And so they lined up, the best that the country had to offer (or in this case the manager – deluded or not). Each man carried on his sleeve the hopes of an entire nation. His skill with a ball, mettle, and stamina were the ink and tip which over the course of an hour and a half of exertion would write a new chapter for the pint drizzling multitudes, who were simultaneously on the edge of their seats, hands on heart, singing “God Save the Queen”.
Retrospect is the critics abode: I make no apologies. The hyphen between kick-off and the final whistle, disallowed goal included, spoke little of English skill or – especially in the case of Gareth Barry – pace. It rather told the story of an efficient German machine, steered by a young midfielder by the name of Ozil who almost effortlessly disposed of what was once refereed to as the ‘Golden generation’. Tainted that night was the patriotism and pride painted by the numerous flags suspended across the stadiums, bedrooms, shops, and cars. Though God saved the Queen, it was not her but dejection that reigned in English hearts.
How does a side represent a nation if it cannot, even on paper, defeat the top four sides in it’s league? How do you justify Michael Carrick – the best English passer of the ball – not setting boot on grass throughout the campaign? Or an unfit Gareth Barry, a goalless Heskey, a recovering Ashley Cole, and an indisciplined Glen Johnson receiving call ups over West Brown, Agbonlahor, and Michael Dawson? Inexplicable thus the inevitable and despicable outcome.
Like the rest of the football lovers across the country, I stay hope, hide my dreams for another day, and wait patiently to see what other disaster will be painted over my kindled delusions. World class? Nah!
This is the true result. The burden we all have to carry for next couple of years (or more)!
Sad times indeed!