Well maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me. On a wild, boisterous, often agonising afternoon under the giant Victorian railway dome of the Atlanta Stadium, the Democratic Republic of Harry Kane progressed to the last 16 of the World Cup.
With England playing like a team terrified of their own feet and 1-0 down to an excellent DR Congo, Kane decided something else was going to happen, scoring two goals in 11 minutes towards the end to turn disastrous defeat into joyful relief. In the process he also saved Thomas Tuchel’s job and perhaps the jobs of his bosses at the Football Association. Because England really had gone at points in this game.
The first hydration break was one of the more extraordinarily strange moments in their footballing history. England had been horrible to that point, not just tactically unbalanced but confused and unhappy, clanging the ball about between them like men punting an empty paint pot along a motorway verge.
Even the faces of the England players seemed to crumple, to look sad and tearful, already off on a shared trip down the time tunnel through the pain of Iceland, Croatia, Norway, Graham Taylor wandering down a touchline in Rotterdam saying sorry, I’m sorry.
So the players gathered on the touchline, just as the stadium PA boomed out Heyyy Baby, I wanna know, as the Atlanta Falcons cheerleaders writhed on the massive screen, as Reece James took Jude Bellingham to one side, whispering urgently in his ear, soothing his humours. At this moment Tuchel called for, of all things, calm.
Tuchel was here in black summer shirt, black slacks and white trainers, strolling sombrely, like an undertaker on a cruise holiday. He bent into his players’ faces, talking relentlessly, conveying system tweaks, process advice, the need for certain key collective movements to be regeared. Nobody was calm. This was not calm.
Fast forward to the final hydration break and the scenario was almost exactly the same. England had created chances, had drawn some wonderful saves from Lionel Mpasi. They’d surged, then re-faded and re-shrunk. They were still 1-0 down. Country Roads, take me home, the PA blared this time. You said it, John Denver.
That final break really was a reckoning up. This was heads-on-pikes territory. It was a parade of heads on pikes. Everything is bigger, brasher, more pulsating in America, and England were facing surely the worst tournament defeat since their first significant one, the USA, 1950 Belo Horizonte, and all that.
Iceland in Nice was bad. But England were a terrible team then too. This iteration has reached two major finals. Even the basic setup of Tuchel’s appointment was facing a hilarious punchline. Thanks, Gareth. You were fine. But we’re going to get a proper manager now. The goal, we were told, was to win the World Cup or die trying. Well, RIP to that.
Again Tuchel spoke to his players, firing out his words, machine-gunning that semicircle of bowed heads with ideas, thoughts, restructurings. Maybe footballers at this level really can absorb that level of detail under this level of stress. They certainly didn’t look like it.
At which point Kane produced perhaps his best moment as an England player, saving not just a knockout game, but a moment of generational trauma in waiting. As they trotted back out England had a front five, with only Elliot Anderson behind and Declan Rice at right-back. But they were driving forward too, right to left, Rice reaching the byline, crossing long, the ball picked up by Anthony Gordon. He put it back in for Kane to head across goal, powerfully enough to beat Mpasi’s flailing hand and bounce into the net.
Atlanta Stadium erupted with a rolling wave, not of joy but of relief. And England pressed on as the DRC tired so close to the line. It was Kane again, from Gordon’s pass again, whirling and twisting and shunting the ball on to his right foot inside the box. The shot was brutal, righteous, blazed into just the right spot below the bar, the net still billowing out in a lovely loose ripple as England’s bench emptied on to the pitch.
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And this was a moment for Harry. Kane played in that Iceland game in 2016, the deep horror of Nice and the heart of darkness, the abuse of Raheem Sterling, fans jeering about the Euro currency in the stands, Roy Hodgson appearing like a pickled vampire the next day.
Ten years on he did the other thing here, took England from 1-0 down to 2-1 up, saved another day in another time. It seems deeply odd now there was talk that Tuchel might kick things off 18 months ago by looking beyond Kane.
In Atlanta he saved not just Tuchel’s job but reputation. Kane has five goals at this World Cup and 84 for England en route to the inevitable hundred. His career is utterly remarkable given the sheer depth of will required to reach these levels from his early days. Even the strike to win it told a story, the sweetness of that connection 85 minutes into a game of frustration, dead ends, running hard.
England will now play Mexico in Mexico City in the last 16. Nobody really knows if they’re any good. They looked like a team of loose connections from the start here.
The Atlanta Stadium is perhaps the best at this World Cup given it is actually in the city, surrounded by streets and walkways as opposed to that feeling of visiting a vast and deathly Bladerunner-style out-of-town shopping mall.
Atlanta is brutally, sappingly hot, the kind of heat where just walking across a double lane highway is a full body assault. Under the dome the air is cool, breezy, light, shifting around in pleasant little micro gusts. But there were issues even before the start. England kicked off with a Spence-Madueke right side. Is this good? Noni Madueke in particular is a one-footed work in progress for such a key role on such a vital stage.
They did almost nothing for six minutes. At which point the DRC scored a lovely goal made by some strange defending. Spence followed Noah Sadiki’s run, leaving an unchecked acreage of space behind him. This was where England feel the lack of a career defensive midfielder, the kind of player who tracks these runs with a genuine mania. A diagonal pass found Brian Cipenga, who shot low inside Jordan Pickford’s near post. A goalkeeper at this level would expect to save it.
Otherwise England looked like what they are, a chucked-together collective. How have they looked to build a team in the past 18 months? Some buzzwords, a little gimmickry, a great deal of turnover in players and combinations.
For long periods ragged English naivety was exposed by DRC tactical discipline. Bellingham ran around a lot, leaving the DRC an extra man in midfield. Pickford pumped his arms up and down wildly, like Jerry Lee Lewis hammering at a piano keyboard, which, surprisingly enough, didn’t have the effect of calming everyone down.
The relief at the final whistle was profound for England’s players and fans as they sang together at the far end. All the roads we have to walk are winding. The lights are blinding. England made chances here, and they will cling to that. They showed real spirit to turn the game around. Above all they have Kane, a temporary fix for a great deal of wrong, but on days like this a one-man national team.
