immovable rock at the back, Benjamin Pavard now developing into one of the most dependable defenders of the World Cup, N'Golo Kante, forever winning tackles, breaking forward with beautifully timed runs into Belgium's half and generally looking the most complete of midfield players in the modern game, France snatched back the initiative and never looked back.
Slowly but surely the French pinched back possession of the ball and while never entirely sure what to do with it, still glided and wafted around Belgium with intricate touches of their own. Once Griezmann found the spaces he seemed to be looking for and Olivier Giroud finally discovered that this could be his night after all, France began to run at Roberto Martinez's side with well organised breakaways that often caught Belgium on the hop and baffled by the dramatic change of tone of the game.
Then just before an hour of the game completed the stale mate was broken. Belgium, who by now must have felt like one of those frustrated shoppers at the winter sales, were suddenly caught by complete surprise. You were reminded of that circus high wire act where the intrepid performer wobbles precariously and knows that things will be right. Belgium must have thought nothing could shake their composure but it did and how shocked they would become.
A routine corner was whipped in with threat and menace. Samuel Umtiti, full of strength and conviction, jumped powerfully and confidently before flicking home his header for France's opening goal. It would be the last time that Belgium would ever leave their hallmark on the game. They strove marvellously and gallantly with every fibre of their being but the French wall would not be blown down and breached damagingly.
And so it is that France return to a World Cup Final exactly 20 years since their first excursion in their homeland when Brazil must have felt they'd been swept away by a rampant French team including the majestic Zinedine Zidane, Laurent Blanc, Emmanuel Petit and Thierry Henry. France are now back in the place they must feel is their rightful place after losing to the Italians in a World Cup Final.
For England of course their night among the stars against Croatia is yet to come. But all the signs are that the next few days for both England and France could become very personal. The prospect of a cross Channel derby gracing a World Cup Final stage still sounds a slightly bizarre prospect given the strained relations between Britain and her closest European acquaintances. Perhaps the French could have never have anticipated this would happen. Time for a re-assuring entente cordiale.
Sunday, 8 July 2018
Oh glory be- England in World Cup semi final against Croatia.
Oh glory be- England in World Cup semi final against Croatia.
Oh glory be! It may or may not be coming home but for the first time in 28 years England are in a World Cup semi final and this is the one of those wow moments in English footballing history when nothing comes close to matching the thrill of it all, the feverish anticipation of that seminal moment when the England football team may be on the threshold of something truly unforgettable.
When the final whistle went against Sweden, every bar, pub and restaurant in England simply went bonkers, stir crazy, gripped by wild paroxysms of cheering, unbridled celebration and explosions of beer, plastic cups of lager flying into the air, a blur of alcohol soaring into the ether never to be seen again. For now, England, the country that prides itself on its literary lions, kings and queens, warm beer and timber beamed cottages in the heart of its country, can finally let go and enjoy itself again.
It is hard to believe that it's been 28 years since Bobby Robson's England almost left Germany with egg on its faces and another World Cup defeat. It was the night that the wonderfully talented Paul Gascoigne saw the red mist and England lost its mischievous imp. Gascoigne was booked, promptly blew his hopes of winning a World Cup sky high, the Germans won on penalties and it's never really been the same since. Every four years England have continued to blow hot and cold, never sure of their bearings entirely and then falling on their sword.
But last night it all seemed like another country, another venue, another mentality and a huge cultural shift in the latest fortunes of the England football team. Of course it's been painful and excruciating, of course its been frustrating and exasperating but then this is what we've come to expect over the years. And yet for one night and maybe a couple more nights it may just happen when least expected because 52 years of emptiness and hollowness could be about to come to an end.
It is easy to imagine the likes of Bobby Charlton, Jack Charlton, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters all patiently waiting at home and hoping against hope that the epic feats of that famous day at the end of July 1966 are about to be replicated and revived again. Dare the English dream again, per chance to dream to quote Shakespeare? Is there indeed a bright rainbow on the horizon after so many turbulent storms for the English national side?
So here are the facts. England beat Sweden quite comprehensively in the quarter finals of the World Cup in Russia. Hold on, England were so superior to Sweden that any of us could have beaten Sweden on Hackney Marshes because Sweden had no alternative game plan when the one they'd devised in the first place seemed to be going nowhere.
Sweden were quite awful, dreadful, a mockery of a football team, a team of loose and flimsy nonentities with little in the way of ambition. In the end though, England must have thought they'd made much heavier weather of this game than should have been the case. But the yellow shirts of these Scandinavian warriors had nothing to offer the true connoisseurs of the Beautiful Game.
Sweden gave us leaden footed football, wearisome and tiresome, one dimensional football that seemed to be designed by an IKEA flat pack furniture store. It was wooden, mechanical, painstaking football with no focal point, very few forward thinking ideas and hopelessly stuck in a loop. It was football that was harsh, grinding, dull and laborious. Above all, none of us knew quite what to make of it all.
England of course, quite clearly should have had this match wrapped up with bows on it much earlier than eventually proved the case. For the first time in many a World Cup, England did look like a proper team, united in occasional adversity, a model of togetherness and male bonding, young and perhaps vulnerable at times but nonetheless harmony personified. We may have to pinch ourselves because these days, weeks, months and years very rarely come around if you happen to be an England football supporter.
Then of course there was the England boss Gareth Southgate. Southgate is immensely likeable, amiable, pleasant in interviews, agreeable, civilised and utterly modest. In fact Southgate is a paragon of virtue, quiet, humble, unassuming, totally without airs and graces. And he also shares a surname with a North London suburb which does seem to be an encouraging omen given that another North London venue was the idyllic setting for another glorious World Cup day in 1966.
So here we were in deepest Russia 52 years later and England have discovered a new identity, feeling, a much deeper emotional affinity to not only their fans but the people who keep the whole operation ticking over behind the scenes. Now England have employed a psychologist, all the latest in conditioning and fitness equipment. There is a very real sense that this time England will not come up short on preparation and planning. Forever England will owe a huge debt of gratitude to St Georges Park where all the finishing touches were fine tuned.
Once again the defensive fortress built exclusively for Gareth Southgate's men, played as one, moving as a unit, communicating on the same level and never for a minute doubting their credentials. John Stones, Kyle Walker, Harry Maguire and Ashley Young were confident, never disturbed or perturbed by anything Sweden could throw at them. They blocked and won the second ball on more than several occasions and were never afraid to carry the ball out from the back with the most streetwise air and unfailing assurance.
It was no coincidence that Dele Alli, initially jittery and frighteningly nervous, eventually made the ball work for him. Alli did lose possession quite wastefully and there were times when it looked as if he needed a thorough refresher course into how not to give the ball away. As the game progressed Ali rectified his mistakes and came through with flying colours with the second decisive goal for England.
But England, after their unnerving introduction to the game, eventually re-cycled possession of the ball and knitted their passes together much more quickly and intuitively. Then it all came right for England. Another superb corner aimed straight at the centre of the penalty area prompted Harry Maguire to hurl his body at the ball before powering his header ferociously into the back of the Swedish net for England's opener.
From that point onwards England grabbed hold the ball, stretching the whole of the Swedish back four and forcing Sweden back into their defence like a retreating army that doesn't really know what to do when the first grenades are thrown in combat. England were now commanding and demanding the ball, making all of the right noises and then just cutting off any semblance of a Swedish supply line.
We somehow knew that England were always likely to have their bad patch, a pale imitation of who they were in the first half and this was the case. Suddenly Sweden launched a mini comeback threatening to score but they were never more than cautionary warnings. Jordan Pickford, England's new number one pulled off perhaps the save of this World Cup when a Swedish header seemed destined to turn the game upside down. A Swedish goal would have changed the dynamics completely.
And then delightfully and with some relief England scored again. Following another spurt of England attacking, a blissfully weighted diagonal cross from just outside the Swedish penalty area, hung in the air until reaching the head of Dele Alli, who, with the most nonchalant of flicks with his head, nodded the ball into the net.
Now it was that the game was psychologically over as a contest. Sweden did clamber their way back into the game but England had stifled the Swedes and drained their opponents with perfect game management and football that was clear, articulate and easier to appreciate.
England were through to only their second World Cup semi final against Croatia. The bitter cynics who dismissed them as has beens and mediocre nobodies had to eat a sizeable portion of humble pie. England admittedly are far from being the complete article and the chances are that the World Cup may well elude them this time but you never know it is England and anything is possible when everything seems impossible. So one more push for the finishing line Gareth Southgate. Those waistcoats are this year's fashion. Let's go for it England.
Oh glory be! It may or may not be coming home but for the first time in 28 years England are in a World Cup semi final and this is the one of those wow moments in English footballing history when nothing comes close to matching the thrill of it all, the feverish anticipation of that seminal moment when the England football team may be on the threshold of something truly unforgettable.
When the final whistle went against Sweden, every bar, pub and restaurant in England simply went bonkers, stir crazy, gripped by wild paroxysms of cheering, unbridled celebration and explosions of beer, plastic cups of lager flying into the air, a blur of alcohol soaring into the ether never to be seen again. For now, England, the country that prides itself on its literary lions, kings and queens, warm beer and timber beamed cottages in the heart of its country, can finally let go and enjoy itself again.
It is hard to believe that it's been 28 years since Bobby Robson's England almost left Germany with egg on its faces and another World Cup defeat. It was the night that the wonderfully talented Paul Gascoigne saw the red mist and England lost its mischievous imp. Gascoigne was booked, promptly blew his hopes of winning a World Cup sky high, the Germans won on penalties and it's never really been the same since. Every four years England have continued to blow hot and cold, never sure of their bearings entirely and then falling on their sword.
But last night it all seemed like another country, another venue, another mentality and a huge cultural shift in the latest fortunes of the England football team. Of course it's been painful and excruciating, of course its been frustrating and exasperating but then this is what we've come to expect over the years. And yet for one night and maybe a couple more nights it may just happen when least expected because 52 years of emptiness and hollowness could be about to come to an end.
It is easy to imagine the likes of Bobby Charlton, Jack Charlton, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters all patiently waiting at home and hoping against hope that the epic feats of that famous day at the end of July 1966 are about to be replicated and revived again. Dare the English dream again, per chance to dream to quote Shakespeare? Is there indeed a bright rainbow on the horizon after so many turbulent storms for the English national side?
So here are the facts. England beat Sweden quite comprehensively in the quarter finals of the World Cup in Russia. Hold on, England were so superior to Sweden that any of us could have beaten Sweden on Hackney Marshes because Sweden had no alternative game plan when the one they'd devised in the first place seemed to be going nowhere.
Sweden were quite awful, dreadful, a mockery of a football team, a team of loose and flimsy nonentities with little in the way of ambition. In the end though, England must have thought they'd made much heavier weather of this game than should have been the case. But the yellow shirts of these Scandinavian warriors had nothing to offer the true connoisseurs of the Beautiful Game.
Sweden gave us leaden footed football, wearisome and tiresome, one dimensional football that seemed to be designed by an IKEA flat pack furniture store. It was wooden, mechanical, painstaking football with no focal point, very few forward thinking ideas and hopelessly stuck in a loop. It was football that was harsh, grinding, dull and laborious. Above all, none of us knew quite what to make of it all.
England of course, quite clearly should have had this match wrapped up with bows on it much earlier than eventually proved the case. For the first time in many a World Cup, England did look like a proper team, united in occasional adversity, a model of togetherness and male bonding, young and perhaps vulnerable at times but nonetheless harmony personified. We may have to pinch ourselves because these days, weeks, months and years very rarely come around if you happen to be an England football supporter.
Then of course there was the England boss Gareth Southgate. Southgate is immensely likeable, amiable, pleasant in interviews, agreeable, civilised and utterly modest. In fact Southgate is a paragon of virtue, quiet, humble, unassuming, totally without airs and graces. And he also shares a surname with a North London suburb which does seem to be an encouraging omen given that another North London venue was the idyllic setting for another glorious World Cup day in 1966.
So here we were in deepest Russia 52 years later and England have discovered a new identity, feeling, a much deeper emotional affinity to not only their fans but the people who keep the whole operation ticking over behind the scenes. Now England have employed a psychologist, all the latest in conditioning and fitness equipment. There is a very real sense that this time England will not come up short on preparation and planning. Forever England will owe a huge debt of gratitude to St Georges Park where all the finishing touches were fine tuned.
Once again the defensive fortress built exclusively for Gareth Southgate's men, played as one, moving as a unit, communicating on the same level and never for a minute doubting their credentials. John Stones, Kyle Walker, Harry Maguire and Ashley Young were confident, never disturbed or perturbed by anything Sweden could throw at them. They blocked and won the second ball on more than several occasions and were never afraid to carry the ball out from the back with the most streetwise air and unfailing assurance.
It was no coincidence that Dele Alli, initially jittery and frighteningly nervous, eventually made the ball work for him. Alli did lose possession quite wastefully and there were times when it looked as if he needed a thorough refresher course into how not to give the ball away. As the game progressed Ali rectified his mistakes and came through with flying colours with the second decisive goal for England.
But England, after their unnerving introduction to the game, eventually re-cycled possession of the ball and knitted their passes together much more quickly and intuitively. Then it all came right for England. Another superb corner aimed straight at the centre of the penalty area prompted Harry Maguire to hurl his body at the ball before powering his header ferociously into the back of the Swedish net for England's opener.
From that point onwards England grabbed hold the ball, stretching the whole of the Swedish back four and forcing Sweden back into their defence like a retreating army that doesn't really know what to do when the first grenades are thrown in combat. England were now commanding and demanding the ball, making all of the right noises and then just cutting off any semblance of a Swedish supply line.
We somehow knew that England were always likely to have their bad patch, a pale imitation of who they were in the first half and this was the case. Suddenly Sweden launched a mini comeback threatening to score but they were never more than cautionary warnings. Jordan Pickford, England's new number one pulled off perhaps the save of this World Cup when a Swedish header seemed destined to turn the game upside down. A Swedish goal would have changed the dynamics completely.
And then delightfully and with some relief England scored again. Following another spurt of England attacking, a blissfully weighted diagonal cross from just outside the Swedish penalty area, hung in the air until reaching the head of Dele Alli, who, with the most nonchalant of flicks with his head, nodded the ball into the net.
Now it was that the game was psychologically over as a contest. Sweden did clamber their way back into the game but England had stifled the Swedes and drained their opponents with perfect game management and football that was clear, articulate and easier to appreciate.
England were through to only their second World Cup semi final against Croatia. The bitter cynics who dismissed them as has beens and mediocre nobodies had to eat a sizeable portion of humble pie. England admittedly are far from being the complete article and the chances are that the World Cup may well elude them this time but you never know it is England and anything is possible when everything seems impossible. So one more push for the finishing line Gareth Southgate. Those waistcoats are this year's fashion. Let's go for it England.
Saturday, 7 July 2018
Five times World Cup winners Brazil go out of the World Cup to buoyant Belgium.
Five times World Cup winners Brazil go out of the World Cup to buoyant Belgium.
Brazil have come a long way in this World Cup in Russia but not quite as far as they would have liked. But Brazil are out of the World Cup and for some of us that in itself is nothing short of disastrous. Brazil will always have a place in our hearts because they were the ones who gave the World Cup a very special polish and lustre, a stamp of quality, the most beautiful turn of phrase, breathtaking originality and a star studded shine, a team with a classical sense of innovation and the sweetest fluency.
They were the best of international teams, a team that never stopped giving and will always do so regardless of decade, generation or time frame. Sadly though, this was not the Brazil of old, the Brazil with a very distinctive history and heritage, a team who have left their enduring legacy down the ages and the most convincing of statements wherever they go.
Brazil have now left the World Cup in Russia because their opponents Belgium were almost kindred spirits, heir apparents to the Brazilian footballing crown of yesteryear and a side whose vastly progressive and attractive football may be the successors to the Brazil we used to know. So we dabbed a tear from our eyes and quietly congratulated Belgium on their commendable intentions and suspecting that Belgium may become proud inheritors of today's World Cup and whose now deposed world champions Germany can only wonder if things might have been different.
Last night Belgium quite literally played Brazil at their own game and looked as though they'd stolen the fading documents of a Brazilian portfolio. For lengthy periods of the first half Belgium played with all the artistry and sensitivity of a team for whom the passing game has now become second nature. At times their football reminded you of a precious stone, a team playing with all that freedom and that rich sense of indulgence which occasionally left you speechless with wonder.
From the kick off Roberto Martinez, who started his English playing career with Wigan and then moved into management with both Wigan and then Everton, watched with unashamed pride as his Belgium team broke free of the shackles and restraints of years gone past. For years Belgium have been the strangers at the party, observant onlookers but never really participating with style or class.
Now though Thomas Meunier, Toby Alderweireld and the massively stylish Vincent Kompany and the hugely trustworthy Jan Vertonghen of Spurs nailed up their defence, carefully marshalling and patrolling their back four with the beady eyed scrutiny and vigilance of security officers guarding an important building. They mopped up all the damage and carnage that the Brazilians threatened to create in their second half, throwing the most protective red curtain around them at all times.
But it was in midfield and up front that Belgium excelled. Frequently, Belgium looked as if their stunningly efficient and improvisational football on the counter attack would leave Brazil on some remote island in the middle of nowhere. It was football of the sharpest, quickest and most incisive kind. Belgium drilled holes in the Brazilians defence relentlessly and powerfully, weaving their way in and out of the five times winners of the World Cup rather like needlework technicians, carefully sewing their patterns with delicate precision.
And then Belgium let their magicians out of the hat and the world looked on agog. Kevin De Bruyne of Manchester City was now playing some of the finest football of his life, dribbling with the ball with a conjuror's sleight of hand, assessing and analysing every attacking possibility like a scientist in a laboratory experimenting with chemicals in a test tube. De Bruyne was forever asking questions, posing teasers, scheming, testing the ground, exploring avenues, opening up Brazil like a present at a children's birthday party.
Then there was Marouane Fellaini, whose remarkably large afro hairstyle really does stand out in a crowd. Fellaini has enjoyed a moderately satisfying season for Manchester United but, to the outsider, still has the unorthodox and unconventional about him This is not to suggest that Fellaini should take up basketball or perhaps tennis but his passing can be on the wayward side at times. Still, against Brazil he did look much more comfortable on the ball and never remotely ill at ease.
Finally, Belgium had the inimitable Eden Hazard, surely one of the players of the World Cup so far. Hazard has been impeccably skilful, always imaginative and he body swerved his way around players as if they'd been rendered temporarily invisible. For Chelsea Hazard runs at defenders from deep in his own half, sweeps forward like a gazelle on the plains and then exchanges the daintiest of wall passes or short passes as if he'd done the same thing a thousand times.
For Belgium, Hazard was absolutely breathtaking, a master craftsman with all the hammers and chisels of the most skilled practitioners. Hazard, even when confronted with a wall of yellow shirted Brazilians, somehow wriggled his way in and out of cul-de-sacs, reversing out of brief moments of crisis with all the composure of the most experienced driver.
It was no surprise at all when Belgium took the lead. A corner swung dangerously towards the near post seemed to hang in the air and Fernandinho, who was outstanding for Pep Guardiola's Manchester City last season jumped with a posse of players and his header seemed to brush off his forehead. It was a Brazilian own goal and that if that sounds like a novelty then it probably is.
Minutes later Belgium extended the lead quite amazingly. Just when the Brazilians came up for air, the red shirts of Belgium swarmed forward on the break, tip toeing through a now fragile Brazilian team with the neatest of footwork and passes. This was football of Brazilian simplicity, of streamlined perfection, devastating speed of thought and clinical execution. It couldn't be happening and yet it was. This was the most radical breakthrough for Belgian football and very few of us could have ever imagined that this was the way things would turn out.
Quite what must be going through the minds of their neighbours Holland is anybody's guess because this must be unbearable. For years Holland were the model pioneers, the exponents of Total Football, Johan Cruyff dragging back and stepping over the ball with all of the wizardry and dexterity of a street footballer in Amsterdam. Now though Belgium have their own performance artists such as De Bruyne and Hazard and this must seem like the most upsetting of insults.
Belgium scored what proved to be the game's conclusive second goal half way through the first half. De Bruyne picked up the ball from quite a distance after another piece of Belgian passing poetry he drove the ball fiercely past Brazil keeper Alisson. Game over for Brazil.
In the second half Brazil did produce the most stirring of recoveries and some of the old lyrics, verses and grammatical niceties that the Brazilians have always been renowned for re-surfaced hearteningly and rousingly. Marcelo held onto the ball as if the kid in the playground had given it to him permanently. Marcelo began to nurse and cherish the ball, Paulinho, still looks graceful and well balanced and Phillipe Coutinho is an enormously gifted player of severe striking power. But this was not to be a day of genuine Brazilian showpieces, a day when everything came together.
Although Renato Augusto pulled a goal back for the Brazilians from another inventive and well weighted cross from Coutinho, Brazil were now searching for buried treasure. They rallied forward with their usual fare of bewilderingly dizzying passes to feet but nothing seemed to stick. And so the Brazilian symphony has been silenced and the conductor has put down their baton.
Belgium have set themselves up with perhaps the tastiest, spiciest and juiciest World Cup semi final contest with their neighbours France. Who could have envisaged that the World Cup had this up its sleeve when the tournament started a couple of weeks ago? Argentina, Germany and Spain have been and gone and England are still there which can only be a good thing. We can sense a World Cup Final that may live indelibly in the memory for many a decade and that's something we should always remember.
Brazil have come a long way in this World Cup in Russia but not quite as far as they would have liked. But Brazil are out of the World Cup and for some of us that in itself is nothing short of disastrous. Brazil will always have a place in our hearts because they were the ones who gave the World Cup a very special polish and lustre, a stamp of quality, the most beautiful turn of phrase, breathtaking originality and a star studded shine, a team with a classical sense of innovation and the sweetest fluency.
They were the best of international teams, a team that never stopped giving and will always do so regardless of decade, generation or time frame. Sadly though, this was not the Brazil of old, the Brazil with a very distinctive history and heritage, a team who have left their enduring legacy down the ages and the most convincing of statements wherever they go.
Brazil have now left the World Cup in Russia because their opponents Belgium were almost kindred spirits, heir apparents to the Brazilian footballing crown of yesteryear and a side whose vastly progressive and attractive football may be the successors to the Brazil we used to know. So we dabbed a tear from our eyes and quietly congratulated Belgium on their commendable intentions and suspecting that Belgium may become proud inheritors of today's World Cup and whose now deposed world champions Germany can only wonder if things might have been different.
Last night Belgium quite literally played Brazil at their own game and looked as though they'd stolen the fading documents of a Brazilian portfolio. For lengthy periods of the first half Belgium played with all the artistry and sensitivity of a team for whom the passing game has now become second nature. At times their football reminded you of a precious stone, a team playing with all that freedom and that rich sense of indulgence which occasionally left you speechless with wonder.
From the kick off Roberto Martinez, who started his English playing career with Wigan and then moved into management with both Wigan and then Everton, watched with unashamed pride as his Belgium team broke free of the shackles and restraints of years gone past. For years Belgium have been the strangers at the party, observant onlookers but never really participating with style or class.
Now though Thomas Meunier, Toby Alderweireld and the massively stylish Vincent Kompany and the hugely trustworthy Jan Vertonghen of Spurs nailed up their defence, carefully marshalling and patrolling their back four with the beady eyed scrutiny and vigilance of security officers guarding an important building. They mopped up all the damage and carnage that the Brazilians threatened to create in their second half, throwing the most protective red curtain around them at all times.
But it was in midfield and up front that Belgium excelled. Frequently, Belgium looked as if their stunningly efficient and improvisational football on the counter attack would leave Brazil on some remote island in the middle of nowhere. It was football of the sharpest, quickest and most incisive kind. Belgium drilled holes in the Brazilians defence relentlessly and powerfully, weaving their way in and out of the five times winners of the World Cup rather like needlework technicians, carefully sewing their patterns with delicate precision.
And then Belgium let their magicians out of the hat and the world looked on agog. Kevin De Bruyne of Manchester City was now playing some of the finest football of his life, dribbling with the ball with a conjuror's sleight of hand, assessing and analysing every attacking possibility like a scientist in a laboratory experimenting with chemicals in a test tube. De Bruyne was forever asking questions, posing teasers, scheming, testing the ground, exploring avenues, opening up Brazil like a present at a children's birthday party.
Then there was Marouane Fellaini, whose remarkably large afro hairstyle really does stand out in a crowd. Fellaini has enjoyed a moderately satisfying season for Manchester United but, to the outsider, still has the unorthodox and unconventional about him This is not to suggest that Fellaini should take up basketball or perhaps tennis but his passing can be on the wayward side at times. Still, against Brazil he did look much more comfortable on the ball and never remotely ill at ease.
Finally, Belgium had the inimitable Eden Hazard, surely one of the players of the World Cup so far. Hazard has been impeccably skilful, always imaginative and he body swerved his way around players as if they'd been rendered temporarily invisible. For Chelsea Hazard runs at defenders from deep in his own half, sweeps forward like a gazelle on the plains and then exchanges the daintiest of wall passes or short passes as if he'd done the same thing a thousand times.
For Belgium, Hazard was absolutely breathtaking, a master craftsman with all the hammers and chisels of the most skilled practitioners. Hazard, even when confronted with a wall of yellow shirted Brazilians, somehow wriggled his way in and out of cul-de-sacs, reversing out of brief moments of crisis with all the composure of the most experienced driver.
It was no surprise at all when Belgium took the lead. A corner swung dangerously towards the near post seemed to hang in the air and Fernandinho, who was outstanding for Pep Guardiola's Manchester City last season jumped with a posse of players and his header seemed to brush off his forehead. It was a Brazilian own goal and that if that sounds like a novelty then it probably is.
Minutes later Belgium extended the lead quite amazingly. Just when the Brazilians came up for air, the red shirts of Belgium swarmed forward on the break, tip toeing through a now fragile Brazilian team with the neatest of footwork and passes. This was football of Brazilian simplicity, of streamlined perfection, devastating speed of thought and clinical execution. It couldn't be happening and yet it was. This was the most radical breakthrough for Belgian football and very few of us could have ever imagined that this was the way things would turn out.
Quite what must be going through the minds of their neighbours Holland is anybody's guess because this must be unbearable. For years Holland were the model pioneers, the exponents of Total Football, Johan Cruyff dragging back and stepping over the ball with all of the wizardry and dexterity of a street footballer in Amsterdam. Now though Belgium have their own performance artists such as De Bruyne and Hazard and this must seem like the most upsetting of insults.
Belgium scored what proved to be the game's conclusive second goal half way through the first half. De Bruyne picked up the ball from quite a distance after another piece of Belgian passing poetry he drove the ball fiercely past Brazil keeper Alisson. Game over for Brazil.
In the second half Brazil did produce the most stirring of recoveries and some of the old lyrics, verses and grammatical niceties that the Brazilians have always been renowned for re-surfaced hearteningly and rousingly. Marcelo held onto the ball as if the kid in the playground had given it to him permanently. Marcelo began to nurse and cherish the ball, Paulinho, still looks graceful and well balanced and Phillipe Coutinho is an enormously gifted player of severe striking power. But this was not to be a day of genuine Brazilian showpieces, a day when everything came together.
Although Renato Augusto pulled a goal back for the Brazilians from another inventive and well weighted cross from Coutinho, Brazil were now searching for buried treasure. They rallied forward with their usual fare of bewilderingly dizzying passes to feet but nothing seemed to stick. And so the Brazilian symphony has been silenced and the conductor has put down their baton.
Belgium have set themselves up with perhaps the tastiest, spiciest and juiciest World Cup semi final contest with their neighbours France. Who could have envisaged that the World Cup had this up its sleeve when the tournament started a couple of weeks ago? Argentina, Germany and Spain have been and gone and England are still there which can only be a good thing. We can sense a World Cup Final that may live indelibly in the memory for many a decade and that's something we should always remember.
Wednesday, 4 July 2018
It's penalties for England but this time they win.
It's penalties for England but this time they win.
Once again it came down to penalties for the England football team. It always does. Just when you might have thought they'd been afflicted by that same old problem, the long 22 year wait has now been officially declared over and not before time. For well over two decades the England football team have stared down that menacing looking gun barrel and found those familiar explosives ready to do their nasty work.
But this was different. Completely different. This was that moment in footballing history when after years of agony, suffering and pain England finally mastered the art of taking penalties and converting them in the right order and the right time. At times you almost feel as if England have been deliberately tormenting us for reasons that none of us will ever know. Finally though that irritating ordeal is now a thing of the past and England are in the World Cup quarter finals. How good does that sound?
Last night England met a Colombian side whose only objective it seemed was to not only stop England from playing but using any means be they illegal or possibly legal at times. It was hard to believe some of the appalling methods Colombia were deploying because football it quite clearly wasn't. To the impartial observer some of their antics bore no relation whatsoever to football and so deplorable and disgusting was their on field behaviour that you wondered what was said to them before the game.
This was quite the ugliest display of theatrical skulduggery and dreadful gamesmanship seen by any international side in recent times. It was football of the lowest common denominator, football that descended into the darkest pit of them all and a World Cup match that must have brought the game, albeit briefly, into shameful disrepute.
By the end of this scrappy, fragmented, mishmash of a World Cup last 16 game between Colombia and England, you could almost sense that the weight of the world had been released from Gareth Southgate's shoulders. His England were through to the quarter finals of the World Cup and nothing else mattered but even he must have been baffled by the ridiculous antics and Shakespearean histrionics of the yellow shirted Colombians.
For a large part of this game Colombia seemed to be auditioning for some Chekhov play such was the crazy play acting on show and the frequency with which it seemed to take place. There was the almost incessant face pulling, the clutching of heads, legs and any part of the anatomy they could find in an England player that was there to be potentially injured. This was not the England match we were hoping for and, much to the annoyance of all who were watching, it didn't really stop.
Still, Gareth Southgate must have been immensely pleased with his players self restraint and complete detachment from the bedlam that threatened to ruin his players morale. It seemed at times as if Colombia had come for the most disruptive of boxing matches rather than the compelling spectacle they were hoping for. The stoppages in play, the foul, underhand tactics, the cynical tackling from behind and the sheer stupidity of the South Americans confrontational approach must have been an enormous shock to England's system.
But England prospered under the most intense pressure and provocation. For most of the first half and most of the second half England controlled without ever looking a genuine goal threat. There was a pleasing flow and fluidity to their football that might have surprised the Colombians. Occasionally though, England may have been too slow and cumbersome when in possession and there were periods when the likes of Kieran Trippier, John Stones and Kyle Walker treated the ball like a hot potato. And yet there was never indecision or any sign at all of alarming discomfort, but all three were terribly reluctant to move forward into dangerous areas of the opposition half.
The first half itself was stuttering, unfathomable and almost flat footed with both sides testing each other's emotional reflexes and finding that neither were willing or able to commit themselves at any point. England were quicker and easier on the eye for the first half an hour or so but then dropped back into some muddled and befuddled defensive shell. The passes were neat, cute and well intentioned but lacking any real bite or seriousness.
England's midfield, including the ever cultured and cultivated Jordan Henderson, all balletic poise and technical brilliance, Dele Alli, the superbly roving and roaming Raheem Sterling and Jesse Lingard, forever prowling with considerable know how and enterprise, were now determined to take the Colombians on at their own game. There was much huffing and puffing, plotting and conniving but little in the way of power and penetration. England for a while, couldn't quite find that significant hole in the Colombian defence.
And just when you thought the game had more or less vanished into some obscure wasteland the Colombians found themselves confronted with an England corner. But this was no ordinary corner. This was a corner fraught with farce and mayhem. As England prepared to take their corner two lines of Colombian and English players seemed to be squaring up to each other. It reminded you of a queue of shoppers waiting for the doors of a supermarket to open. What followed was sheer nonsense and insanity.
Suddenly, an ordinary corner in a football match turned into some unsavoury clash of bodies where the inevitable outcome had to be a penalty. We had shoving, pushing, jostling and then ludicrous manhandling the result of which left poor Harry Kane hauled to the ground. After repeated warnings from the referee Colombia had quite literally fallen foul of officialdom. This was to become a common theme running through the game like a stick of seaside rock. Suddenly the game had turned into the most aggressive arm wrestling contest most of us had ever seen.
Colombia quite inexplicably, resorted to some of the grossest rough house tactics ever seen in any World Cup for quite a while. For almost the entire second half Colombia surrounded the referee, chased the referee, hassled the referee and pestered the referee like a group of angry, militant trade union officials on a picket line. It was all very irrational, inexcusable and unnecessary and it was easy to imagine that eventually the referee may have considered taking all of the irate South Americans off the pitch and telling them to go to bed immediately.
What we now had was a watered down version of the 'Battle of Santiago' when both Italy and Chile chased each other around the pitch and then threatened murder of the most bloodthirsty kind. It was the 1962 World Cup in Chile and for whatever reason things seemed to get out of hand. It was largely thanks to that wonderful referee Ken Aston that order was restored to proceedings. Aston promptly marched the Italian and Chilean players off the pitch as fists flew and eventually anger subsided.
Sadly, last night's furious fiasco between Colombia and England hadn't quite matched the passion and petty petulance displayed in the Italy and Chile punch up. But throughout the second half Colombia certainly had the most festering grudge on their minds. Why, they seemed to make it clear, were England the evil villains of the piece is beyond anybody's understanding but slowly and surely England began to run out of both steam and energy. You can only take so much.
When Harry Kane tucked home England's penalty for England's opening goal after the maddening melee in the Colombian penalty area the general opinion was that England, although comfortably in the driving seat, hadn't quite discovered a fifth gear. Now England began lurching, grasping desperately for some semblance of attacking cohesion where none existed. Harry Kane carefully shepherded the ball in a now deeper midfield role but didn't quite know what he was supposed to be doing.
Above all the sound and fury though, England were still holding their own although with a man down after the sending off, Colombia now ironically woke up and made a game of it. They inched their way back with some geometrically perfect attacking movements. For the last 20 minutes England were back pedalling, out of sorts, regularly giving the ball away wastefully and then recognising that the match was now drifting away from them.
And then in the 93rd minute Colombian drew level. They had now thrown the kitchen sink, the cooker, the bread and biscuit tin and any other domestic utensil they could find to hand to throw at England. From their last corner and perhaps their only real attack of any substance the ball was floated into the England penalty area and one Yerry Mina, a name always to be recalled by some, jumped the highest and nodded the ball firmly past England keeper Jordan Pickford for the most wretched of equalisers - from an English viewpoint anyway..
During injury time Colombia looked a side reformed, fired up, revitalised and almost unstoppable. They strung their passes across the pitch like washing on a line, picking gaps in the England defence at will. A transformation had looked as if it had been achieved with England now on the back foot. But for the second half of extra time, England called on heroic reserves of stamina and sprung back into the Colombian half with well engineered attacks that must have caught the South Americans out.
It was though now penalty shoot out time with both sides locked together by a vice like grip. Now we all know of course that England and penalties don't get on at times. There is something of a mutual misunderstanding between the two parties that has never really been resolved. There was the 1990 World Cup where Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle decided to do a very convincing impersonation of a rugby drop goal where the ball seemed to land in a Florence back garden rather than the net.
For current England manager Gareth Southgate it was an evening that might have come back to haunt him. At the end of a tense and intense Euro 96 semi final, England were faced with penalties against their celebrated rivals Germany. Southgate, entrusted with the final and vital penalty kick, ran up to the ball, briefly and unintentionally took his eye off the ball and blasted the ball at a German goalkeeper who leapt high into the air when the ball bounced off his knees. England were not to attend their own European Championship winning parade. Southgate looked on grimly.
So there we were waiting for something to happen and it did. It did work this time and how grateful we were. After Jordan Henderson missed what looked to be that crucial penalty for England, we looked to the skies and prayed for a miracle. It couldn't happen again. Surely not. After all those years of teeth gnashing and penalty taking ineptitude it all boiled down to Eric Dier of Tottenham.
With the whole of England on their edge of their collective seats, Dier calmly strode up to the ball and fired the ball powerfully and low past Colombia keeper David Ospina. Cue the wild celebrations, the hokey cokey, the twist again like we did last summer, beer glasses flying into orbit, fans jumping joyously, sheer pandemonium. Oh to be in England now that summer is here.
And so we left our three lion shirted England shirts to their merry making, dancing in imaginary fountains, leaving all their inhibitions on the pub counter as the bar staff joined in with the fun as well. These are precious days and nights in the world of the England football team. Of course we've all been here before a hundred times, a thousand times and it almost feels as if it'll always be this way. England fans are almost hardened and conditioned to this four yearly footballing torture.
It's Sweden in the quarter finals of the World Cup on Saturday and quite possibly the hosts Russia in the semi final but now we're just ahead of ourselves and believing in the impossible. That can never be the case with England because rash predictions were never part of England's mindset.
Even so we still have Gareth Southgate, England's very modest and humble manager who will not repeat the Sir Alf Ramsey' statement of half a century ago. Ramsey, of course was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup and he was right. But Southgate was never one for brash and rash predictions and even if he privately thinks that his England can bring home the World Cup for only the second time he'll never tell the rest of the nation. It's time to prepare for Sweden on Saturday. This could be the right time.
Once again it came down to penalties for the England football team. It always does. Just when you might have thought they'd been afflicted by that same old problem, the long 22 year wait has now been officially declared over and not before time. For well over two decades the England football team have stared down that menacing looking gun barrel and found those familiar explosives ready to do their nasty work.
But this was different. Completely different. This was that moment in footballing history when after years of agony, suffering and pain England finally mastered the art of taking penalties and converting them in the right order and the right time. At times you almost feel as if England have been deliberately tormenting us for reasons that none of us will ever know. Finally though that irritating ordeal is now a thing of the past and England are in the World Cup quarter finals. How good does that sound?
Last night England met a Colombian side whose only objective it seemed was to not only stop England from playing but using any means be they illegal or possibly legal at times. It was hard to believe some of the appalling methods Colombia were deploying because football it quite clearly wasn't. To the impartial observer some of their antics bore no relation whatsoever to football and so deplorable and disgusting was their on field behaviour that you wondered what was said to them before the game.
This was quite the ugliest display of theatrical skulduggery and dreadful gamesmanship seen by any international side in recent times. It was football of the lowest common denominator, football that descended into the darkest pit of them all and a World Cup match that must have brought the game, albeit briefly, into shameful disrepute.
By the end of this scrappy, fragmented, mishmash of a World Cup last 16 game between Colombia and England, you could almost sense that the weight of the world had been released from Gareth Southgate's shoulders. His England were through to the quarter finals of the World Cup and nothing else mattered but even he must have been baffled by the ridiculous antics and Shakespearean histrionics of the yellow shirted Colombians.
For a large part of this game Colombia seemed to be auditioning for some Chekhov play such was the crazy play acting on show and the frequency with which it seemed to take place. There was the almost incessant face pulling, the clutching of heads, legs and any part of the anatomy they could find in an England player that was there to be potentially injured. This was not the England match we were hoping for and, much to the annoyance of all who were watching, it didn't really stop.
Still, Gareth Southgate must have been immensely pleased with his players self restraint and complete detachment from the bedlam that threatened to ruin his players morale. It seemed at times as if Colombia had come for the most disruptive of boxing matches rather than the compelling spectacle they were hoping for. The stoppages in play, the foul, underhand tactics, the cynical tackling from behind and the sheer stupidity of the South Americans confrontational approach must have been an enormous shock to England's system.
But England prospered under the most intense pressure and provocation. For most of the first half and most of the second half England controlled without ever looking a genuine goal threat. There was a pleasing flow and fluidity to their football that might have surprised the Colombians. Occasionally though, England may have been too slow and cumbersome when in possession and there were periods when the likes of Kieran Trippier, John Stones and Kyle Walker treated the ball like a hot potato. And yet there was never indecision or any sign at all of alarming discomfort, but all three were terribly reluctant to move forward into dangerous areas of the opposition half.
The first half itself was stuttering, unfathomable and almost flat footed with both sides testing each other's emotional reflexes and finding that neither were willing or able to commit themselves at any point. England were quicker and easier on the eye for the first half an hour or so but then dropped back into some muddled and befuddled defensive shell. The passes were neat, cute and well intentioned but lacking any real bite or seriousness.
England's midfield, including the ever cultured and cultivated Jordan Henderson, all balletic poise and technical brilliance, Dele Alli, the superbly roving and roaming Raheem Sterling and Jesse Lingard, forever prowling with considerable know how and enterprise, were now determined to take the Colombians on at their own game. There was much huffing and puffing, plotting and conniving but little in the way of power and penetration. England for a while, couldn't quite find that significant hole in the Colombian defence.
And just when you thought the game had more or less vanished into some obscure wasteland the Colombians found themselves confronted with an England corner. But this was no ordinary corner. This was a corner fraught with farce and mayhem. As England prepared to take their corner two lines of Colombian and English players seemed to be squaring up to each other. It reminded you of a queue of shoppers waiting for the doors of a supermarket to open. What followed was sheer nonsense and insanity.
Suddenly, an ordinary corner in a football match turned into some unsavoury clash of bodies where the inevitable outcome had to be a penalty. We had shoving, pushing, jostling and then ludicrous manhandling the result of which left poor Harry Kane hauled to the ground. After repeated warnings from the referee Colombia had quite literally fallen foul of officialdom. This was to become a common theme running through the game like a stick of seaside rock. Suddenly the game had turned into the most aggressive arm wrestling contest most of us had ever seen.
Colombia quite inexplicably, resorted to some of the grossest rough house tactics ever seen in any World Cup for quite a while. For almost the entire second half Colombia surrounded the referee, chased the referee, hassled the referee and pestered the referee like a group of angry, militant trade union officials on a picket line. It was all very irrational, inexcusable and unnecessary and it was easy to imagine that eventually the referee may have considered taking all of the irate South Americans off the pitch and telling them to go to bed immediately.
What we now had was a watered down version of the 'Battle of Santiago' when both Italy and Chile chased each other around the pitch and then threatened murder of the most bloodthirsty kind. It was the 1962 World Cup in Chile and for whatever reason things seemed to get out of hand. It was largely thanks to that wonderful referee Ken Aston that order was restored to proceedings. Aston promptly marched the Italian and Chilean players off the pitch as fists flew and eventually anger subsided.
Sadly, last night's furious fiasco between Colombia and England hadn't quite matched the passion and petty petulance displayed in the Italy and Chile punch up. But throughout the second half Colombia certainly had the most festering grudge on their minds. Why, they seemed to make it clear, were England the evil villains of the piece is beyond anybody's understanding but slowly and surely England began to run out of both steam and energy. You can only take so much.
When Harry Kane tucked home England's penalty for England's opening goal after the maddening melee in the Colombian penalty area the general opinion was that England, although comfortably in the driving seat, hadn't quite discovered a fifth gear. Now England began lurching, grasping desperately for some semblance of attacking cohesion where none existed. Harry Kane carefully shepherded the ball in a now deeper midfield role but didn't quite know what he was supposed to be doing.
Above all the sound and fury though, England were still holding their own although with a man down after the sending off, Colombia now ironically woke up and made a game of it. They inched their way back with some geometrically perfect attacking movements. For the last 20 minutes England were back pedalling, out of sorts, regularly giving the ball away wastefully and then recognising that the match was now drifting away from them.
And then in the 93rd minute Colombian drew level. They had now thrown the kitchen sink, the cooker, the bread and biscuit tin and any other domestic utensil they could find to hand to throw at England. From their last corner and perhaps their only real attack of any substance the ball was floated into the England penalty area and one Yerry Mina, a name always to be recalled by some, jumped the highest and nodded the ball firmly past England keeper Jordan Pickford for the most wretched of equalisers - from an English viewpoint anyway..
During injury time Colombia looked a side reformed, fired up, revitalised and almost unstoppable. They strung their passes across the pitch like washing on a line, picking gaps in the England defence at will. A transformation had looked as if it had been achieved with England now on the back foot. But for the second half of extra time, England called on heroic reserves of stamina and sprung back into the Colombian half with well engineered attacks that must have caught the South Americans out.
It was though now penalty shoot out time with both sides locked together by a vice like grip. Now we all know of course that England and penalties don't get on at times. There is something of a mutual misunderstanding between the two parties that has never really been resolved. There was the 1990 World Cup where Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle decided to do a very convincing impersonation of a rugby drop goal where the ball seemed to land in a Florence back garden rather than the net.
For current England manager Gareth Southgate it was an evening that might have come back to haunt him. At the end of a tense and intense Euro 96 semi final, England were faced with penalties against their celebrated rivals Germany. Southgate, entrusted with the final and vital penalty kick, ran up to the ball, briefly and unintentionally took his eye off the ball and blasted the ball at a German goalkeeper who leapt high into the air when the ball bounced off his knees. England were not to attend their own European Championship winning parade. Southgate looked on grimly.
So there we were waiting for something to happen and it did. It did work this time and how grateful we were. After Jordan Henderson missed what looked to be that crucial penalty for England, we looked to the skies and prayed for a miracle. It couldn't happen again. Surely not. After all those years of teeth gnashing and penalty taking ineptitude it all boiled down to Eric Dier of Tottenham.
With the whole of England on their edge of their collective seats, Dier calmly strode up to the ball and fired the ball powerfully and low past Colombia keeper David Ospina. Cue the wild celebrations, the hokey cokey, the twist again like we did last summer, beer glasses flying into orbit, fans jumping joyously, sheer pandemonium. Oh to be in England now that summer is here.
And so we left our three lion shirted England shirts to their merry making, dancing in imaginary fountains, leaving all their inhibitions on the pub counter as the bar staff joined in with the fun as well. These are precious days and nights in the world of the England football team. Of course we've all been here before a hundred times, a thousand times and it almost feels as if it'll always be this way. England fans are almost hardened and conditioned to this four yearly footballing torture.
It's Sweden in the quarter finals of the World Cup on Saturday and quite possibly the hosts Russia in the semi final but now we're just ahead of ourselves and believing in the impossible. That can never be the case with England because rash predictions were never part of England's mindset.
Even so we still have Gareth Southgate, England's very modest and humble manager who will not repeat the Sir Alf Ramsey' statement of half a century ago. Ramsey, of course was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup and he was right. But Southgate was never one for brash and rash predictions and even if he privately thinks that his England can bring home the World Cup for only the second time he'll never tell the rest of the nation. It's time to prepare for Sweden on Saturday. This could be the right time.
Sunday, 1 July 2018
France beat Argentina in seven goal World Cup thriller.
France beat Argentina in seven goal World Cup thriller.
Vive La France! Allez La France! Surely French revolutions were never supposed to be like that. Besides, we never quite saw one this coming. Admittedly, we are now at the business end of this enthralling World Cup in Russia and nothing will surprise us anymore. But now the World Cup has lost two of its finest exhibitionists and performers, two of its heavenly stars and what on earth are we going to do without them?
We are approaching the half way point of the World Cup and something quite momentous has happened. Lionel Messi of Argentina and Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal have left the building without so much as whimper. How are we to replace the irreplaceable if indeed that's possible? But onwards and upwards and we must get on with the matter in hand. History has told us that generations must come and go and family dynasties must continue regardless. There is something very telling about the departure of both Messi and Ronaldo.
Both men may never grace another World Cup and this may yet prove one of the great frustrations of the modern age. Yesterday, Lionel Messi looked dumb struck as his Argentina took their leave of the World Cup in Russia and later on that evening Ronaldo, with that excessive tan and the hitched up shorts before the delivery of free kicks, also left centre stage only to find there was nobody in the wings to greet either of them.
But yesterday France knocked Argentina out of the World Cup in one of the most fabulous, frantic and formidable of knockout matches you could have wished for. France eventually overwhelmed Argentina in one of the most bewildering, bemusing, end to end, helter skelter matches in recent times. In the end France seemed to run the South American side ragged with their blistering running at pace, their quick witted invention and their remarkable ability to switch the play with expansive football that spread right across the pitch.
By the end of this match Messi and co. seem to be gasping at air such was France's frightening speed on the break, the breakneck intensity of their passing and the telepathic communication with each other. France were magnifique, the piece de resistance, a unique phenomena, a side of vivacity, vitality, variation, dizzying skill and dashing flamboyance, a side of Parisian troubadours, bright eyed boulevardiers and a side privately confident that this could be their World Cup year.
Nothing we saw yesterday evening did anything to stop the growing rumour of the French conquest of this Russian World Cup. There could have been nothing to dispel the impression that France are so good that they may yet end up in the World Cup Final for the first time in exactly 20 years. That year Lauren Blanc, Thierry Henry and Emmanuel Petit were the up and coming World Cup stars of the future and France beat Brazil in the World Cup Final with one of those typically swashbuckling displays that flattened most of their opponents in their own backyard.
Now though France are doing it again. They're beginning to win over another legion of fans and admirers and they don't mind telling others, gloating and boasting, convincing the sceptics that Les Bleus have indeed re- discovered that trademark subtlety, that cunning stealthiness, that lovely sense of the unexpected and finally a unity and solidarity that has so often been lacking in recent World Cups.
On the touchline manager Didier Deschamps seemed to be deep in discussion with his assistants for most of the game perhaps analysing the latest developments of Le Monde. Of course the newspapers have been passing comment on both his suitability and managerial prowess but Deschamps could only watch from the dug out, ever thoughtful and ever thinking of the bigger picture. Sometimes World Cup managers must wish people would leave them alone and just let them get on with it.
Once again and not for the first time Paul Pogba and N'Golo Kante gave the French a sharp injection of dynamism and creativity, excellent ball players with a technique and tenderness of touch on the ball that blows you away. Pogba was tall, leggy, constantly aware of his colleagues around him, loping forward into attack with those surging runs and menacing intentions that have now become so familiar to Manchester United fans.
Then there was the eternally effective and inspirational N'Golo Kante, now consistently impressive and always joining up the Chelsea attack, a deep thinking and analytical figure. prompting, probing, hovering around his opponents to pick up loose passes and then using the ball with huge imagination. Samuel Umtiti, Lucas Hernandez , Raphael Varane, the dangerous Antoine Griezmann and Blaise Matuidi also contributed vastly to a French side who were now on the campaigning trail, positive role models, proud ambassadors of their nation.
And so it was that we hit the goal trail. After 12 minutes Kylian Mbappe, the young whipper snapper and the new kid on the block for French football, took off on one of the most spectacular runs of his life on his own. Striding and stretching his way over the half way line Mbappe kicked into fifth gear, sprinting and accelerating at the speed of light before being tumbled over in the Argentina penalty area. Antoine Griezmann comfortably tucked home the penalty as if he'd been fated to do so.
Then Argentina as if propelled by Lionel Messi rallied their way back into the game with a series of well planned and studious attacks that were neatly fashioned with those now customary carousel of passes that were sculpted and chipped with fastidious attention to detail. Half way through the first half Angel Di Maria accepted an opportunity from outside the penalty area and Di Maria launched a fearsome missile towards the French net, the shot rippling the net before Hugo Lloris had had time to move. 1-1 and we had a game on our hands.
Argentina were now back in cruise control and as if a current of electricity had run through the whole Argentina side and there was everything to play for. Now it was that the likes of Lionel Messi, forever lurking with that sumptuously close ball control we've come to expect of Messi, began to look like that South American side whose name we all mentioned in the same breath as that of neighbours Brazil.
After another giddy soft shoe shuffle of passes that imprinted itself onto the game like the tattoos most of the players had on their arms. Argentina scored again. Firstly, there was another glorious ball from Messi floating in the gentle breeze. Ths was followed by the faintest of touches from another light blue and white Argentina foot before Gabriel Mercado finished off another scintillating move with another needle sharp Argentina goal.
We were now into the most exceptional of footballing feasts, a genuine festival of football with end to end football that whirled and hurtled from one goalmouth to the other. Suddenly France had achieved a second wind when it looked for all the world as if the boulangeries near the Champs Elysees would shut up shop, switch on their radios and TVs and refuse to sell their bread to their customers because France were onto something here.
From almost nowhere France equalised for the second time. Another swiftly incisive French break caught Argentina on the hop. Benjamin Pavard, a full back now suffering from high altitude problems in an attacking position, leant back and sent a thunderous, destructive and ferocious shot that soared past Franco Armani into the Argentina goal. We now had a very special match on our hands when perhaps we thought we'd never get anything even remotely as wide open as this match.
Now France finally found their je ne sais quoi, that indefinable quality that can bring joy to so many when the mood takes them. Suddenly the middle of the pitch was flooded by a torrent of blue French shirts, sweeping forward and stampeding towards the Argentinian net like an army marching defiantly over the greenest of pitches.
In a matter of minutes a French flourish became a French domination. In what was a continuous stream of passes, flicks, tricks and ornate passing movements, France scored yet again. Another rat a tat sequence of quick, quick, slow, slow passes resulted in that man Kylian Mbappe finding space to drive home the fourth French goal with a convincing swing of his foot. Mbappe thrashed the ball home and must have glanced over to Messi with the most sympathetic of glances. Perhaps he knew that here was Messi's potential successor and it wasn't pleasant at all.
And then as if to pour oil on troubled Argentinian waters, France, by now raiding, plundering and looting their opponents with ruthless ferocity, scored the classic sucker punch fourth. A flowing end to end move which started with a Hugo Lloris free kick was swiftly threaded through a succession of French feet and Kylian Nbappe, that sprightliest of livewires, was in the right place and right time to fire home the goal that sucked the air out of the Argentine advance.
By the time Sergio Aguero, on as a last throw of the dice substitute, had whipped the ball home for Argentinia's third goal the game was up for the South Americans. It was too little too late and Argentina had suffered for their arrogance and insouciance. The tango had been replaced by much stamping of feet and Argentina were on their way back to Buenos Aires.
The French of course can now be spurred on by the men who have graced the blue shirts in years gone by. There was the France of the unsurpassable Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine, goal scorers par excellence. There was the France of Michel Platini, Alain Giresse and Didier Six, players of enormous intelligence and craftsmanship, players of light and shade, showmanship and finesse.
There may be a long way to go for France but whisper it quietly the France are on a roll and may well continue rolling as long as there are no signs of revolt and mutiny within the French camp. We know what happens when France get all tangled up in internal squabbling and dissent. For the moment though, France are silently plotting their careful way through a World Cup. As long as nobody mentions Pompidou or D'Estaing on their travels then this may be the year for yet more rejoicing in the streets of Paris. Allez Les Bleus!
Vive La France! Allez La France! Surely French revolutions were never supposed to be like that. Besides, we never quite saw one this coming. Admittedly, we are now at the business end of this enthralling World Cup in Russia and nothing will surprise us anymore. But now the World Cup has lost two of its finest exhibitionists and performers, two of its heavenly stars and what on earth are we going to do without them?
We are approaching the half way point of the World Cup and something quite momentous has happened. Lionel Messi of Argentina and Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal have left the building without so much as whimper. How are we to replace the irreplaceable if indeed that's possible? But onwards and upwards and we must get on with the matter in hand. History has told us that generations must come and go and family dynasties must continue regardless. There is something very telling about the departure of both Messi and Ronaldo.
Both men may never grace another World Cup and this may yet prove one of the great frustrations of the modern age. Yesterday, Lionel Messi looked dumb struck as his Argentina took their leave of the World Cup in Russia and later on that evening Ronaldo, with that excessive tan and the hitched up shorts before the delivery of free kicks, also left centre stage only to find there was nobody in the wings to greet either of them.
But yesterday France knocked Argentina out of the World Cup in one of the most fabulous, frantic and formidable of knockout matches you could have wished for. France eventually overwhelmed Argentina in one of the most bewildering, bemusing, end to end, helter skelter matches in recent times. In the end France seemed to run the South American side ragged with their blistering running at pace, their quick witted invention and their remarkable ability to switch the play with expansive football that spread right across the pitch.
By the end of this match Messi and co. seem to be gasping at air such was France's frightening speed on the break, the breakneck intensity of their passing and the telepathic communication with each other. France were magnifique, the piece de resistance, a unique phenomena, a side of vivacity, vitality, variation, dizzying skill and dashing flamboyance, a side of Parisian troubadours, bright eyed boulevardiers and a side privately confident that this could be their World Cup year.
Nothing we saw yesterday evening did anything to stop the growing rumour of the French conquest of this Russian World Cup. There could have been nothing to dispel the impression that France are so good that they may yet end up in the World Cup Final for the first time in exactly 20 years. That year Lauren Blanc, Thierry Henry and Emmanuel Petit were the up and coming World Cup stars of the future and France beat Brazil in the World Cup Final with one of those typically swashbuckling displays that flattened most of their opponents in their own backyard.
Now though France are doing it again. They're beginning to win over another legion of fans and admirers and they don't mind telling others, gloating and boasting, convincing the sceptics that Les Bleus have indeed re- discovered that trademark subtlety, that cunning stealthiness, that lovely sense of the unexpected and finally a unity and solidarity that has so often been lacking in recent World Cups.
On the touchline manager Didier Deschamps seemed to be deep in discussion with his assistants for most of the game perhaps analysing the latest developments of Le Monde. Of course the newspapers have been passing comment on both his suitability and managerial prowess but Deschamps could only watch from the dug out, ever thoughtful and ever thinking of the bigger picture. Sometimes World Cup managers must wish people would leave them alone and just let them get on with it.
Once again and not for the first time Paul Pogba and N'Golo Kante gave the French a sharp injection of dynamism and creativity, excellent ball players with a technique and tenderness of touch on the ball that blows you away. Pogba was tall, leggy, constantly aware of his colleagues around him, loping forward into attack with those surging runs and menacing intentions that have now become so familiar to Manchester United fans.
Then there was the eternally effective and inspirational N'Golo Kante, now consistently impressive and always joining up the Chelsea attack, a deep thinking and analytical figure. prompting, probing, hovering around his opponents to pick up loose passes and then using the ball with huge imagination. Samuel Umtiti, Lucas Hernandez , Raphael Varane, the dangerous Antoine Griezmann and Blaise Matuidi also contributed vastly to a French side who were now on the campaigning trail, positive role models, proud ambassadors of their nation.
And so it was that we hit the goal trail. After 12 minutes Kylian Mbappe, the young whipper snapper and the new kid on the block for French football, took off on one of the most spectacular runs of his life on his own. Striding and stretching his way over the half way line Mbappe kicked into fifth gear, sprinting and accelerating at the speed of light before being tumbled over in the Argentina penalty area. Antoine Griezmann comfortably tucked home the penalty as if he'd been fated to do so.
Then Argentina as if propelled by Lionel Messi rallied their way back into the game with a series of well planned and studious attacks that were neatly fashioned with those now customary carousel of passes that were sculpted and chipped with fastidious attention to detail. Half way through the first half Angel Di Maria accepted an opportunity from outside the penalty area and Di Maria launched a fearsome missile towards the French net, the shot rippling the net before Hugo Lloris had had time to move. 1-1 and we had a game on our hands.
Argentina were now back in cruise control and as if a current of electricity had run through the whole Argentina side and there was everything to play for. Now it was that the likes of Lionel Messi, forever lurking with that sumptuously close ball control we've come to expect of Messi, began to look like that South American side whose name we all mentioned in the same breath as that of neighbours Brazil.
After another giddy soft shoe shuffle of passes that imprinted itself onto the game like the tattoos most of the players had on their arms. Argentina scored again. Firstly, there was another glorious ball from Messi floating in the gentle breeze. Ths was followed by the faintest of touches from another light blue and white Argentina foot before Gabriel Mercado finished off another scintillating move with another needle sharp Argentina goal.
We were now into the most exceptional of footballing feasts, a genuine festival of football with end to end football that whirled and hurtled from one goalmouth to the other. Suddenly France had achieved a second wind when it looked for all the world as if the boulangeries near the Champs Elysees would shut up shop, switch on their radios and TVs and refuse to sell their bread to their customers because France were onto something here.
From almost nowhere France equalised for the second time. Another swiftly incisive French break caught Argentina on the hop. Benjamin Pavard, a full back now suffering from high altitude problems in an attacking position, leant back and sent a thunderous, destructive and ferocious shot that soared past Franco Armani into the Argentina goal. We now had a very special match on our hands when perhaps we thought we'd never get anything even remotely as wide open as this match.
Now France finally found their je ne sais quoi, that indefinable quality that can bring joy to so many when the mood takes them. Suddenly the middle of the pitch was flooded by a torrent of blue French shirts, sweeping forward and stampeding towards the Argentinian net like an army marching defiantly over the greenest of pitches.
In a matter of minutes a French flourish became a French domination. In what was a continuous stream of passes, flicks, tricks and ornate passing movements, France scored yet again. Another rat a tat sequence of quick, quick, slow, slow passes resulted in that man Kylian Mbappe finding space to drive home the fourth French goal with a convincing swing of his foot. Mbappe thrashed the ball home and must have glanced over to Messi with the most sympathetic of glances. Perhaps he knew that here was Messi's potential successor and it wasn't pleasant at all.
And then as if to pour oil on troubled Argentinian waters, France, by now raiding, plundering and looting their opponents with ruthless ferocity, scored the classic sucker punch fourth. A flowing end to end move which started with a Hugo Lloris free kick was swiftly threaded through a succession of French feet and Kylian Nbappe, that sprightliest of livewires, was in the right place and right time to fire home the goal that sucked the air out of the Argentine advance.
By the time Sergio Aguero, on as a last throw of the dice substitute, had whipped the ball home for Argentinia's third goal the game was up for the South Americans. It was too little too late and Argentina had suffered for their arrogance and insouciance. The tango had been replaced by much stamping of feet and Argentina were on their way back to Buenos Aires.
The French of course can now be spurred on by the men who have graced the blue shirts in years gone by. There was the France of the unsurpassable Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine, goal scorers par excellence. There was the France of Michel Platini, Alain Giresse and Didier Six, players of enormous intelligence and craftsmanship, players of light and shade, showmanship and finesse.
There may be a long way to go for France but whisper it quietly the France are on a roll and may well continue rolling as long as there are no signs of revolt and mutiny within the French camp. We know what happens when France get all tangled up in internal squabbling and dissent. For the moment though, France are silently plotting their careful way through a World Cup. As long as nobody mentions Pompidou or D'Estaing on their travels then this may be the year for yet more rejoicing in the streets of Paris. Allez Les Bleus!
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