Day five of getting over England’s defeat to Argentina. Long runs. Cold showers. Thinking about Djed Spence’s tackle while another dad talks at me by the gates. Imagining England’s possession figures in a final against this Spain. Isn’t it better to go out beating France 6-4 than losing to Spain 1-0? Better to go out praying to god with French players than begging for mercy from Spanish ones? Pete’s taking the kids to the zoo, or something.
I’ve watched it back twice now, from Anthony Gordon’s goal to full-time. It’s weirdly cathartic being transported back to a moment in time when hope still burned, when you can still draw a little thrill from England celebrating their lead, like re-reading a great book even though you don’t like the ending.
