England: What it means

Words: Tom Reed

Images: Tom Reed

Disrupted sleep, tight jaws, San Miguel breath, pacing dishevelled front rooms, kicking imaginary footballs.

A rift in the family, gut punch pain.

Thomas Tuchel talks a lot about repetition of patterns but the main cycle of England fans is being drawn back in.

As kids, playing for England was the pinnacle of everything, a space above the Football League where real football kicked in.

Tournament stuff, the fucking World Cup.

We played till it was dark and beyond, the ball becoming a barely there orb, our team-mates sensed rather than seen, getting knocked back to pop forward, knowing a pass could release our attacking friends, the flow up the pitch, landing a blow from nowhere.

Being game.

Yet, that feeling of attack as a form of defence, of a nobility in recklessness and giving the opposition something to think about, was missing for the last half-hour in Atlanta.

Argentina played how we should in the final knockings, representing the dirty honour of our young selves, the street-fighting of alleyways, sending through-balls between parked cars with lads bombing on and knowing they’d go home giving everything for a goal.

Guillem Balague wrote about England not understanding about “collective football”, yet a game based on solidarity is one based on trust. Faith that when you have your backs to the wall, some of your number will break out and take the fight to the opposition.

To create a rhythm on which all satisfying football exists.

Thomas Tuchel denied England by falling into the old trap of thinking that the number of defenders on the pitch is equal to a team’s rearguard force.

If anything, it showed that defending is a team game, that starts in the filthy corners where forwards can close the match down, in the final third holes where midfielders draw a foul or lurk for a palm stinging pot-shot.

Those battered spaces we found in the dark as children. You ain’t felt pain till you’ve been whipped in the face by a snide Umbro trackie.

The England fans, who went to the USA in their many thousands, know the “England way”, even if it has rarely been shown since ‘66, with glimpses in Gazza’s dribbles at Italia ’90.

Going out is one thing but the manner which England departed this World Cup will sting for weeks. Meek defenders, goal-hangers in our own goal.

Anthony Gordon hooked inexplicably when emboldened after his goal, cage ballers Eze, Saka and Madueke sat with plastic to arses rather than kissing touchlines and creating vapour trails for tired Albiceleste defenders to chase.

The glaring unsophistication of Dan Burn up top.

Not every supporter can wait for future tournaments, some won’t see the next. Lifetimes can exist in days and months rather than four year cycles.

These things matter, mate.

There’ll be lads in pubs that’ll say they’ll never watch England again, to be dismissed as performative wankers, even though they are bang on the money.

For the rest of us, England is hope that kills our sleep, grinds our teeth, and sees us booting imaginary footballs around dishevelled front rooms.

Argentina will be taking the ball home, resting soundly at night with bellies full of football you can get your teeth into.

The hope at home has been diminished but it still flickers. Tuchel will never get it, Argentina will.

Tom Reed is Terrace Edition Editor and can be found on X and Instagram: @tomreedwriting.

Tom is also on Bluesky @tomreedwriting.bluesky.social