England Bury the Ghost of the Azteca

Ninety minutes can decide a tournament or unite a nation. This morning England are a nation united, half the country running on no sleep and a very creative excuse for the boss.

England had not played a World Cup match at the Azteca since 1986, when Diego Maradona’s left arm sent them home and broke a nation’s heart. They walked out of it smiling this time. A 3-2 win over hosts Mexico, a red card survived, more than half an hour with ten men and a place in the last eight against Norway. Forty years is a long time to wait to lay a ghost. Before I put the cork back in the bottle, let me try to make sense of it.

Start with Thomas Tuchel, because the irony is too rich to leave alone. A German coach, orchestrating a backs to the wall win over a Mexican storm of near mythical proportions. Tuchel handles the press as calmly as he handles his players. He does not come across as a man who panders to egos or to the noise from the stands. His side answered the questions for him. After a night like that, the old Palmer and Foden debate feels buried somewhere under the Azteca turf.

Games are won in midfield and a midfield needs a general. England have had the talent before. Alan Ball, Bryan Robson, Paul Gascoigne. Fans still dream about the 5-1 in Munich in 2001, yet the golden generation of Steven Gerrard, Paul Scholes and Frank Lampard too rarely found that gear together. The ability was never the question. The synergy was.

This side has a focal point. His name is Jude Bellingham.

His performance was a 1990 Gascoigne display with a video game power up switched on. Speed and power are miserable things to defend against. England’s number ten has both in absurd supply. I lost count of the times he left two or three Mexicans grasping at his shirt. His two goals came inside a mad two minutes late in the first half, a header from Bukayo Saka’s cross and then a finish from six yards after Kane’s low ball across the face of goal.

For a spell England were dreaming. Bellingham’s body language told you the rest. At one point he grabbed hold of Elliot Anderson and drove him up the pitch, urging him on. That is the leadership you need in a cauldron like that one.

If Bellingham is the nitrous oxide, Harry Kane is the catalytic converter, quietly cleaning up and keeping the whole thing running. His record needs no introduction. His penalty on the hour, won by Anthony Gordon, made it 3-1 after Mexico had halved the deficit before the break. Around the pair sat two sergeant majors in Declan Rice and Anderson, patrolling every blade from box to box. That is a job for the biggest lungs and the most stubborn legs in the squad. Both did it without fuss.

Then there is Gordon, who became a Barcelona player at the end of May. England’s wide men have flickered rather than blazed at this tournament, but the winger Barcelona paid the thick end of seventy million pounds for showed exactly why they wanted him. Beyond winning the penalty, it was his game sense that caught the eye, never more so than when he drew a foul deep in Mexican territory, right by the corner flag, at the precise moment England needed to keep the ball in the corner and drain the clock.

Which brings us to the ugly, glorious part. Jarell Quansah was sent off just before the hour after a VAR review. Suddenly England had the best part of forty minutes to protect a lead with ten men. Here we go again, the curse of English knockout football.

Tuchel reached for his defenders. John Stones came on almost at once and was ice cold while the rest of us chewed our nails. The towering Dan Burn arrived with a quarter of an hour left and simply refused to let anything past him. Yes, Dan Burn the player everyone was asking what he was doing in the England squad.

By the end Mexico had the better of the expected goals, 1.94 against England’s 1.55. They hurled the kitchen sink at that back line. England defended their box as though their lives depended on it. At the death, they did.

I have not mentioned Jordan Pickford. This was one of his finest nights in an England shirt, on an evening he badly needed one. It drew him level with Peter Shilton on seventeen World Cup appearances. Not bad company to keep.

And with England, there is always a but. Quansah is suspended for Norway. Of course he is, because this is a team that has turned sabotaging itself at the cruellest moment into an art form. History says we spit the dummy exactly when it matters most.

Maybe this time is different. If England keep their heads, take their chances and play the way they did at the Azteca, a final is not a fantasy. Norway will have a word or two about that, as will whoever crawls out of the other side of the draw.

Nobody should get carried away, but everyone should revel in last night. It was not perfect, but it had everything else: grit, defiance, silky feet, breakneck counters and finishing of the very top drawer. England fans are sick to the back teeth of asking what if.

So England go to Miami on Saturday to do it all over again. This time a certain Manchester City striker is waiting, seven goals already to his name and Brazil freshly dumped out behind him. England have laid one Azteca ghost to rest. Their reward is Erling Haaland in the Florida heat, which is football’s idea of a thank you card.