It says something about the longevity of this site that we are now into
our second World Cup. (2002
tournament started around here.)
As tradition demands, England’s first match has been greeted with
disdain, despite the victory (1-0 v Paraguay).
It happens every time. And why shouldn’t it? It’s a marathon remember?
Start slowly. And we always do. In 2002, we drew with Sweden in our
first game. In 98, we scraped past Tunisia before losing to Romania. in
90, we drew our first two games. 86? Lost to Portugal in the opener,
then drew with Morocco. And the European Championships… first match
last time, lost to France. Euro 2000, lost to Portugal. Even at home in
Euro 96, we could only scrape a draw with Switzerland.
Apart from one of these tournaments, England have always gone on to
qualify from the group, and have twice reached the semi-finals. In 66
we drew our opener and went on to win the cup.
It’s par for the course. So much so, that history suggests we should be
worried to have actually won the first game.
It’s hard not to be nostalgic about sport. In my case, football, though
others will find their lives measured in Ashes series or golf
tournaments. Our lives are filled with drifting clouds of personal
zeitgeist, and for me at least, these occasional tournaments represent
a means of contextualising them, and anchoring that cloud to a
particular year.
Euro 2004 we were in Cuba. For the Japan/Korea World Cup of 2002, we’d
just landed in Berkshire. It was the year we flew south; the year I ran
the London and Chicago marathons. France 98, Les Bleus, was Leeds and
M. Euro 96 and USA 94 I was adrift in my tiny Huddersfield flat, trying
to squeeze too much fun from too little Civil Service cash. Italia 90,
the year of the weeping Gazza, was Anna and Battersea. Mexico 86, the
Hand of God goal, was Jane and Clapham. Spain 82 was that long hot,
hazy summer in Manchester, fresh from graduation, shortly to have my
understanding of the world rearranged by several months travelling in
India, Nepal and Bangla Desh. Argentina 78? I was still living at home
with my parents, doing my A Levels. Mexico 1970, the great
Pelé show, I associate with my hollow middle school years.
1966 and all that? Primary school bang opposite Wembley Stadium. World
Cup Willy. Men in awesome fancy dress. Ponchos, lederhosen,
jaunty berets. But no Russians, Hungarians, Bulgarians or Koreans
anywhere. A time when 8 year-old kids could vanish in the morning and
reappear at 9 at night without search parties being organised; without
their mothers being arrested for child cruelty. It was my first
experience of the international world. It was also the time I stood
outside Wembley Stadium during the Uruguay match, shocked by the
tumult, the clamour, the noise coming from the other side of the wall.
And what of 2006? Needless to say, it would be good to be able to look
back on at least one of these tournaments for sporting rather than
personal reasons. 2006?
“Ah yes, the great Walcott Year. He’d not even played in the
Premiership then, y’know. 17-year old, came off the bench to score a
hat-trick in extra time in the quarter-final against Germany, the
semi-final against Argentina, and the final against Brazil….”
We can dream.
