Walking away from Dallas Stadium, feet throbbing in the heat of the late‑evening Texas tarmac, it was tempting to picture the scene inside England’s dressing room three hours earlier, the score 2-2 at half-time against a perky Croatia, with Thomas Tuchel’s side in danger of slipping into a familiar tournament pattern of entropy and angst.
What exorcism was performed here? Did England’s players burn a ceremonial John Lewis merino wool slim-fit quarter zip? Did Tuchel deliver his calm, tactically focused half-time speech while simultaneously sawing the head off the lifesize Gareth Southgate effigy the team still carries around with it, before inviting his players to whack it like a piñata, open letters tumbling from the waistcoat pockets, leadership mottoes and worries about penalties scattered across the floor as its bearded and frowning head steadily deflates, a moment of pure era-shedding catharsis?
