As soon as Enzo Fernandez smashed his first sighter at goal, something he didn’t manage against Lincoln City, by the way, you knew the writing was on the wall last night.
The Argentine, kept quiet by the Scottish Rodri back in September, was the man who bagged the leveller, breaking the hearts of a nation. Maybe, if Scotland had taken McGrandles, they’d have been opposite England, given his record of silencing World Cup winners, but Steve Clarke will never know now.
Joking aside, it was a tense night for England. Up to Anthony Gordon’s goal, it felt on a knife edge, but that should have been the point at which we excelled. With the opponent needing to come out, curling up in a ball was a bad call, and in the end, the better team won. Up to the hour mark, the better team were winning.
Narrow margins, but England are out, and for a moment, a nation slips into some sort of mourning for a relative who keeps promising to come home, but never truly intends to. Some feel their heart is broken, and a few tears would undoubtedly be shed.
Not here. Like many 40-somethings, this isn’t my first rodeo. I cried in 1996. I probably got angry and xenophobic in 1998. I’ve done that, I’ve been hurt, and now, I reserve that special dark place deep in my soul for another pain, one that’s localised, one that really matters. Lincoln City.
There are some moments when my club have left me bereft and empty. Times when a game has seeped into my dreams, when the pain has lasted more than a few hours. In fact, some games are still there on my soul, burned in deep with a sense of injustice, and a sense of outright agony.
If you’re a Lincoln fan (and getting this far, one would imagine you are), then you’re going to feel a lot better (or not, actually) about England when you read my five picks of times when we hurt way more than a World Cup exit.
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