It's summer and I'm
sick. “What's the matter?”, I don't hear you cry. “Hay fever?
Aching limbs? A fundamental sense of social inadequacy?” Well yes,
I've got all of that too, but what's laying me up at the moment is a
particular, precarious ailment of contradictory symptoms, most
notably short, sustained bursts of envy, swearing, shouting, joy,
drunkenness, sleepless nights and a constant feeling of impending
hopelessness, rather like a weekend in Basildon. It's not the first
time I've felt this syndrome take hold, having been struck down by
similar periods of malady since I was a nipper. Intriguingly, they
tend to last for a solitary three-to-four week period once every two
years. Worryingly, I'm not alone in my suffering – it's been
endemic to England since the autumn of 1966 and to the best of our
research there's no known cure. We've tried everything –
aromatherapy, the mysterious secretions of exotic amphibians, cricket
– but nothing seems to relieve of us of this foggy affliction.
I'm case you haven't
guessed, I'm currently in the full grip of a nasty, European strain
of tournament fever, for this summer's championship has gotten off to
a frantic and hugely entertaining start. The treats so far have been
plentiful. I've delighted in Russia's dazzling attacking brio, which
saw off a disappointingly ordinary Czech Republic. I've watched Italy
go toe-to-toe with holders Spain, who attempted to plunge a final
nail in the coffin of the traditional notion of the centre-forward by
playing a total of six midfielders. At the time the introduction of
Fernando Torres felt less like an attempt at resuscitation than it
did a symbolic, melancholy tossing of dirt into the grave, the last
rights administered to a dying tactical stalwart.
The big upset came
early this year in the form of the Netherlands' second day defeat to
Denmark, a victory which owed as much to Dutch wastefulness as it did
to Danish patience. Maybe the Dutch should have brought on another
midfielder. In fact Denmark's contribution to the tournament's drama
– and by extension my diminishing health – has been as important
as anyone's, including playing their part in an enthralling five goal
thriller with an unshackled Portugal. Ronaldo even smiled at the end.
Maybe he's ill too.
Elsewhere in Group B,
Germany and the aforementioned Netherlands seem to be passing each
other on some kind of footballing Snakes & Ladders board,
the former in the midst of a rapturous ascent as the latter slip
towards a level of frightful ineptitude. For a footballing dynasty
raised on a liberal diet of risk and invention, the Dutch look
shockingly static and derivative, even their biggest stars lacking
the poetic spark of the nation's past masters. Against Germany in
particular they were simply shorn of any kind of offensive rhythm,
cursed with an ageing central midfield put dispassionately to the
sword by the constant movement and guile of Messrs Khedira,
Schweinsteiger and Ozil. Where once the men from the low country
twinkled, here they've merely looked flat.
Day three brought us
the sight of Ireland squaring up to an impressive Croatia. Ireland's
presence at tournaments often feels a bit like some kind of court
jester's sideshow to entertain the masses until the real teams start
playing, such is the coverage given to the travelling ranks of merry,
green-shirted supporters, often at the expense of any real focus on
their side's strengths and weaknesses. Which is probably a little
unfair, as Ireland's contain-and-counter gameplan isn't a million
miles removed from that of some of their more fancied contemporaries
(more on that later). Still, despite Croatia's goals coming from the
kind of cross-and-head direct plays you'd have expected the Irish to
know inside-out, quality eventually told. Ireland have lacked
movement and imagination and by the end of their subsequent Spanish
humbling looked as unprepared for their summer outing as Alan
Shearer’s scalp on a holiday in Death Valley.
Russia's Tuesday night
clash with Poland was perhaps the tournament's zenith thus far. Set
against a backdrop of tension on the streets of Warsaw, the two sides
conspired to produce a pulsating affair, all heart and history and a
mutual willingness to attack with both groove and hope. The final
half an hour was as good an advertisement for international football
as one could hope to see. The aftermath, less so.
And so we move on to
Group D and Roy Hodgson's England, the point at which my state of
infirmity mutates into something approaching hysteria, my mind
struggling to prevent a nation's misguided hopes and dreams from
contaminating my few remaining receptors of logic and reason.
Shearer's pre-tournament decree that the current lack of confidence
felt towards the squad could actually spur them on to victory neatly
summed up our inherent, dichotomic blend of frustration and
expectation. For so many moons we English use consecutive breaths to
bemoan our lack of world class talent before trumpeting the
importance of our – it says here – unique set of attributes:
namely passion, commitment and, well, that's about it actually. We
spend years dreaming of purity, of creativity and expression, before
surrendering meekly for a fortnight or so to the crushing acceptance
of that ever-intangible bulldog resolve:
a nation's beefy set of abstract traits; solipsism dressed up in
blooded shirts and bandages. As we strive to summon the spirit of
Butcher and Pearce, we forget that their wounds healed quickly
because they bled in the cooling shadows of true world-beaters like
Barnes, Gascoigne and Lineker.
Today we look to
players like Gerrard, Parker and Terry to amplify the lion's roar,
but what Hodgson appears to be seeking is something a little more
coy. As we all know, against France we were neither broken down nor
outclassed. Much like a healthy bowel movement, England were solid
and unspectacular: high in durability but low in charm, the
footballing equivalent of a post-war prefab. Reporters thumbed
battered thesauruses in search of further faint praise and found it:
dogged, compact, resilient, disciplined. Not terms to set the pulse
racing, but certainly qualities to keep a heart beating steady
following a period of upheaval and uncertainty.
Let's be honest, you
would have to be optimistic (and perhaps slightly unhinged) to expect
much more from England at this point in time. Towards the end of
Fabio Capello's reign England were starting to find their own
identity. Players with a little pace and courage like Theo Walcott
and the absent Adam Johnson began taking the game to opponents, while
Ashley Young's status as a key player started to cement, as we
settled in to a slightly more adventurous 4-2-3-1 formation. But then
it all changed, and for England's slow learners a new manager will
always mean another term of basic comprehension; understanding and
digesting new roles in a new system. It makes sense for Hodgson to
play it safe, to set his team up as a hard-to-beat outfit, because
history shows that imposing any other kind of philosophy takes time
and a decent helping of miss-steps along the way. And it's these long
standing problems which Hodgson will have to tackle head-on
eventually.
With the Euros barely a
week old, it is clear once more that England still lack several
things. We continue to produce generations of players without
subtlety and poise, more often than not electing two touches over one
and favouring directness over aplomb. We still find ourselves
adhering to the idea that players must meet certain criteria or be
made from certain moulds: the pacey winger, the hulking
centre-forward, the tough guy in the middle of the park – players
who tick boxes just as much as they fit them.
So what England did
against France was as back-to-basics as it was necessary. Chelsea's
defensive masterclasses at the business end of last season's
Champions League have already achieved the status of hackneyed
footballing cliché – trotted out by unimaginative commentators to
portray a synonymity with any clean-sheet achieved by a supposed
underdog – but what typified the Blue's miserliness was not only grit and determination but knowing and nous. To succeed on the
international scene without a Silva, an Ozil or a Modric you still
need to be a little bit cute, even if it's in a defensive sense.
Hodgson seems to understand that shape and discipline are a touch
cuter than blood and thunder. And that may have to do for now.
Alas, such shortcomings
– much like my state of affliction – shan't be remedied
overnight, but it's my hope that Hodgson uses this summer as a basis
upon which a more expansive outfit can be built. England's caution
won't cool my fevered, jealous brow instantly, but then again it did
work for Chelsea. Someone pass me the thermometer.
~ Matt
