Is anyone else feeling it? That dangerous, unmistakable, medically inadvisable little glimmer of hope?
Yes, I know. We have been here before. Every four years, I become an international football strategist with no formal qualifications beyond shouting at the television and correctly identifying when someone “needs to get it forward quicker.”
But after England’s 4-2 win over Croatia in Dallas last night, even the most battle-scarred Three Lions fan must surely admit it. Something stirred. Something clicked. Something, dare one say it, began packing a suitcase for home.
England were not perfect. Of course they weren’t. This is England. Perfection would only bore us. We like a bit of struggle, a wobble at the back, a brief spell of national panic, followed by a glorious rediscovery of purpose somewhere around the 68th minute.
But my goodness, Kane and his men were fantastic.
Harry Kane led the line like a man who has read every “too old, too slow” comment and calmly filed them under “nonsense”. Two goals, endless graft, captain’s authority and the ruthless efficiency that has made him one of England’s greatest ever forwards.
Then there was Jude Bellingham, gliding around midfield as though the rest of them were playing on dial-up. The man has the swagger of a matador, the engine of a Rolls-Royce and the unsettling confidence of someone who knows exactly how good he is.
For long spells, England looked quick, sharp and dangerous. Not “plucky England.” Not “nearly England.” Not “keep it tight and hope for a set piece England.” This was an England side with teeth and Croatia spent much of the evening discovering just how sharp they were.
Croatia, let us remember, have been a recurring nightmare in the national football psyche. They have loomed in our memories like a tax bill, a VAR check or that bit in the song where we remember all the years of hurt. And yet last night, England hit them for four. Four.
You could almost hear the nation clearing its throat. Three Lions on a shirt…
No, no. Stay calm. We are adults. We have mortgages. We have learned from bitter experience. But still. There were passages of play where the old song did not feel like nostalgia. It felt like prophecy.
Football’s coming home has always been half anthem, half self-defence mechanism. A national joke, sung with pints in hand and emotional damage in the background. We sing it because we believe, but also because we know belief is the beginning of the trap. And yet this team makes it hard not to believe.
They conceded twice, which was annoying, obviously. Very England. Very “just when you were enjoying yourself, here’s some unnecessary stress.” But what mattered was the response. They did not shrink. They did not start passing sideways as though the ball had suddenly become radioactive. They went again. That is what felt different.
England looked like a team that expected to win, not one politely asking history for permission.
Of course, the defence will need tightening. There were moments when the back line had all the calm assurance of a WhatsApp group trying to organise a family barbecue. Better sides will punish those errors. Tuchel will know that. The players will know that. The entire nation, now consisting of 60 million tactical analysts, certainly knows that. But this was a statement.
Kane was superb. Bellingham was electric. Rashford’s goal was the kind of tournament moment that sometimes makes people start saying things they later pretend they never said. Things like, “I think we can win this.” Well, perhaps we can. There. I’ve said it. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Not yet while standing on a pub table wrapped in a St George’s flag. But quietly, carefully, with one eye on the knockout draw and the other on decades of accumulated trauma. England might actually have a chance.
The golden generation never quite managed it. The brave semi-finalists broke our hearts. The penalty shootouts aged us. The near misses became folklore. Thirty years of hurt became forty, then fifty, then whatever emotional accounting system we are currently using.
But last night, for 90 minutes in Dallas, England looked like a side capable of writing a different ending.
So yes, stay sensible. Keep perspective. Do not book the open-top bus. But maybe start checking the route.
Because after England 4, Croatia 2, that faint little glimmer of hope has become something brighter. And somewhere, very softly at first, the nation has started humming again.
It’s coming home.
The road is long. The tests will get harder. But this England side looks ready for the challenge.
And somewhere between Dallas and the final, a nation has started to dream again. This is a team we can believe in.
Bring it home, lads.
Main Image: For illustration purposes only.
