England were brave and rose to the occasion but France had no need to – when they had five good minutes, they scored
Midnight strikes and the party is over. England crumple to the turf in fragments: one here, a couple over there, one more over by the centre circle. The Al Bayt pitch is a field of broken dreams, of hope and despair, and hope again, and despair again. In the VVIP seats, David Beckham is holding his head in his hands, although for only one of the reasons he should be. Afterwards Gareth Southgate will talk about how close they came, how much these players can still achieve. England are proud. England are defiant. But England are done.
It is of no consolation here to point out that England tried their best, that they had most of the chances and most of the ball, that they came with a plan and largely executed it to the letter. Nor is it any consolation to rehash the usual platitudes about what a great bunch of lads these are. All the above is true. But in the furnace of knockout football all of this only gets you to the finish line. It does not dictate whether anyone gets there before you.
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