There was something very familiar about all this. The sight of a winger bustling to the byline and, even as he pulled the ball back across goal, being absolutely convinced the net would be billowing by the time his momentum had carried him on to the artificial turf ringing the pitch. Jermain Defoe tends to offer that calibre of reassurance, forever loitering as he does in enemy territory spanning the width of the posts, the six-yard box only ever a dart away, defenders constantly on edge. Cue that trademark celebration, arms stretched wide, as the striker trotted towards the crowd. It was as if he had never been away.
Except, of course, he had – and, plenty would argue, for far too long. The scenario which yielded England’s lead midway through the first half on Sunday might have been plucked from the last occasion when Defoe had scored for his country at Wembley, so identikit a goal did it feel from a player who has been prospering like this for years.
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