I’m not a well man.
Now, this may or may not be due to the amount of alcohol I consumed last night. I mean, who can tell, right? It’s possible I’ve got a bad head cold, or a touch of flu. The booze might be an inconvenient coincidence… It might.
It isn’t though, is it? I’m paying the price of overindulgence. Something which, in the past, has led to much self-recrimination, regret, and vows not to repeat my indiscretions.
Not this time, though. No, this time it was absolutely worth it.
Paying The Penalty
There was a reason, you see for my excess. A valid and important reason. England’s men’s football team were playing in the last 16 of Euro 2020 (+1), and we were playing Germany, too.
To give some historical background to the fixture, for those that don’t follow the beautiful game, or have been living under a rock-in some desolate wilderness-on the moon, England have a long and somewhat spotty record of playing Germany. It can be said to go back to 1966 when England beat the Germans 4-2 to win The World Cup (no matter what certain deluded Scotsmen of my acquaintance might say).
Unfortunately, that wonderful, historical day started a period of German dominance that possibly saw its highlight in the 1990 World Cup Quarter Final penalty shootout (5-4 in Germany’s favour) and the repeat performance in the semi-final of the 1996 European Championships when England took the penalty shootout to sudden death. And that was where our chances died… suddenly.
There have, of course been over meetings since then, including a 5-1 win for England in the qualifying group of the 2002 World Cup. None of these tend to reverberate quite as much in the public psyche as those 90s game, though. We still sing the songs now.
Match Point
So, it was with a heady mix of apprehension and excitement, and some alcohol that I sat down, my wife Tina, coerced into wearing the England badge, at my side to watch the buildup to the big game.
For her part, Tina is not the greatest of footie fans. She tolerates more than enjoys the beautiful game (although, to her credit, she could name Kalvin Phillips, Jack Grealish, and even Jordan Henderson).Even she, however, was beginning to key into the growing sense of excitement.
Unfortunately, that wonderful, historical day started a period of German dominance that possibly saw its highlight in the 1990 World Cup Quarter Final penalty shootout (5-4 in Germany’s favour) and the repeat performance in the semi-final of the 1996 European Championships when England took the penalty shootout to sudden death. And that was where our chances died… suddenly.
There have, of course been over meetings since then, including a 5-1 win for England in the qualifying group of the 2002 World Cup. None of these tend to reverberate quite as much in the public psyche as those 90s game, though. We still sing the songs now.
Match Point
So, it was with a heady mix of apprehension and excitement, and some alcohol that I sat down, my wife Tina, coerced into wearing the England badge, at my side to watch the buildup to the big game.
For her part, Tina is not the greatest of footie fans. She tolerates more than enjoys the beautiful game (although, to her credit, she could name Kalvin Phillips, Jack Grealish, and even Jordan Henderson).Even she, however, was beginning to key into the growing sense of excitement.
Now let’s be honest. The match itself was not the greatest, most exciting spectacle anyone has ever seen. In the first half especially, chances were few and far between for both sides and as half-time passed and the clock ticked away, my thoughts naturally turned back to the agony of those two penalty shootouts. Surely history couldn’t repeat in such a cruel way again, could it? (it could, and don’t call me shirley). Then ten minutes of utter elation changed everything.
There are, you see, 90 minutes in a football match before extra time and the spectre of those dreaded penalties (plus a few more added on for injuries, bookings, free kicks, and blatant dives), and 74 of those had passed. Then in the 75th minute Raheem Sterling (who I’d been berating for a good part of the game as a useless show pony) tapped in from point blank range. You could probably hear my shouts of joy deep in the amazon rain forest. Any parrots about would definitely have learned a few new words.
Gooooooooaaaaaaaaaaalll!!
So, 1-0 up with 15 minutes left to play. Happiness, nervousness, and drunkenness churning inside me like a turbo boosted tumble dryer of emotion and bourbon whisky. It was a feeling that lasted until the 86th minute and Harry Kane’s goal. A goal which settled the match and sent me absolutely bonkers. I’m not too sure what happened in the rest of the match, as I was busy bouncing up and down, screaming. The liberal application of alcohol means my memory of the rest of the night is somewhat patchy too (I am reliably informed I made some off-colour remarks about members of the royal family at some point, but as no recordings can be produced I can neither confirm nor deny this.
All of this will make little to no sense to anyone who’s not into football, but believe me when I say it was a special night, a historic night. By rights I should still be celebrating now, but as I used up my yearly ration of that last night, and as the brass band marching through my head have only just started to pack up their instruments, I might have to wait until Saturday for (hopefully) more of the same against Ukraine.
But still…
Until next time…
There are, you see, 90 minutes in a football match before extra time and the spectre of those dreaded penalties (plus a few more added on for injuries, bookings, free kicks, and blatant dives), and 74 of those had passed. Then in the 75th minute Raheem Sterling (who I’d been berating for a good part of the game as a useless show pony) tapped in from point blank range. You could probably hear my shouts of joy deep in the amazon rain forest. Any parrots about would definitely have learned a few new words.
Gooooooooaaaaaaaaaaalll!!
So, 1-0 up with 15 minutes left to play. Happiness, nervousness, and drunkenness churning inside me like a turbo boosted tumble dryer of emotion and bourbon whisky. It was a feeling that lasted until the 86th minute and Harry Kane’s goal. A goal which settled the match and sent me absolutely bonkers. I’m not too sure what happened in the rest of the match, as I was busy bouncing up and down, screaming. The liberal application of alcohol means my memory of the rest of the night is somewhat patchy too (I am reliably informed I made some off-colour remarks about members of the royal family at some point, but as no recordings can be produced I can neither confirm nor deny this.
All of this will make little to no sense to anyone who’s not into football, but believe me when I say it was a special night, a historic night. By rights I should still be celebrating now, but as I used up my yearly ration of that last night, and as the brass band marching through my head have only just started to pack up their instruments, I might have to wait until Saturday for (hopefully) more of the same against Ukraine.
I know, I know. I won’t be getting too carried away. Not yet. There may be a few repetitions of a certain song between now and then, but I won’t be speculating on anything coming home. There are still a maximum of three games to play, and I’m old enough, and cynical enough to know England can blow it away (can throw it away) at any point in any of those games
But still…
Until next time…
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