((Loverboy - Chance Of A Lifetime - YouTube))
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Glum faces stared out of the broad windows of the team bus, their expressions that of suffering and surrender to their fates.
"Aaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhhh! Turn it offffffffff!" Screamed Armstrong, the moans of his teammates accompanying his outcry. One laugh rose above the noise filling the coach as the driver diligently ignored the ridiculous distractions.
"Lets see shall we? Croatia...you...." he let it hang until those within easy ear shot got their manager's drift.
"Beat them" They droned in chorus.
"Yes you beat them, needed an own goal but a win is a win. Then there was Sweden and Norway, who you also...."
"Beat" They continued, drearily following the torturous game to its conclusion.
"But then....oh.....oh no!! Russia and the Ukraine!! You...."
"Drew...." The sighs were unanimous as hands covered ears. All headphones had been confiscated, and even worse punishments lay in store for anyone who dared to play their own music from devices or had they any lungs then from their mouths.
"Hahahahahahahaha!!!" The Manager laughed triumphantly as he retook his seat, eyes to the front as they rode through Sweden's glorious beautiful landscapes.
"Argh!!!" Came one final cry of exasperation "This music is ****** 45 years old!!!! AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!"
The Manager was a man of his word if nothing else. At least they didn't have a huge distance to cover, Stockholm to Malmo was east down to the South, a fair few hours but bearable even with their forfeit dominating the atmosphere.
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A night of rest before they got started training in their new surroundings. For once other than the constant domestic attention from the English fervent supporters came a vast array of international supporters. In the city for their first game or simply locals, they were all curious to get a look at this England side that were proving their worth against many of the best on a regular basis.
Gerrard fancied a break from the bore of the press, he had never enjoyed having to speak to them in the manner the interviews always took place. Allowing him to exercise his wishes, the Manager instead had the company of Neville for his audience with the eternally frustrating.
Q. "You controversially made the decision to intentionally organise friendlies against two of the teams in our group. Do you think this was both wise and in the spirit of the tournament?"
A. "Wise, perhaps. Our players know what they are up against so now they just need to show up on the day and do their jobs. In the spirit? Maybe not, I know its not against the rules, but when looking at suitable teams in the regions we had targeted to play our friendlies they genuinely were the top choices."
Q. "Could it possibly backfire having played them both so recently? You've effectively allowed their manager's to get an in-depth look at your tactics."
A. "That’s both assuming that I will be implementing the same tactics against them when we play for real; and that their managers didn't have the foresight to attend any of our other games or watch any videos. It does help being on the sideline, but sometimes being in the stands you can see more of what is going on."
Q. "Do you believe that the decision over leaving former captain Phil Jones behind and ignoring his experience will cost your side during the course of this tournament? Do you really believe that Yalcin (Akarsu) has the qualities to lead this England team?"
A. "I thought this issue was behind us. Next question."
Q. "Spain are once again the favourites, and both European and World Champions coming into this championship. Should England be drawn against them in the latter stages do you feel you can overcome them?"
A. "Hmm...." he looked across to Gary, the man was keeping as quiet as he dared, most likely after previous attempts he had made to speak up when the Manager was in control of the room "I think it would depend upon a number of factors, but if you lined us both up now...yes...I believe we could beat them."
The room stirred a little, unrest as they clearly felt surprised by the confidence shown from the Manager.
Q. "Were a result to be possible then surely defensively England would need to have some special system in place to deal with them?"
Now the Manager looked to Neville as defensive coach and motioned that it was his to answer. Clearing his throat, he was no stranger to speaking to the press.
A. "We feel that there doesn't necessarily need to be any particularly special tactic to deal with the Spanish, just individual instructions for certain players as with...."
How queer it was that the press were so hung up on both the Captain issue, and the Spanish of all teams. There were plenty of threats in the competition, to focus on the favourites again seemed odd, but then the press were odd, lurching from provoking statement to outrageous headline in their attempts to procure more readers.
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The matches started and Sweden displayed a brilliant passion for their tournament, clearly determined to bring it back to their shores as it seemed strange they managed to host it again after such a relatively short space of time since the previous one in 1992.
English screens replayed the archive footage of the previous failure of a campaign to remind and educate those watching just what happened when the England under Graham Taylor had a stab at this competition here.
The well worked goal of the Swedes when they dumped out the English, a disappointing exit at the group stages hard to take at the time after such an encouraging World Cup in Italy.
With no great distractions, the team were able to concentrate on what was to come fully. In no time at all it was time for them to kick off and start to carve out their path to the trophy.
View attachment 329743 Lineker: "Hello. You're seeing me again, which I'm sure you've figured out by now tells you why we're all here...it's another tournament, and its
England. Joining me in the studio is the eternal Alan Hansen, Italian former Chelsea player Gianluca Vialli, and the now Porto manager Alan Shearer.
"Guys, surely this time?"
Hansen: "Well, England have been looking strong. Good draws away to Portugal and Spain, cleared the qualifying without any problems, and key they don't have any players missing."
Shearer: "The likes of Towler and Stannard will be massive if we're to get anything out of this championship."
Lineker: "Yes, Gianluca, what do you think of our chances? Obviously you're going to be rooting for your home Italy to sneak off with the silverware, but is there a realistic chance for England to finally get a trophy again?"
Vialli: "If you don't come up against Italy, then sure why not?" The four men all chuckled together, the light atmosphere of the box with its view over the pitch just what the viewing public wanted each time the nerves began to rise for their nation's appearance.
"I think as Alan said, the lack of any big injuries could mean the difference for England. You, you want to see your world beaters such as Ashley Stannard putting in performances like at his club, Brighton; or the captain Yalcin Akarsu...they are going to be the faces which will need to drag the others through."
Lineker: "Mmm of course. Aside from the players I don't think anyone can doubt that the measured success of England has at the very least been helped by the current manager; and we've got something very special on our boy; Clarence Seedorf who will be working with us at this championship got to speak to someone very important indeed on the man in charge."
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Seedorf: "Mr Cruyff, Johan, I'd love to talk Holland with you but we're here to talk about something else entirely today, one of your protégé."
A now very aged Cruyff smiled as he sat back in his chair, the familiar interview setting inside the neutral looking room.
Cruyff: "One of my protégé; an Englishman of all people." He gave a little laugh to himself.
Seedorf: "The English have been transformed of late, their revival down to many factors, one of which most agree is the Manager. The man himself has made no bones about the importance he felt of working alongside you for those years at Brighton, his first job. Tell me, what was it like?"
Cruyff: "I can tell you its a strange situation to be having him called my protégé when I was the assistant manager!" The pair smiled together before the older man continued "Its always nice to have people attribute some of their success or growth to you, makes you feel as if you've managed to do some good besides that aimed at yourself. He, learned a lot, and quickly, dealing with players, the press, handling the pressure of the job. They were things which he would have learned sooner or later, I suppose I was just there when he happened to pick them up."
Seedorf: "You've been responsible for many revivals and blossoming of team's fortunes, your philosophy and mental approach something often remarked upon. Was it this more than anything which you think the Manager took from you at Brighton?"
Cruyff: "Hmm" He puffed out his cheeks, thinking on a suitable answer "Perhaps, but then we were constantly talking with each other about where to take the side; who to sign, how to deal with problems on the training field. The result was more a mixture of both of our thoughts on how to progress."
Seedorf: "Now, England whilst not favourites for the tournament are quietly the dark horse many feel could break the hold history seems to have on them. What are your thoughts on their chances under the Manager?"
Cruyff: "England have always been a presence in international football, though they've often fallen short of their billing. It just takes a group of players coming through at the same time such as we had in the 70's in Holland, with the right leadership to guide them and you have a shot at the trophy. I think any team which comes up against this England side will struggle, they're very dangerous."
Seedorf: "I'm required to ask, will you be cheering for England?" Seedorf grinned broadly, the silly question clearly one which had been put to him to ask.
Cruyff: "Root for the English?!" He looked to the camera with a sly smile "Pah, maybe if the Dutch are found wanting...I'll cheer on my friend. That what you want to hear? Go on the English?"
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12th June Croatia - Group A - Helsingborg Community Stadium
They looked confident, the English. Striding out onto the field, the anthems played and each face turned to the tops of the stands before them to sing with their full breath instead of mumbling the words like some embarrassed surly teenager being forced through the uncomfortable actions.
The crowd cheered as the beautiful slender lady with the pair of lungs they’d all never heard of finished the national themes to allow the action to finally get under way. Croatia had the kick off, but as they lined up the Manager looked over the Croatian formation.
Honda stepped forward “Chotto hen….”
“English Keisuke.”
“Its strange, their formation.”
“Just what I was thinking.”
As they looked over the line up, the Croatians had completely radicalised their side from the looks of it. Players who were deemed by the media in general as crucial to their campaign were warming the bench behind their manager, and instead a crop of fresh faces barely broken in with the chequered shirt were looking eager to get stuck in.
Then there was the three at the back, a packed midfield and one man up the pitch in attack. Studying it a little further as the referee blew the whistle he realised it mirrored something close to the kind of tactics the Italian national side sometimes used and certainly a formation Antonio Conte implemented at Brighton currently.
He’d watched enough games to know what worked against the formation, but they hadn’t prepared for it, the players would need to adapt though it was well within their abilities to do so. The Manager and Honda took their seats to watch the play unfold.
View attachment 329747 The brass band still without talent or inspiration murdered a few classic tunes repeatedly to the dismay of those who had been unfortunate to get tickets right near where they all lined up pretending they were important or welcome. The wailing sound of the instruments the backdrop as England attempted to ply attack after attack once underway. Each move however as the stands built with every run would simply fizzle out; a body to block, an interception, a pass sent just too long and out of play.
It was the English pushing, working the channels as players pointed fingers into space as they tried to exploit it with runs getting up the pitch into the opposition half, but as they came into the final third all Croatian bodies got back and shut out the move before it had a chance to produce that lethal final touch.
They might have only three at the back in open play, but clearly their tactics were to throw every single player back into their box the moment the English began racing toward them, the routine and drill of the defensive wall hurrying into position quite clearly had been the focus of their training since the friendly.
Sighs started filtering from English spectators behind, audible from those fans at pitch-side slumped back into their seats. The Croatians however were in full voice, they knew that they would need to defend well to keep out the English attack, and seeing their boys do just that was inspiration enough for them, yet as the half was starting to close out they seemed to be growing in voice.
And then it happened. One ball was sent forward from the rigid defence; the Manager couldn’t see where it came from, he didn’t care. It floated through the air into the England half beyond Corns and Boukie marking the Croatian lone striker. The defenders sticking to him like glue, all three men chased where the ball might land; Corns arrived first as it would bounce, only to miss it.
Sekou Boukie stayed with the man, but in the tussle between them it was clear he was going to lose a conflict of strength as the tall striker kept his balance. It came down again, and as the two went in the forward took it onwards with a touch, they pushed alongside one another still following it dutifully; the Croatian crowd rose in volume, their chance was there at last if their boy could just see off the last lines of defence.
Armstrong woke up, snoozing for 40 minutes, his eyes checking his positioning and the oncoming play. Boukie decided he couldn’t keep the chase up any longer, the arm of Kovacevic keeping him off balance all the way. Lunging with a desperate outstretched foot he tried to knock the ball clear of the pair; yet only managed to touch it into a goal scoring opportunity as he hit the deck.
Kovacevic stepped up, eyed Jimmy as he came rushing out of his 6 yard box, and brushed the ball about him into the corner of the net. Croatia went wild; no threat all half, they would be going in with the lead.
He’d been there before with a team, a disappointing scoreline at half time, a side he was in control of looking incapable of scoring as they seemed devoid of inspiration to break down a dogged defence. The Swedish volunteers and stadium staff gave sheepish smiles to one another as they gestured to one another silently what a racket was flooding through the England team’s dressing room, such was the noise of the chewing out.
They lined up again, the 11 English faces looked both stunned and eager at once, hungry to address their failures. Sadly, they just hadn’t got the answer in them.
View attachment 329750 The 71
st minute Kovecevic doubled the lead, another good break catching the defence off guard. Despite all the possession and intent each English attack broke down; it wasn’t until the 81
st minute Towler managed to drill one through the crowd at last into the net. Fresh legs for both sides, Croatia dug in to keep their lead. 1 – 2.
An amazing score considering the sheer dominance of the English, surely the other teams possibly worried by the prospect of facing the previously in-form Anglo-Saxons would be licking their lips. Matters were made worse by an injury to Adam Oxlade-Chamberlain; he’d only be out for 8 days but should they find little creativity against yet more determined defensive teams in their group he may not get to play for his country again. Aged 34, he couldn’t complain too much about that however, having just achieved his 170
th cap for his country.
There was one silver lining to the grim fact that England after one game sat in a precarious position within their group and the tournament. When the band played the Great Escape, this time it seemed actually justified.
((The Great Escape Theme - YouTube))
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17th June Wales – Group A – Kalmar Community Stadium
The Welsh, that was perfect for picking the spirits back up. Delighted at having qualified for the tournament, they had no ambitions on the trophy itself, just to make a good showing for those back home and discover some pride within the game of football.
In only the 2
nd minute they seemed to have that pride, Michael Wigley making a surprise run before the game had really got going, a doozy of a shot and Wales had an incredible early advantage.
With the lead in their pocket, the red shirts sat back just as they had seen the Croatians. England fans rubbed their heads in frustration as once again their white shirts seemed to have no answer as to how to unlock them and score against the weaker side.
The half slipped away; and just as the manager could feel his anger boiling to breaking point Ashley Stannard beat two defenders to side foot home and spare some blushes. It didn’t detract from the fact that having arrived at the tournament and possibly even in the friendlies in the run up to the championship this England team weren’t the free scoring dangerous one from previously.
Another all guns blazing team-talk, they came back out, and this time worked out the magic answer to solve the scoring crisis.
Stannard 49 settled nerves shortly after the restart, Edgerley after substitutes were made to save some legs saw off the Welsh in the 77
th minute. 3 – 1.
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It wasn’t as everyone had expected, but it was enough to show England were beginning to wind it up at last; only took them over 2 hours of football to do so. Feeling his frustrations still lingering after a difficult tie, the manager supplied the newspapers with some fuel as he joked “Stick to rugby” when asked of the Welsh performance.
20th June Russia – Group A – Malmo Community Stadium
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The fans continued to follow, staying wherever they could find a spot, training went better, they ironed things out, and when the day they played the Russians rolled around, the Manager felt supremely confident at last since arriving in Scandinavia.
Stannard 12, 15, 21, Towler 27. An awesome first half hour with the lightning hat trick from Ashley, his assist for Aaron Towler was just the icing on the cake. They rested individuals early into the second half and the game finished 4 – 0, England fans relaxed at last that they would see some more football even if would be rougher going for their early lapse. The only negative to come from the calm easy fixture was the injury of Danny Edgerley, he would miss the rest of the tournament. A shame for the lad, but fortunately Oxlade-Chamberlain was back to full fitness to retake his spot on the right wing.
| Group A | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| Croatia | 3 | 0 | 0 | +6 | 9 |
| England | 2 | 0 | 1 | +5 | 6 |
| Russia | 0 | 1 | 2 | -5 | 1 |
| Wales | 0 | 1 | 2 | -6 | 1 |
| Group B | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| Spain | 3 | 0 | 0 | +6 | 9 |
| Scotland | 1 | 0 | 2 | -1 | 3 |
| Ukraine | 1 | 0 | 2 | -2 | 3 |
| Slovakia | 1 | 0 | 2 | -3 | 3 |
| Group C | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| Italy | 2 | 1 | 0 | +4 | 7 |
| Belgium | 2 | 0 | 1 | +2 | 6 |
| Switzerland | 1 | 0 | 2 | -1 | 3 |
| Greece | 0 | 1 | 2 | -5 | 1 |
| Group D | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| France | 3 | 0 | 0 | +8 | 9 |
| Austria | 0 | 2 | 1 | -4 | 2 |
| Germany | 0 | 2 | 1 | -1 | 2 |
| Poland | 0 | 2 | 1 | -3 | 2 |
| Group E | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| Portugal | 2 | 1 | 0 | +8 | 7 |
| Holland | 2 | 1 | 0 | +2 | 7 |
| Bulgaria | 1 | 0 | 2 | -4 | 3 |
| Belarus | 0 | 0 | 3 | -6 | 0 |
| Group F | W | D | L | GD | Pts |
| Sweden | 3 | 0 | 0 | +5 | 9 |
| Denmark | 1 | 1 | 1 | +3 | 4 |
| Czech Rep | 1 | 1 | 1 | +1 | 4 |
| Iceland | 0 | 0 | 3 | -9 | 0 |
2
nd in the group. They knew they would have to beat the best to win the thing, but fears were evident upon the faces of the hopeful as they clearly hadn’t desired to face the elite just yet. The nerves were eased at least by the delight that the Germans had once again failed to get beyond the groups, their national side still in the thrall of distrust and disjointed teamwork, so unlike them. One superb factor for the tournament itself was the imperious winning of the group for hosts Sweden; it was common knowledge that whenever the hosts did well the whole competition felt infinately livelier.
The finalised schedule for the second round made, most ties looked straightforward save for one.
(("I'm Still Standing" by "Elton John" - YouTube))
26th June Holland – 2
nd Round – Kalmar Community Arena
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5 good days of rest and practice to ready them, the Manager knew probably better than anyone on his side how tough the game would be, the Dutch so desperate for revenge by now after not only the World Cup but the friendly in Amsterdam. He knew the dangers, he knew how to prep his boys to deal with them, but sometimes there was no preparation for a game when raw desire and intense hard working legs combined to propel a team on.
It was one for the highlight reels of desperate football. The revival of England from their group was a premature assumption, an overconfident estimation of their strength against those who perhaps wanted it more.
Holland started brightly, David Creemers the Real Madrid front man bagged the first goal on 36; England offered nothing. Half time, the Manager ripped them a fresh orifice to put it lightly, nothing else for it, they knew it was knock out football, fail to find something against the orange shirts or go home empty handed for another two years.
England hit the post, they hit the bar, Weatherby pounced on what was the third goalmouth scramble in 10 minutes to equalise the scoreline, it was all England now. They pressed and pressed, but couldn’t net the second and winner. 90 minutes was up.
The staff came out onto the pitch, rub downs of legs, substitutes informed as they began to warm up. Play resumed. England still had it all, so impressive was the pass and move, the cheeky ***** back as players rushed in to support while Dutch legs tired. Dalian Corns was absolutely bossing the Holland attack; England hit the bar again before finally Corns got up for a corner and mashed his face against the ball to beat the keeper, 102 minutes, real grit.
105 minutes and the final 15 to come, they did their best to gee up the players. Now Holland went for it, yet on the counter England managed to hit the woodwork yet again!
Finally the whistle went, the Dutch were a side of broken men as they couldn’t believe they had let their first half dominance slip away. England could be mighty proud of their turnaround, and well and truly felt now after another scare that they were up and running, or at the very least just keeping pace with the rest all looking good for the silverware. Another major win against the Dutch, the boss wondered just how many more times they would have to play against them, each one felt like a fight to the death when it mattered.
Second Round Results
Scotland 2 V 2p Croatia
Portugal 2 V 0 Denmark
Switzerland 1 V 2 Spain
Ukraine e2 V 1 Sweden
England e2 V 1 Holland
Bulgaria e4 V 2 Italy
Czech Rep 0 V 4 France
Belgium e3 V 0 Austria
Football fans were treated to a wealth of ties in only the second round as heroic underdog sides gave everything they had to give to try and see their side progress. Scotland so close to getting further than they ever dreamed; the hosts going out to the Ukraine who found that extra something from nowhere apparently; but surely Bulgaria managing to find 2 goals in extra time against one of the favourites would be the tie of the round.
And the Manager was grateful for it. Oblivious to the other matches as he had been so focused on getting England into shape, the Bulgarians were the next opposition.
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1st July Bulgaria – Quarter Final – Friends Arena
To say the Bulgarians had been inconsistent this tournament would be an understatement. The Portuguese had walloped them 5 nil in their group early on, yet somehow scraping progression thanks to the mathematical wonder of the other groups they found the performance of their lives against the Italians.
England in blue the Bulgarians in white, the Manager had informed them of how to deal with the side, pinpointed the kind of moves to work, the players to exploit. They were prepared.
1 minute in Ashley Stannard clipped the heels of a midfielder as they played from the kick off, earning a yellow already. Yalcin looked across to him urging him to calm down in line with his duties as captain.
Bulgaria kicked off, played it up to Rumen Nikiforov, and scored. 2 minutes.
Inside the 2
nd minute again! The cameras panned to the bench as the Manager had to turn to the stands in an attempt to hide his fury. It was the obvious place to look given his reactions for every other game England had failed to get out of the blocks. All players in blue shirts sporting the three lions shared the same image of their man in charge about to explode.
Whether it was a genuine wake up from the goal itself, or fear from the surely incredible and possibly harmful half time team talk that awaited them if they didn’t sort their lives out; England decided to join the proceedings. Playing it back to defence, the ball then with two touch slick play pin-balled right the way through the side until Stannard in the 4
th minute struck it sweetly home. The team goal of the tournament for sure.
View attachment 329771
Akarsu set up Stannard to hit in on 9; Bell was fouled in the box for a penalty in the 31
st minute, Stannard took for his hat trick, failed to convert yet tucked in the rebound before anyone else could reach it.
Oxlade was brought down in the area in the 44
th, Akarsu stepped up to score it. 4 – 1 at half time.
Heading off the pitch as the referee blew his whistle at the end of the 45, the whole England side were visible in their relief as they patted one another on the back, the sheer relief at having saved their skins obvious to the millions watching.
Returning, they were calm, assured and keen to save themselves now for what lay ahead. Akarsu had the only other word in the scoreline as Towler brought down for a third penalty offered the opportunity for the captain to grab a brace.
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5 – 1, into the semi finals.
Quarter Final Results
Portugal 1 V 0 Croatia
Spain 3 V 0 Ukraine
England 5 V 1 Bulgaria
Belgium 0 V 1 France
View attachment 329773 Croatia went as far as they could, as did the Ukraine, unable to overcome the Portuguese and Spanish alike. France too saw off their opposition and neighbours, leaving 2 matches with 4 big hitters, all had match winners, all were capable now of going all the way.
5th July Spain – Semi Final – Kalmar Community Arena
Spain. The semi finals. Roll footage, that World Cup Final torture, the penalty that was never given. Before the game had even begun there were English faces displaying anguish at the memory of defeat, of a silver medal.
There was the goalless draw to take courage from since then, Spanish soil made it credible, but then a friendly didn’t have nearly the same effect on a player’s drive than a shot at the final.
View attachment 329774 The English were easily the more nervous though some didn't show it. Spain had produced result after result, and even in the spells where they hadn’t played tremendously well they had come good. England….their tournament so far had been one of nightmare starts, of brains slow to switch on to the occasion they were in, of furious words at 45 minutes to try and thunder home the message that this was when they were supposed to actually engage and produce their best football.
Mercifully the Swedish took a liking to the English, as did most of the other fans attending that weren’t Spanish; they had the crowd just as with the Buenos Aires final.
All lined up in the tunnel, the Manager stood before his troops at the entrance to their golden opportunity to right those wrongs from 2 years ago. Spanish players couldn’t help but look across at what was going on.
“Listen up!” He called as the officials were readying themselves for the FIFA anthem and their emergence. The Manager had his team's full attention “If ANY of you fails to get started immediately, you’ll be ****ing hard pushed to find a place in my team in the future you got that?! Sort your heads out or I’ll sort you out!” His face told the complete story; he really meant it, the lines across his features filled with pure rage waiting to be unleashed.
Mikel Martin the Spanish wizard who had scored the wonder goal at the World Cup against them couldn’t help but smile, an arrogant expression as he calmly shifted his weight in anticipation. Most of the red shirted Spaniards couldn’t understand the words though got their meaning to the opposition, however playing for Manchester City Mikel understood alright.
The FIFA anthem which always sounded as though it was being played by a school band or some congregation of children’s toy instruments rang out, the teams paraded out before the powerful voice of the packed to capacity stadium.
Stood with his staff in their designated area, all bodies assumed their positions for the two country's anthems. Tito Vilanova the Spanish boss did his best to sing his heart out. Vilanova, the pair had met as the bosses of Brighton and Barcelona…and Brighton won. He could beat the Spaniard's side, he knew he could.
God Save the Queen rang out next, and as the players all opened their mouths wide to truthfully sing with their hearts, their eyes couldn’t help but notice as they fought to gaze only at the back row of the stands how their Manager was staring at them still, his eyes, boring a hole into them.
((32 - Battle at the Pyramid (STARGATE THE DELUXE EDITION O.S.T.) - YouTube))
Spain kicked off, the ball smartly heading back to the centre mid as he waited and sized up his options. They decided to slow things right down from the off, keep the ball, keep the possession, wait for a chance.
England had other plans.
“PRESS!!!!” Cried the manager, fearful of them failing to start another game, but his words weren’t needed. The moment the Spanish were relaxed into their pattern than had the white shirts begun to hound them; getting higher and higher up the pitch.
The ball went back to the centre back, his eyes unassuming of any danger as he too sized up his options for the next neat pass. The cry of alarm came too late as he realised from his side came the greased lightning run of Ashley Stannard; his foot knocking it from the defender’s control, the following turning it toward the goal, the last to thrash the leatherwork beyond the panicked keeper.
2 minutes, and this time England had the lead!
View attachment 329775
Fans went ballistic; commentators speaking English exclaimed their joy! An early lead, maybe this time they would see off the Spanish comfortably and make themselves favourites for the final?
Red shirts settled, they weren’t going to lose their heads over the blunder. It evened out quickly, for each lance forward by the Spanish England had one of their own.
Yet each time it felt like a game of Russian roulette, the odds of it being the lethal explosion increased as each battle and exchange became more exaggerated and inspired.
Boukie headed down a Spanish cross, a misjudgement of the flight of the ball meant instead of sailing up and out it hit the ground at the edge of the area. English shirts began to close in about the ball where it might end up, their eyes all for securing possession and spraying it out onto the wing as the hungry eyes of Akarsu and Oxlade set their legs in motion in anticipation.
Bell was looking to get on the end of it, his head following it as it came down from its bounce, but just as he was about to catch it on the end of his boot than a jumping Salas snatched it from his grasp. The one touch a deft one as it took the sting out of the ball, dropping sweetly to caress the grass before he took one look at the goal, and thumped the ball from the edge of the area into the top corner, nothing Armstrong could do about that.
1 all. Fingernails found their way into the vice like grip of rows of teeth. The trading of attacks resumed as England started to become the more likely to power one in, Towler actually roaring it seemed as he bashed his right leg against it from some 35 yards out to force a fine save.
Exhausted spectators breathed a sigh of relief when the first 45 minutes finished, all square.
However, for all the Manager’s wishes of usually having a breather to calm his boys down, hammer some tactics into them and engineer a few goals, the fact that they appeared to be getting the better of the chances meant he now had the job of trying to keep them fired up when all their bodies likely wanted to do was to vent the adrenaline rampaging about their veins.
When facing Bulgaria, had the score been 1 – 1 at the break he might have allowed them to build up slowly, they always had it in their locker to break down such opposition when a good move showed signs of forming. But Spain, Spain had shown for the best part of a decade how easily their possession passing gave them the edge as they worked space where opponents never dreamed it could exist.
As the door opened after the 10 minutes, the sound of a distinct pair of hands clapping together meaningfully rang out with a familiar “COME ON!!!”
The entire team roared the words right back at their boss. It was England’s ball to kick off; it went straight back to the defence, and without another second it was up the wings….Akarsu and Oxlade were the keys to this, they knew it, they’d been told it, the fans could see it. Wing play was the Manager’s forte, it was how his sides even when against insurmountable odds it seemed could find a moment of magic to send the stands into raptures.
Yalcin Akarsu received it promptly, taking it into his stride with a touch and a shoulder barge against his opponent. The figure the English were used to seeing was cut into the lenses of the cameras, his body whipping down the side with all haste, his throttle fully opened as his eyelids peeled back to reveal frenzied looking eyes.
The centre-back swept across, the imposing figure sizing up against the small frame of the winger, but had no answer to the dazzling footwork of the captain. He flung his gaze to the box, two white shirts to aim for desperately waving their hands high.
It was almost a hark back to the days of when he was learning his trade, the manner in which his boot thumped the ball, it looked panicked, as if it was the bullies of Arsenal were about to jump him again in their pursuit of ending his career early to stop the ball getting near.
Oxlade got up, somehow above his man, pressed his forehead to it, and sunk the ball toward the goal. Every set of eyes watched it, the keeper with his mouth agape at it heading toward him, his weight the wrong side….he flung out a boot, the spittle from his mouth as he cried with desperation visible on every camera. Saved. The defender collected and cleared, English hands smothered faces.
But they weren’t done. Spain had a go, but Corns was on the game of his life again. It was out to Oxlade who was off once more on his bike despite his incredible work rate being at the tender age he was.
The left back won it as the ball came down, but Adam set himself upon him, wrestling for a second before touching it clear down the line. They were both off, scrambling together as alongside their arms pressed fiercely, hoping not to give away a foul but not daring to let the play go and simulate something dishonest.
Commentators began to perch, England were getting forward as Oxlade chased it, defying his legs as he battled harder than he ever had before; the doubters of his worth to the side all converted in an instant as they viewed his outstanding determination to win this ball, win it for his nation. And he did! The defender slipping in his attempts to put Adam off balance, it was just the opportunity he needed.
No time for a touch to control, he immediately smashed it toward the box, defenders weren’t positioned right as they had all been clambering to get back, Stannard had worked some space!
Fists clenched, lungs filled with air in anticipation, voices speaking to the masses built the tension as Stannard’s name was called with the raised pitch that meant this was it, this was the moment!
His body leant, his boot lifted, coiled and ready – in the second the ball fell to just where he wanted it, he unleashed like a weapon, the England striker rocketing the volley over the line.
View attachment 329777 57 minutes, England took the lead! They were bringing everything to the table, and this time it looked as though their efforts would be rewarded. No goal keeper in the world would have saved that one; they’d heard that line before. It was goal of the tournament and one for the English history highlights, the man was on fire this tournament, top scorer by a good margin and he showed no signs of letting up.
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Tito Vilanova was on his feet at the edge of his area, instructions to get forward and make something happen. The Manager grinned; he knew he could get the better of Vilanova’s boys.
Turning to the bench Gerrard and Honda looked up at him ready for instruction.
“Go for it or dig in?” Asked Gerrard immediately, reading his colleague's mind.
“Dig in, we won’t risk opening up to counter from a desperate Spanish side. Get Nicholson on for Oxlade – he’s looking shattered after all the running; and give Towler a rest….Huxtable looks keen.”
The board went up, Oxlade and Towler got a standing ovation as the clock was beginning to look friendlier for a change. England reset themselves as defensive, and as play continued the Spanish immediately began to show frustration as the English harried and badgered them into mistakes they weren’t accustomed to.
70 minutes, 80 minutes. England held firm, each Spanish attack climbing to nothing as the bodies got in the way, just as the Croatians had done to them.
He looked to his bench again, it was time to get Stannard off, save him for the final and gamble they would see this one out. He eyed the replacements; Bateson wasn’t fully fit, but would be preferable with how things stood.
About to open his mouth, the referee’s whistle blew to stop play. A glance to see what was going on saw that the yellow card was out for a late challenge. Stannard.
****. **** **** ****. He’d miss the final. Ashley’s face was that of disbelief, that look in his eyes as they threatened to well up mirrored that of a man in 1990, a hero to his country for his incredible genius on the ball…he would miss the culmination of their campaign for one lapse in concentration.
The Manager met his gaze as the striker looked to his boss whilst on the verge of collapse, his emotions a wreck from the tension and power of the occasion. Just a little fist pump and a steely expression. The striker sucked in a deep breath, 10 minutes to perform his job for and do his nation proud still further; no point in subbing him now.
Mikel Martin was dropping deeper to try and ignite his teammates. They had nothing else on the bench which could change the game, so many attacking players on already all throwing themselves into every challenge, a defensive line holding almost at the half way line.
The English prayed, the Manager gripped his fists by his sides.
Come on come on come on come on!!
90 minutes. The minutes went up, 2 more. Stannard got the ball, laid it off, sprinted on. Spanish fans cried with despair as they needed the ball now more than ever, yet as Nicholson lofted it forward, Stannard held it up, drew in the defender, dinked it to the side before bursting on. He measured everything in a moment; struck it, clipped the post to roll out.
All the keeper could manage as he frantically scurried the ball back to his 6 yard box was the kick out before the final whistle blew.
England 2 – 1 Spain.
View attachment 329779 The holders were out, the World Champions beaten, revenge for that final 2 years ago. The England fans and players were alike in their passionate exclamations of delight, the arms to the heavens as they jumped about wildly. The Manager walked across to shake the hand of the depressed looking Vilanova, understandably so, by Spain’s recent standards the Semi Finals were poor.
They gathered themselves, the celebrations only went on for so long; they hadn’t won it yet.
Semi Final Results
Portugal 0 V 1e France
Spain 1 V 2 England
A goal in the 101 minute from the French talisman midfielder Tsengwa who had been lighting up the Premier League most of his career gave France the precious victory over the Portuguese. Both sides had been odds on for reaching the latter stages, both seen as almost equals for their game; but as the result played out, the Manager had honestly hoped that the Portuguese would be the ones to make it all the way to the final.
Perhaps it was nonsense, but there was an odd feeling he couldn’t shake that the way the French had been playing would give them more trouble than they could handle. Stannard had been the English sensation, it was undoubtedly his tournament despite missing the final, and without him the Manager feared that there was a chance England might lapse back into the form they began with.
He might have shared the feeling of possible dread, but as the man in command it was his job to find the solution to overcome it. They got onto the training ground at the first possible chance. Before any play would take place, he called them all in, some words were needed.
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“Sit down, listen.” He opened, the players all parked themselves just as they might have when they were school kids playing for the local team, their love of the game beginning to blossom into the passion they would spend their lives pursuing.
“3 days, that’s all you’ve got before you’re going to be stood there in that Arena, the millions and millions…..” he trailed off lightly, watching to see the faces that got nervous at the prospect “And Millions!” His voice picked right back up “all sat glued to your actions, waiting, to see if it will be the English or the French go home champions of Europe.”
Neville shuffled on his feet, clearly eager to get training the defence. Gerrard looked expectantly at the Manager as he continued.
“Do you think you’ll be champions?”
The players waited, no one sure enough to take the initiative. “WELL?! You bunch of soppy wankers, ARE YOU GOING TO BE THE CHAMPIONS?!!!!”
Screaming at them, some leant back from fear of this man now bawling in their faces. Akarsu propping himself up with his hands lifted his voice, several others a fraction behind him.
“YEEEEEEESSSSSS!!!!!!!”
“That’s more like it! You’ve beaten the French, you know how they play, so I’ll be damned if you’re going to lose this final to them!”
“Yeah! Come on!” came the calls from various mouths, their blood pumping.
“You know as well as I do that man for man, you’re better. They have players which are something else, alright, granted, but then so does this team have its world class stars. And more than that, you’re a better team!
“You work better together, you know one another better; you trust one another better. Adam knows where Aaron is going to run, Nathan and Joshua knows how fast and far Yalcin can run up that wing; Dalian knows when Dean or ole Bacon needs a hand manning the side.
“I believed; two years ago I fully believed we would walk away with the trophy, and in a sense we should have seen how much further that tie would have gone, you’d earned the right to see how far you could push the Spanish. Now you’ve beaten them, and they’ll no longer be European Champions.
“So, with the title up for grabs, let’s get to work on this. All midfielders go with Honda, you’re going to be working on the weaknesses of their talisman Tsengwa, remove him from the game by playing to his weaker foot, and use your strengths to the advantage.
“Defenders, with Neville. We want a repeat of the performance against Spain, serious commitment in the challenges, measured heads for when to dive in; Burton and Bacon and the full backs on working the overlap but having the clarity to get back before charging into the box.
“Bateson, Huxtable…with Gerrard. You’re going to get that finishing perfect, you’re going to show me that come that final; you can stamp your mark on the spectacle, and give every proud face back home the celebration they deserve. There’s one spot up front up, both show me you deserve it more!”
The players looked to get up, ready to be moving off to work on their tasks.
“Hey!” He called “Look at me” They all stopped to face the front once more. “This is it fellas, this is it. 3 days, Oxlade, this is your last chance at the cup; boys…it’s been 62 years since England has clasped their hands about a trophy. Work hard. Let’s win this.”
Every one smiling got to their feet. The coaches began shouting their calls for everyone to follow them to their pitches. The Manager stood and watched as they all peeled off, the excited faces of them all was where the nation now once again rested all its hopes. No one would be going to work; no trains would be running, no taxis in service, and no restaurant would open. God help any pessimistic or foolhardy sod who booked their wedding that day.
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9th July France – Final – Friends Arena
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50,000 in the stands, hundreds of millions watching. Bateson up front to replace Stannard; Akarsu calling with manic fury as much for himself as the team as they stood ready, the beginning to the finish of their long wait for glory.
The men with microphones for the screens back in sunny England couldn’t restrain themselves as the referee signalled it was time. “Come on England! Tonight this might be the night they finally go all the way….”
“Hold onto something folks, anything will do! Here we go! England, the European Championship Final….is now underway!”
The captain and Bateson kicked off, the fans went utterly berserk the moment the ball moved by the boot of their leader on the field, their man to rally the troops right to the end.
Oxlade called for it early, the French were wise to the runs of the wingers, everyone knew it was how the English and the Manager had his teams play. That didn’t stop them working the width, the skills of those individuals, their pace and flair to bomb down the touchline, sending the thousands in attendance into full voice as their anticipations grew with every metre.
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Hull evaded the dagger like challenge which came so soon in the game before sending it. Adam received it; a magical pass, beat his man, and was off. Too soon to make a byline run as the French were all in position, two players over to cover quickly. Turning his back Burton was in support, good lad! Doing his job perfectly from the off, they all were, the shape was there, ready to ping it right across the pitch.
Dean took it from Oxlade, looked across, to Hull, to Bell, to Bacon…up to Akarsu! He was off, to the byline, his eyes flicked across, so routine was the action. The ball crashed into the box, Bateson jumped as he might, the defender climbed higher.
Out went the ball, but the fans wouldn’t let up, England were straight out of the traps and absolutely flying at the French. The blue shirted French striker took an awkward ball from distance, got some way out from the goal before realising he had no support, deciding to blaze it high and wide in some last ditch attempt. The game had only just started and already they were flustered by the lions’ onslaught.
Towler got himself forward, the ball at his feet. Three French players closed about him, he had no space out of it save some Maradona piece of artistry to take it past them into the 6 yard box. He smashed it as hard as he could with the limited space against the man in front of him, out for a corner. The crowd’s intensity magnified, they knew the way things were heading a goal was only a matter of time!
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Bell set himself, the step back to the advertising boards as he looked to use all the space. His body poised and ready, the box was a flurry of white and blue shirts jostling, vying for that priceless position. Desperate defenders hung onto the English attackers, their arms loosely looped about the waists of them as the referee marshalled players apart until they calmed down.
Joshua heard the whistle at last, ran up, hit it beautifully, in-swinging as the bend dragged it toward the mess of players. Corns got up, his head an inch above the bulky defender, the ball kissing his hairline as his eyes shut with the impact. The net rippled as the ball found its way beyond the keeper, 22 minutes.
Faces lit up, the players all raced away together in jubilation, the centre of the mob as he ran to the stands the scorer as he held his arms open to the manic scenes, scenes which were literally insane back home, the lead in the final was theirs.
France kicked off, pressed up immediately, and no sooner had they got down the wing than Bacon had robbed the winger blind. He looked to his side, the midfield all rushing out, the lone Bateson weaving ready to bend his run as defenders checked frantically to make sure they were with him.
The Manager looked to the left back from his technical area, his arms the iconic movement as he desperately conveyed to his player the only instruction he needed. “GO!!!!” He cried; the sweeping motions all the encouragement the player needed. Adam with the ball at his feet blitzed down the side, Yalcin was with him, the pair going for it as the French realised they only had one player able to challenge the two for it.
Akarsu sprinted ahead, the defender saw the run, aware of the ball down the line he came across unable to commit to a challenge. Bacon drew his foot back, looked to the run of the captain, and feigned, moving inside. He burst forward into the space; Bateson threw out an arm, the space before him, the easy goal.
The ball squared across, Bateson stuck it in. 2 – 0, 24 minutes.
View attachment 329787 The picture was even more mental than before, the Manager grinning from ear to ear as the score line doubled for them. Everyone on the bench was hugging one another, the sense that they were nearly there now becoming very real.
Picking the ball out the back of the net, the blue shirts resumed play. Thinking the English might underestimate them, they played it back out to the same wing. The Frenchman eyed Bacon as they came in for another encounter, it looked the same as before, yet this time as he motioned to go down the outside he dinked it just beyond them both to run onto first. Both bodies came together, and the winger hit the floor.
A yellow card, he’d been looking for it all along, but then Bacon had been sold.
It looked like the French might settle things down, build some momentum, but as Bateson drove one onto the keepers palms England had another corner.
Bell stood over it, stepped up once more, and as the players all jumped one after another, Sekou Boukie met the ball with his head.
3 – 0, and his first ever goal for England! What a time to get it. 32 minutes, just over half an hour and they were three goals up. Surely this final was there, surely this tournament was theirs. The trophy, England’s. Players peeled away in celebration, no one could quite believe this might be it.
Pandemonium in the stands, before the television screens in England, on the England bench. They couldn’t believe what was unfolding, never had things just gone right for the English when they were on for some real moment of triumph.
The Clocked moved past 40, and still France had no answer, they looked as if they just wanted the half to end. Yet as Tsengwa found himself with some space at the edge of the area he unleashed a fine shot testing Armstrong to his limits. The save was only able to push the ball out to the side, both Bacon and the winger chased it down, a 50/50 for the ball.
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The Frenchman won it, and as Bacon crashed against the attacker the expressions of everyone supporting the lions showed horror.
A second yellow; and a red. Burton had picked up an injury in the proceedings and had to go off; the Manager brought on Gavin for him, now only 3 centre backs making up the defence.
It didn’t matter. Half time, what words of encouragement they must have received.
As England emerged, their faces were full of passion, full of utter drive to make this their game. 10 men they had, yet the midfield won everything, supported the defence, created the attacks. The extra man counted for nothing for the French, though England failed to fashion any chances.
70 minutes, the booked Towler off for Rowney. 80 minutes, Weatherby on for the also carded Bell. Everyone was looking exhausted, yet as each time Akarsu boomed an order, the faces picked up, the adrenaline coursing furiously as every England flag waved with such intent, the fists of the faithful striking the air as they drained every last drop of energy, pouring it into those 10 men.
90 minutes. Gerrard and Honda stood either side of the Manager, Neville, all coaches, all the subs, Stannard, everyone who had worked on or with this England team stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms about one another.
90+1. The commentators were struggling for voice.
90+2. The fans were in agony, whistles being blown from all sides, the desperate want for that moment when they really had done it.
90+3. The whistle blew.
England 3 – 0 France
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The Manager was first, the second the whistle blew he was onto the pitch, bounding as his arms waved like a madman’s. Gerrard, the lot of them, all cascaded onto the pitch, nothing could have stopped them. Every white shirt turned to greet their Manager, sprinting toward him with faces full of bewilderment, astonishment, zeal; unabated euphoria.
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They clustered together in one great mass, all players and staff just grabbing hold of another to hug, they didn’t care who it was, it didn’t matter, they had all done it, at last.
62 years since that game at Wembley in 1966.
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Euro 1968 – A bronze for the World Champions, the glory of Wembley beginning to fade.
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Mexico 1970 – West Germany gain revenge for the final four years ago in the Quarter Finals, a goal of Hurst’s goes unrewarded.
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Mexico 1986 – The Hand of God. “It wasn’t the hand of God, it was the hand of a rascal. God had nothing to do with it.” Sir Bobby Robson
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Italy 1990 – West Germany, and the beginning of the penalty nightmare for a generation.
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Euro 1996 – At home, a whole new generation have to suffer the torture of the Germans, and penalties.
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France 1998 – A moment of madness, and Penalties to Argentina.
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Euro 2004 – Penalties to Portugal.
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Germany 2006 – Another moment of madness, and more penalties with the Portuguese.
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Euro 2012 – All the way with Italy, before penalties.
Argentina 2026 – The penalty that was never given, the final snatched from beneath them.
So little in-between to cheer for, so many times they had fallen so short. So many men had come promising the trophy, promising it was what England deserved, that they could do it. All speculation and wishful thinking.
62 long years.
The Manager looked from beyond the throngs of his own players and staff to see the maniacs in the stands shouting and singing with all they had left. Their expressions refused to die down, not a person took their seat; no flag at home wasn’t waving frantically, the purpose at last to celebrate the winning of a trophy.
England had at long last won something again.
“Weeeeeeeeee are the champions! My Friends!” They all sang together, it was one of the only songs the English knew how to sing in unison when things just went right in the end. Tears were falling from players who never thought they would ever achieve such a height with their beloved nation; old boys in the crowd and those too exhausted to hold their emotions in check happily flooded the drops from their eyes as they wept over the sights they were witness to.
Akarsu stood over the trophy; the French had their medals and were gone. There it rest, his team behind him, the Manager, everyone who had built him up to this point. England watched, this was it, his hands took hold of those silver handles, and in one solid movement, the white ribbons hanging from its sides, the European Championship trophy was raised by English hands for the first time in history.
The cheers rang across the North Sea, back to all the corners of England, in every city, in every town. Children not quite sure what was going on were made to watch so they would remember, youngsters delighted at being allowed to stay up late for this fireworks show they hadn’t a clue about.
The Stockholm sky blazed all kinds of colours, the thud of each firework eliciting fresh grins as everyone turned their eyes to the sky if they weren’t within distance of the trophy.
The players took their turns, shaking the silverware above their heads before it finally came to the Manager.
View attachment 329812 He clutched the piece, looking it over, remembering the people who had held it before him, the years he had watched as famous footballers had wowed the continent to earn the right; managers who had masterminded squads into producing football the world was proud of.
Throwing it up, all his players and staff cheered once again, grabbing hold of him to lift the poor man above their heads. Held atop the faces of those who had scored the goals, made the saves, rescued the team from the brink, he smiled wider than ever. It was as with Ghana, they trusted him implicitly, he really had managed to get them all the way.
The photos taken they let him down. He passed the trophy to Ashley Stannard, the striker banned from the final took off his training jacket to reveal the kit he had dominated in the whole tournament. Turning for the photographers, they snapped their moment of him with the prize.
Boukie and Corns were hailed for their near perfect performances for the team in the final; Stannard was named best player of the tournament, top scorer with 10 goals, many of the players named in the dream team.
As the press waited for the celebrations to die down they streamed over the awards and accolades afforded to the English.
Eventually, the Manager stepped into the tunnel.
Q. “Congratulations! How do you feel?!”
A. “Over the moon! This feeling is incredible, I can’t stop smiling!”
Q. “Haha, I don’t think any of us can! Really, well done all of you, it’s been a long time coming.”
A. “Oh yes, we’ve all lost that common bond now though haven’t we? England has finally won something, so now we’ll have to share in the success for a change.”
Q. “I think we can get used to that. So first thoughts, is this the end of your England reign or do you think you’ll continue to the World Cup?”
A. “Oh I can tell you now that whilst this success is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, I want the World Cup, in English hands. Being champions of Europe is great, dethroning the Spanish a joy, but they are still the world champions, and until we take off them…I won’t be satisfied.”
The studios were still in the throws of victory, playing the reaction moment of goals and victory from the pundits and presenter alike. Lineker could only roar “We’ve done it!!” before calming down to his usual smooth self. Those waiting to do the analysis as always were caught off guard, unprepared for the feeling of the win. It became a series of compliments, tripping off the tongue without end over each player, each move.
This time it would seem the English didn’t mind looking back on the Euros in Sweden. No dodgy tracksuits or big letdowns. The squad had gone, done their jobs albeit it after a sluggish start; and at last come away with their hands about the trophy.
Next up, Italy, the Confederations Cup before the real deal.
