He comes home. Although rather slowly, and probably via a corner. On a dismal day on the banks of the Volga, England has taken another unstoppable step into the weird fantasy world that they seem to have created for us. A universe where millennial Republicans run unceremoniously "God Save the Queen" in pubs. Where Kieran Trippier is a legitimate shoo-in for the FIFA Fifa team of the tournament. Where a burning sun beats on desolate and zombie streets. Where to reach a semi-final World Cup seems to be the most natural thing in the world.
While England was playing the last few minutes here, against a dazzled Swedish side and paralyzed by an extreme and mundane skill performance, an unknown sensation began to take shape in the lowlands of our guts. You could call it, for lack of a better word, fun. The Colombian game was too tense to be nice; Harry Kane's winning goal against Tunisia too sudden and ephemeral; the trouncing of Panama too easy and free. But a well deserved walk in the last four against an opponent who had promised only one afternoon of pain? Yes, that one, we could savor.
It could be said that the players of England liked it too. Jesse Lingard rolled his foot on the balloon as he was going to take him home later. Jordan Henderson wore a look of pure and liquid satisfaction as he left for Eric Dier five minutes from the end. Even Gareth Southgate, a serious and professional man, allowed himself a short and broad smile full time before returning to his Caring, Serious Face default: make sure his replacements are all happy, sympathetic with the Swedes, picking up his litter, renewing his help. direct debit, that kind of thing.
But then, there was really nothing new in it all. You could see it before the kickoff, too: Lingard and John Stones were laughing and joking in the tunnel waiting to get out. Jordan Pickford, standing there with a smile as wide as the Volga, the stupid big beast of a guy who managed to press the fast forward button of life, and found himself playing for the # 39, England in a quarterfinal of the World Cup
Since England arrived in Russia, they have released the unmistakable smell of a team enjoying the biggest party of the World Cup. boys. Although, sometimes, a slightly surrealistic holiday in which alcohol is strictly restricted, Colombians impose nails and shoulders on them and they are sometimes forced to play darts with middle-aged reporters. Most of the time, however, the Club 20-18 rate is pretty standard: a few selfies, a bit of deception, a bit of football, and memories and friendships that will last a lifetime.
Has there ever been a team from England who has already played for England looks less like a job? You almost wanted to channel Desmond Lynam at the 1998 France World Cup.
Of course, Sweden was determined to see to that. And for much of the first scoreless half-hour, it seemed like a bit of hard work for England, who had a hard time winning against a Swedish team with great spatial intelligence and a desire of 50-50. Slipping between the tight lines of their defense and midfield, it was like trying to find room in a double cheeseburger.
Just as the game was stagnating to the point where he thought it was due to be delivered by Caesarean section, along Harry Maguire, or more precisely: came Harry Maguire's head. Maguire's head really has an identity and a car of its own: like a 3-wood, or one of Jupiter's moons, or an Elgin marble, or something similar, substantially and unyielding. It's really a Large Hadron Collider of a head, a head for which the hair is really just a kind of disguise, protecting the general public from the terrifying scale of this granite skull. The rumors that the Earth would have really turned around Maguire's head all this time would remain, according to the majority of astronomical consensus, purely conjectural.
Right in front of the goal line, you could see Dele Alli terrified: not in fear that it would hinder the goal and prevent a goal, but that the ball would hit him, and he would be swept into the net with the power of an explosion of neutrons. But he was fine, as was England. On the sideline, Southgate allowed himself a triumphant fist lift, before returning to the injured swan he was trying to heal on the bench in full health.
It had been a tense half-hour, The kind of period that, through muscular memory at least, still tends to bring the collective finger of the panic button nation closer together. Already, you could start to feel the shrill voices of dissent: speed it up, immediately bring Marcus Rashford, bin Raheem Sterling, remove Dele and replace it with one of those same It's Coming Home for the second half . But as the game progressed and England discovered that Sweden had all the sharpness of an Ikea meatball, she began to grow in confidence
The match remained 1-0 at half-time thanks to the two goalies. Robin Olsen first read Sterling's intentions as one of his articles from the Tribune of Players, and opened the ball of one chance on one. Then Pickford beautifully saved Marcus Berg with the same left hand that he had used to win the shootout against Colombia on Tuesday: a left hand that, by a catastrophic medical condition, seems to have grown to an alarming size in recent weeks, to the extent in which he now covers most of one side of the goal. Pickford would continue to do the same with his right hand in the second period, offering disturbing evidence that the disease could spread. A trait that remains unchanged, thankfully, is its habit of making a brilliant rescue and then charging around its penalty area by offering anyone who thinks it might be hard enough.
That was not quite perfect, of course, even after Dele's goal in the second half made the game safe. Sterling's debauchery remains a matter of concern, and Southgate probably wishes, in the intervals between his shifts for the Samaritans, that Pickford is not as busy. But England is in a World Cup semifinal, its first in the men's match since Southgate himself was a restless youngster trying to break into the first team at Crystal Palace, and none of that is seems so urgent.
Because England was found on a trip. The pre-tournament speech about the weakness of this team was always a little exaggerated – their starting lineup here, after all, was shot entirely from the first half of the Premier League – but this group of underrated players discovered depths that it 's not I know it' s been, plunged into reserves of energy and balance that until this summer had remained entirely theoretical. Whatever happens here on July 15th, English football will emerge from this fundamentally changed World Cup for the better: its culture has restarted, its psyche has been reworked. More importantly, like the holidays of the best friends: it was an absolute explosion
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