World Cup Willies

I was 10 in 1966, and as a result I am cursed. The first World Cup to be covered comprehensively (mainly highlights with some live games, as I recall, and all in grainy monochrome) and, of course, the one that England won. I watched Bobby Charlton smack in that shot from 30 yards against Mexico and became increasingly more bemused and complacent as England, in my 10-year-old's frame of reference, cruised to the final and won it. It was as easy as that, and I had been programmed to believe that winning the World Cup is something that England just do. A 10 year old's belief system is hard to shake off so for the past 44 years the global footballfest has been a journey of hope, despair and confusion. I know we can win it, I've seen it happen. No matter how lumpen and naive our football is I somehow conjure up the same old winning scenario, and then I die the death of a thousand cuts or, to put it more accurately, the death of a thousand missed tackles, misdirected passes and pathetic penalties. I know what will really happen, but I can't resist that seductive temptress hope and I can't shake off the memory of seeing an England team win a trophy. That's my curse.

And in a strange intergenerational way I've managed to curse my son as well. When he was 8 years old I took him to his first football match. An old boy from the school that I worked in was in the England squad and we got tickets for the final World Cup qualifying match, against Greece at Old Trafford. Our tickets were in the front row of the Stretford End. The atmosphere was amazing, Beckham would not be beaten and scored that free kick, right there in front of us. At the end of the match we didn't know if we'd done enough and then the result came through from Germany. We'd done it, and Germany had to go to the play-offs. Nobody wanted to leave the ground, and I don't think my son heard me when I told him that this was as good as it would get. At that moment he was assimilating the evidence, taking in the message. England would not be beaten. Poor soul.

And so here we are, Dad and lad together, watching another World Cup. Fools for the love of this crazy team and this infuriating game. Maybe this time, maybe..