How we talked. On late-night news shows, disembodied heads above a rolling yellow banner. On planes and trains, at bus stops and flower shops and kids’ birthday parties, trying desperately to connect the ennui of the now with the vividness of the later, trying on some level to anticipate the feelings, the blood surge, the heart rush. At the sinks in the office toilets, jerthinktheylldoit, theyactuallymighty’know, shake-shake, and your devastating analysis of the Rice-Anderson-Mainoo triple pivot gets lost in the noise of the hand-dryer.
Two years of this. Countless millions sunk on tickets, hotels, Ubers, shirts, pizzas, flags, the hours spent on Google Maps trying to locate somewhere to eat after 11pm in Riga, the endless psychodrama over Jude Bellingham and whether he should have been left at home or not (turns out, not). How we bled and sweated over this, over the minor details of the journey, over whether Danny Welbeck had done enough to earn a place in the squad or not (turns out, not). All pointing towards the moment on Wednesday evening when England are 1-0 up in a World Cup semi-final against Argentina and your entire happiness rests on whether a bunch of millionaire footballers and a millionaire German coach can keep their shit together for 40 minutes, or not.
