The air at kick-off was thick with the noxious scent of flares that Dutch diehards had smuggled into the stadium. It was heavy with expectation, too: Mainoo’s family gathered beside the pitch to bask in his glow, while Harry Kane’s brother, Charlie, watched anxiously to discover whether the nation’s record goalscorer could shrug off his troubles when it mattered most.
Soon enough, the apprehension would turn to horror as Declan Rice, normally England’s choreographer in midfield, was muscled off the ball by Xavi Simons. The winger did not require a second invitation, barrelling forward and leathering a rising 35-yard drive that Jordan Pickford could do nothing to stop. The Dutch, resplendent in their day-glo orange behind him, were in raptures. For England, there was only creeping, nauseous fear.
Still, at least the early goal simplified the equation: England, having lapsed into a habit here in Germany of waiting until they fell behind to play with any purpose, would have to go through the gears quickly. Who else to oblige but the captain? It was Kane who drew the penalty when Denzel Dumfries was judged, harshly, to have tackled him studs-first. And it was Kane who duly dispatched it, angling the ball fearlessly beyond Bart Verbruggen even as the goalkeeper dived the right way.
Finally, we discovered how England could perform with the handbrake disengaged. Vibrant, positive, enterprising, they shredded the cautious image that had clung to them after a string of unconvincing displays. Foden, as frenzied as a hornet who had just had its nest disturbed, was tormenting the Dutch defence from all angles. Bellingham, the Real Madrid phenomenon whose reputation preceded him, was asserting himself like the dominant force everyone had hoped he could be in national colours.
It rarely stays this way with England, of course. Free-wheeling in the first half, they were edgy and jumpy in the second, the tension of the scoreline seeping into the players’ souls. “Make a change, Gareth,” the supporters pleaded. Eventually he relented, having seen an instinctive Saka finish ruled out for offside against Kyle Walker. On charged Palmer and Watkins to inject some impetus as Berlin beckoned.
The fans’ roar, incessant all evening, had quelled to a murmur, the precariousness of the situation dawning. It was a mood that could only be relieved by Watkins, the hero of the hour. “Football’s coming home”: perhaps never has that chant been delivered with greater ferocity or belief. On this evidence, it just might be.