Summertime Blues

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