And breathe again. For the opening 45 minutes under the giant Victorian train station roof at the Dallas Stadium, England produced a performance that was a bit like watching one of those YouTube videos where an awkward and frightening Chinese robot has learned how to dance like Michael Jackson.
Dogged and occasionally convincing, but the kind of spectacle that does generally end with the robot falling off the stage. England didn’t just play like machines in that first half. They played like faulty machines, scared machines, contributing almost zero free-form football to a 2-2 half-time score that included two Harry Kane set-piece goals; the first a set piece from a set piece, a penalty after a corner, set piece squared.
Was this going to be the story here? Is this how we’re going to go down, in a kind of singularity, the death of hope, football as units of action, deathly set moves? Tuchel called it last September. Throw-ins are back. Corners are so hot right now. In that opening half England had those parts, but nothing much else in between.
At which point, the most important thing happened, not just in this game, but in Tuchel’s time with England. Credit must go to the manager for whatever he did to these players at half-time. And also to Jude Bellingham, who scored what would turn out to be not just the decisive goal in this 4-2 win, but also a moment of drive and energy that was completely at odds with everything to that point.
This wasn’t quite an individualist’s goal, a dribble, or a moment of craft. It was an expression of basic sprinting will. It was an angry goal, and in exactly the right way. Bellingham took the ball in the right channel, running on to a simple pass over the top, and just kept going, veering inside, all drive and focus, with a rising sense of inevitability. He had the speed to leave two defenders mooching in his vapour trail, and the skill to produce a fine, cold, guided finish into the far corner at a full sprint.
It wasn’t just that England were 3-2 up in that moment. Or that they looked like a team. More that they looked like they actually wanted to take part in a game of football, that this wasn’t just an activity to be undertaken out of fear and self‑loathing. For the next 10 minutes they swarmed all over Croatia, might have scored four, and gave a glimpse not so much of patterns of play, but of a willingness to actually do this, of the muscle, speed and ruthlessness that are undeniably there in this team.
It felt right that Bellingham should be the man to kick over the console table and bring something ragged and raw to the day. It is easy to criticise him at times, given the level of his fame and status, the slight sense of confusion as to what his attributes really are, whether he has the deeper gears, the super-strengths of an elite player, or just the mannerisms and the profile.
Some have suggested Bellingham is just a player of elite moments, the only answer to which is, well, he’s 22, and elite moments will do just fine thanks. We’ll take those. Not least when, as here, they can change the entire shape of the day, the energy in the room, perhaps even the way England are going to play here. With any luck the team can now breathe around him for the rest of this tournament. Most significant, by the end, with Marcus Rashford adding another, this felt like something entirely new. It was fun, free, a little rough. England can do this. Who knew?
The Dallas Stadium is a genuinely epic arena, rising up out of the dead heat of Texas plain like a crash-landed alien spaceship. Inside, it’s like entering some futuristic microclimate, a place to store your secret island, your ark-full of uber humans for the coming rapture.
Before kick-off the spectacle was almost overwhelming from the sealed press box high up in the gods, the huge glazed canopy roof, the red and white, the 160ft screen picking out the terrifying planetary-scale heads of members of the crowd.
The upper tiers were decked in the well-worn travelling England flags, the roll call of names, Huddersfield, Gillingham, Grimsby, like an alternative shipping forecast.
And the opening 12 minutes were all about Kane, who finally got to become a place kicker in an NFL stadium, scoring from a retaken penalty. A little later Kane got to realise his other childhood dream of scoring an Arsenal goal, heading in direct from Declan Rice’s corner after a Croatia equaliser.
England stalled from there. They began to totter on their feet, circuit boards smoking. Tuchel was present here in all black, with that familiar look of some founding American settler, a goggle-eyed Dutch farmer in a straw hat out there tilling the lands. He must take credit if not for the start, then for the way England altered the energy here.
And also for the balance that became apparent by the end in midfield. Whatever England achieve in the US is likely to centre on how well Rice and Elliot Anderson can drive the game. It seems Tuchel has a type in there: upright, willowy, floppy-haired right-footed Englishmen.
It would be a bit of a stretch to suggest anything that happened in Dallas could amount to an act of vengeance for 2018. But England did finally wrest control here against the deathless Luka Modric, 40 years old and a more gnarled figure, but still the same gliding, bobbing miracle of balance and technique.
Modric left the field soon after England’s surge. Croatia were probably always there for the taking. But there was hope here, and energy, and best of all something a little ragged and human.
