Unlucky doesn’t
come close
13/06/04 | by Daniel Allen
France 2 England 1
13 June 2004, Estadio De Luz, Lisbon
Unlucky. A word I've often heard - and sometimes used - when describing the fortunes of the England football team. This time, as we sat in a bar in Mexico, it had come form the lips of my girlfriend; her comment on the most extraordinary reversal in a football game since Manchester United´s last gasp triumph over Bayern Munich in
that European Cup Final. "Oh, there were just unlucky," she sympathised, as she finished the last of postcards bound for home.
My senses deadened by those bizarre final minutes, my affirmative reply was understandably muffled. But my mind was thinking that this time, unlucky just didn't go far enough. Unlucky would be better used to describe the weather's determination (by raining continuously for three days) to stop me from attaining the desired tan I wished for at the culmination of a ten month round-the-world trip. Or it could be equally accurate in describing my attempts to watch the start of this crucial fixture in a Mexican bar, unaware as I hunted aimlessly, my clothes sodden form the rain, that it clashed with the biggest game of the Mexican domestic season to decide the championship, between the biggest rivals: UNAM Pumas and the Guadalajara Chivas - and, of course, all TV sets were tuned to this
As I thought, my mind wandered back to the start of the game. Always the eternal optimist when it came to England's national team, I believed they could beat anybody on any given day. This time, I believed that England could win against the reigning European champions, France, rightly deemed pre-match favourites. Henry, Zidane, Pires, Trezeguet, Vieira… to name but some of the world-renowned players in the French line up. Players not only of quality, but also experienced at winning games and tournaments at this level. A truly daunting task for a misfiring England eleven.
And it seemed as the game got underway, that France looked like they warranted their billing; their passing crisp, neat, incisive, and worst of all, threatening. England in contrast seemed nervous and unsure. But as the minutes passed, the English players settled, grew in confidence, and began to look equally classy. For all their neat and attractive interplay, France could only muster a Trezeguet flick header that narrowly flew over, and a Zidane effort that horribly skewed wide.
Then Beckham wins a free-kick from an innocuous challenge, whips in a trademark cross, Lampard connects with a text-book bullet header, and Barthez´s befuddled expression suggests he's forgotten that he's playing in goal as that strange silver object flies past him: 1-0 England! Half-time arrives, with my over-exuberant pre-match optimism looking decidedly apt so far.
As the second-half began it appeared obvious that the French were smarting from their presumably unpleasant half-time talk, as their attacks looked more determined and energetic. Henry in particular was making in-roads into an English defence that harboured the inexperienced and untested Ledley King. But instead of wilting, the English defence matched the renewed French determination, and held. Increasingly, England began to look dangerous on the counter. And so it was that Rooney scrambled clear of the French defence and, in rounding Silvestre, was brought down, resulting in a penalty for England. A golden chance to secure a win that surely guaranteed the group!
Perhaps Barthez had some prior experience from his Manchester Utd days as to where Beckham would place his kick. Perhaps the multitude of camera flashes finally got to the England captain as he stroked the ball towards goal. Who knows? But Barthez saved his kick, and 1-0 it remained.
Exactly the tonic France needed to revitalise their chances of getting back into the game. But still, the English back line kept attacks at bay, and as the game drew to a close, French heads began to drop; shots on goal were going higher and wider; passes going further astray. As the clock ticked onto ninety minutes, I thought there little chance of tempting fate now; England had beaten the odds and triumphed over the French.
Then it happens. England had made changes as the game drew to a close and, as legs began to tire, they are sensible changes in the context of the game. One of these substitutions, Emile Heskey, had obviously been told to try and track back and help the stalwart back four as the game drew to a close. He wasn't unlucky; he simply tried too hard, and tracked back too far, and in doing so gifted France a dangerously placed free-kick. Up stepped Zidane, arguably the best player in the world, and for the first time, my optimism wavered. This time it was James´ turn to stand and stare in despair as Zidane´s perfect execution nestled into the net. 1-1. Disbelief.
But a draw is still a good result. We'd have taken that before the game began. But then it happens
again. This time it wasn't bad luck, but panic. In trying to salvage the draw; trying to calm players' nerves, Steven Gerrard took the safe option and played a back-pass to goalkeeper James. Only he panicked, didn't look, and played in Henry instead. This prompted James in turn to panic and instead of trying to nick the ball away from Henry with his hands as a goalkeeper should, he used his feet, and down came Henry. As clear a penalty as France will ever win. And again, up stepped Zidane. He hadn't missed from twenty yards - there was no chance of him missing from twelve. 2-1 to France. Game over.
It was a game England should have won. A game they did win in many ways. For one thing, they certainly won the respect of the French team, and that of the masses watching around the world. Some of the English player's performances were below par; Gerrard was strangely anonymous, Owen ineffectual, Beckham (his penalty miss aside) never got going, and Rooney seemed awed by the occasion. But the team performance, and especially the defence, was magnificent. Yet it is France who have three points, and England who have none. Unlucky doesn't even come close.
But as we paid our tab and left the Mexican bar, the rain continuing, my girlfriend said something else to me, in the absent-minded way of someone who doesn't really care but is merely trying to appease: "But they'll beat Switzerland, won't they?" "Yes, they should!" my optimism cries out. But this time it is more than optimism alone, it is also resolve. We deserve to beat the Swiss. We
will beat the Swiss. And the Croatians into the bargain, and get to the business end of this tournament; the second round. And then who knows? Let's just leave luck out of it.