I see the symptoms are setting in again. It starts with a slight flutter in the chest when you spot a plastic St. George’s cross flapping precariously from a passing white van. Then comes the humming, a low, subconscious buzzing of “Three Lions” while you’re picking out your groceries. Before you know it, you are sincerely arguing with a coworker that this time, the manager has finally unlocked the squad’s “true potential.”
Stop. Put the pint down. Take a deep breath. We need to talk about what you’re doing to yourself.
You are experiencing English Football Delusion Syndrome. It is highly contagious, entirely seasonal, and invariably ends in tears, empty glasses, and a profound sense of existential ennui. Have we learned nothing from history? Let us take a brief stroll down the agonizing, cobblestone memory lane of English football, and our tragic performances in recent World Cups and European championships, just to remind you of the inevitable reality waiting at the end of this tournament.
Let’s rewind to 1996. The sun was shining, Brit-pop was blaring, and football was definitively “coming home.” Until, of course, it was a penalty shootout against Germany, and Gareth Southgate gently passed the ball to the goalkeeper, sending us all back to our miserable realities.
Or how about 2006? The fabled “Golden Generation.” We had Beckham, Gerrard, Lampard, Rooney, a squad so top-heavy with talent it was sinking into the pitch. What did we get? A Rooney red card, a cheeky wink from Cristiano Ronaldo, and yet another exit via the slow, torturous death of a penalty shootout. The pressure cooker of a quarter-final reduced our lions to trembling kittens.
And who could forget Euro 2016? Ah, Iceland. A majestic country known for geothermal pools, Björk, and having a population roughly the size of a medium-sized provincial town. They had a part-time film director managing the team. Naturally, they systematically dismantled England on the European stage, leaving us to watch our multi-millionaire superstars stare blankly at the turf as if searching for a trapdoor to swallow them whole.
Then came the crescendo of recent pain: The Euro final (played in 2021 for Covid reasons). At home. At Wembley. We scored in the second minute! The entire nation suspended the laws of physics, floating on pure hubris. But then, true to the national psyche, the team decided to sit back and defend a 1-0 lead for 118 minutes. The Italians equalized, and once again, we found ourselves staring down the barrel of a penalty shootout. Guess how that ended?
This tragic cycle is fundamentally baked into the English national psyche. Every few years, an otherwise rational nation collectively decides to ignore decades of empirical evidence. We build the national football team up to be invincible conquerors, completely ignoring that the moment the stakes get higher than a friendly against San Marino, the squad’s collective heart rate spikes to 190 bpm and they miraculously forget how to complete a basic five-yard pass.
And now, here we are again. The round of 32 game against Congo is this Wednesday in The World Cup. Yes, Congo. A match any serious footballing nation would view as a routine step on the path to glory. But you and I both know what is going to happen. It will be 0-0 in the 84th minute. The ball will be passed endlessly and pointlessly around the backline. Someone will sky a hopeful shot from thirty yards out into the upper tiers. Eventually, we might scrape by with an entirely unconvincing 1-0 victory courtesy of a highly debatable VAR penalty decision, and the press will hail it as a “gritty, champion-like performance.”
It is a sickness. But there is a cure.
I am offering you a clear, alternative path: Radical emotional detachment. You must completely sever your emotional well-being from the performance of eleven men chasing a bag of wind across some grass. Do not buy the car flags. Do not participate in the office sweepstake. If you hear someone singing “Sweet Caroline,” politely leave the room.
My official advice? Wait until the team is at least 3-0 up in the 89th minute of the actual tournament final before you even think about allowing a microscopic sliver of hope to enter your heart. Even then, I’d advise keeping a brown paper bag handy to hyperventilate into during stoppage time. Until that glorious, completely impossible moment arrives, expect nothing. Assume disaster.
On Wednesday at noon Eastern time, here in the U.S., or at 5:00 p.m. in England, just accept that your blood pressure is going to spike. At least that way, when the inevitable crushing disappointment eventually arrives, you can comfortably sit back, sip your room-temperature ale, and smugly whisper to yourself, “I told you so.”
Because that, right there, that sweet, sweet moment, is what it really means to be English.
Matt Davis is a strategic communications consultant.
