I wasn’t going to stay up. That was the plan, anyway. I’ve got a busy day ahead, work piling up, deadlines to meet, and more than enough reasons to be sensible.
I told myself I’d check the result in the morning. After all, kick-off was at an hour when most normal people are asleep.
Then it was delayed for another hour.
But football has a way of ignoring sensible plans.
So there I was in the early hours, telling myself I’d watch the first few minutes before heading to bed. Hours later I was pacing around the room, shouting at the television, questioning the eyesight of the referee and wondering whether my heart would survive long enough to hear the final whistle.
What a game. What an extraordinary, unforgettable, magnificent game.
My heart is still pounding.
England’s 3-2 victory over Mexico in the Azteca Stadium will go down as one of the finest performances we have ever seen from an England side. Not because it was flawless. Not because it was beautiful. Not because everything went according to plan. Quite the opposite.
It was heroic because everything seemed to be against us.
The Azteca is one of world football’s great arenas. Nearly 78,000 Mexican supporters packed the stands. The noise was relentless. The atmosphere was electric. The altitude alone is enough to sap the energy from even the fittest athletes. Mexico had not lost there in a World Cup qualifier or tournament match for years.
Yet England walked into that cauldron and refused to be intimidated.
Jude Bellingham was magnificent. Two first-half goals from a player who is a force of nature. Harry Kane delivered once again when his country needed him. Anthony Gordon ran himself into the ground. Jordan Pickford produced save after save when the pressure was at its greatest. They were all superb.
Then came the moment every England fan dreaded. The red card.
One reckless challenge and suddenly England were down to ten men with an eternity left to play.
My immediate reaction was probably the same as millions of supporters across the country. “Oh no. Here we go.”
We’ve all lived through too many England disappointments. Too many occasions when hope has been crushed just as it begins to bloom. Too many moments when fate seems determined to remind us that supporting England is not for the faint-hearted.
But this team is different. That doesn’t mean they’re perfect. They aren’t. There are still moments when they frustrate us. There are still mistakes. There are still periods when they make life far harder than it needs to be. What makes them different is their character. Even with ten men, they kept fighting.
Even when Mexico poured forward wave after wave, they kept fighting.
Even when every tackle, clearance and block was being roared at by tens of thousands of supporters, they kept fighting.
And then came the penalty.
I know some people will disagree, but I still don’t think Mexico should have had it. I’ve seen the replays. I’ve listened to the explanations. I’ve heard the pundits. I’m still unconvinced.
When the referee pointed to the spot my heart sank. When Raúl Jiménez converted, the tension became almost unbearable. Suddenly it felt as though the entire stadium was willing Mexico towards an equaliser.
Yet England would not break.
This was one of those nights that reminded us why sport can be so compelling. It wasn’t simply eleven footballers trying to win a match. It became a test of resilience, courage and belief.
The final stages were almost unbearable. When the fourth official held up the board showing eleven minutes of added time, I genuinely thought it must be a mistake. Eleven minutes? Surely not.
I actually set a stopwatch. I wanted to know exactly how much suffering remained.
Never in my life have eleven minutes passed so slowly. Every corner felt like a penalty. Every free-kick felt like a crisis. Every clearance was celebrated as though England had scored.
As the clock ticked beyond ninety, then beyond one hundred, then beyond the announced added time itself, I became convinced that time had somehow stopped altogether.
And then finally, gloriously, came the whistle. England had done it.
Not by playing pretty football.
Not by dominating possession.
Not by having everything go their way.
They did it through sheer determination.
The statistics tell one story. After the red card, Mexico had most of the ball. Most of the corners. More shots. More territory.
The scoreline told the only story that mattered. England 3. Mexico 2.
As dawn broke across Britain, England supporters were celebrating a victory that felt bigger than simply reaching another quarter-final. This was one of those rare sporting moments that captures the imagination of an entire nation.
For years England teams have been accused of lacking bottle when it matters most. For years we’ve been told they cannot cope with pressure, hostile crowds or adversity. Well, nobody can say that after Mexico.
They stared adversity in the face and beat it.
Now comes Norway. And for the first time in a very long time, I find myself genuinely believing.
Not hoping. Not dreaming. Believing.
Because teams that win World Cups often have nights like this. Nights when everything goes wrong. Nights when logic says they should lose. Nights when they somehow find a way. England found a way.
Whatever happens next, these players have already made their country proud. They have shown courage, resilience and a refusal to surrender that every England supporter can admire.
For one glorious night in Mexico City, they were heroes.
And as impossible as it once felt to say, those three little words are beginning to sound less like a joke and more like a possibility.
It’s coming home.
Main Image: For illustration purposes.
