Oh, I’m all for the kids being enthusiastic about England. There was no bigger lion than me in my youth. I cried for hours when we lost to West Germany in 1970. We had a team in those days. Then my mum reminded me I was half Irish which helped, but not much. The way we matched the finest football team the world has ever seen in the group games, beaten only by genius in a titanic struggle, deserved better than defeat occasioned by Banks’ illness and Charlton’s half-time departure. It was a better or at least as good a team as the ‘66 Champions.
As I’ve grown older I’ve realised it will never happen again. Long gone are the days when we produced players equal to or better than the Latin, Franco and Germanic teams. One glance at the Premier League squads confirms that unassailable proposition.
I’m rather weary of the familiar biennial charade whereby the press and tv try to whip the nation into patriotic fervour by suggesting we have the remotest chance of winning the tournament. Shirts go on; car flags are proudly flown. We then get a football lesson from some little-known nation, represented by names both unpronounceable and unknown, but who embarrass our unimaginative plodders with their technique, pace and creativity.
There are one or two classy players in the current paper generation but they are hugely outweighed by mediocrities who are utterly deluded if they have any pretentions to be better than even half of the other nations on show. As for the usual elite nations; not within a country mile, I’m afraid.
I salute your lad’s passion. I hope it subsists beyond the first couple of weeks, whether England are still there or not. I fear his prediction is a triumph of hope over experience. We shall see...
