Ishouldn’t be doing this. Among the sports writers here at Cherwell, I am perhaps the least qualified to report on England’s penul-
timate World Cup tune-up, played against old foe Germany on Tuesday night.
You see, I’m an American. The last professional soccer (see?) match I attended was in 2008. I last consistently. played the game at anything resembling a competitive level in 2010. My one-game stint as a substitute for the Exeter seconds was so horrendous that the squad, a very good bunch of footballers, imploded as soon as I stepped onto the pitch.
I did, however, have something unique, to which 85,933 others (OK, so maybe not that unique) could lay claim: a ticket to the match. So off I went to Wembley, with ticket in hand and assignment in mind.
To say I felt out of place as I ascended the ramp to the entrance area would be an understatement, as spontaneous rounds of “England Till I Die,” erupted all about me. That sense was renewed inside the stadium, when, for the first time, I didn’t know the words to either side’s national anthem, a tribute to my own shocking ignorance of the country in which I currently reside.
Once the match started, though, I had little trouble picking up the lyrics to the next song to ring through pockets of the stadium: the controversial “Ten German Bombers.” Sung to the infectious tune of “She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain,” the song, whose lyrics gleefully invoke the air battles of World War II, caught me more than a little off-guard. But the spirit of exuberant support that the ditty underscored, however bluntly inappropriate the words contained within it, left me grinning.
Besides, the Germans had their revenge on the pitch. After nearly 40 minutes of largely uninspired football that saw no shots on goal for either side, Germany earned a pair of Mario Götze corners within the space of a minute. Combined, these two set pieces produced a trio of tenacious on-frame headers from Per Mertesacker, Heiko Westermann and Mertesacker again. And while Joe Hart did brilliantly to keep the first one out, Mertesacker’s second attempt proved too much, giving the visitors the critical first goal.
All at once, I learned just how silent 85,000 people could really be. Like a deflated balloon, the crowd suddenly seemed tired; the songs dissipated into halftime.
And that, for the most part, was that. Save for some thrilling back-and-forth play in the opening five minutes of the second half, neither of the two sides played as if it was particularly perturbed by the 1-nil score line. Discouraged, many fans streamed for the exits long before the final whistle blew. There were no choruses of “England Till I Die,” as we and thousands of others waited patiently for the tube.
Yet despite the disappointment, my first match in half a decade left me hungry for more. There’s something about international football and Wembley that just feels right, no matter the combatants or the final outcome?
England Till I Die? I’ll not go that far, with the Yanks poised for a strong run in Brazil in half a year’s time. But England Till Denmark Arrive? I can go for that. I’ll be singing right along.
