July’s caught fire and blazes warmth and a cloudless blue across the sky. The turf’s had its fill of idle sunbathing and begins high-tailing it out of the boglands. Twelve or thirteen van loads banked to the doorless shed vault so far. The thudding sound of sods hitting the mounting pile seems like a single, looping gallop of a lost horse. One quizzically halting near the back wall and pricking its ears for the approach of the next set of hooves flying through the air to point the way ahead.
Sweat leaks from the brow in these flinging, slow gallop motions from van to shed and plops proudly on the concrete floor for a minute or two. Sweat is exceedingly fond of itself but thankfully Himself evaporates it off into the thin air above the nettle forest guarding the back door of the turf-shed and a little humbleness returns.
All told, though, a level of peat overcrowding is accumulating not witnessed in these parts since the mid-eighties, probably. The dark tanned sods—some tattooed with strands of stray bog-grass—settle in easily enough to their new home—impatiently expecting a little tidy reeking before the arrival of global societal collapse on or around the October Bank Holiday weekend. At which point they’ll march in slow, steady columns to the fireplace and spark a flaming defence of the nation.
Well, that’s the plan, anyway.
The turf homecoming coincides with the knockout stages of the FIFA World Cup. As the van empties for the final time each day, a reward awaits each evening. The matches play out in vibrant, athletic colour on the back-kitchen television screen—with the remote control set firmly to mute. Silence is order of the bog-day and so these evenings follow suit in a complementary hushed tone. Goals aplenty and a plethora of grown men hijacked by pink football boots is the result of all this quiet observation for some reason. Over the midnight sizzle of fried sausages and eggs, the work horses of the mind contemplate whether the English Football manager might possibly be an actual sorcerer of some description and subliminally casting spells over the nations standing in his way.
This notion hits as a result of Tuchel’s method of answering sports reporters’ questions: A pleasant mixture of odd retorts flavoured with occasional skittish shrieks of maniacal laughter.
For example, not long after opposing each other in the Falklands war, England and Argentina faced off at the 1986 World Cup quarter-final. High stakes and high tension. On that occasion the Queen’s royal flotilla were torpedoed by Argentina, with the added kick in the balls that Argentina went on to win the whole damn tournament. Now, that England and Argentina football match is often known as the ‘Hand of God’ game. When Diego Maradona clearly scored a headed goal with the aid of his clenched fist and got away with the brazen act of impropriety. The site of that meeting, forty years ago, was the Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. It was also the site of England’s recent game against Mexico and the first time England have returned to the stadium for a World Cup match in the intervening period. A reporter asked Tuchel about the memory of England’s previous World Cup game here in 1986 and if his team were in a sense out for revenge. His answer to the question struck me as noteworthy and probably elvish.
"….we're not up for revenge, we will just make peace with the stadium"
A most interesting response. Well, England most certainly did indeed make peace with the stadium if not with the Mexican team who they beat 3-2 on the night. But it was a very novel way of interpreting and framing the job ahead of his team. Almost a manifestation technique, if you will. Sometimes, manifesting outcomes is little to do with visualising how the job will be done but rather a focus on some secondary outcome that will occur if the primary goal is achieved.
Like how a shower might feel and heal in the evening after a day loading and emptying van loads of turf. Restoration, regeneration and relaxation in exchange for a little repetitive effort. Perhaps, fulfilment is in the silent pause between each rinsed ache and shower-gelled pain.
At any rate, Tuchel is one to keep a close eye on for a few days more. In appearance, he seems akin to some character elf from The Lord of the Rings. His mischievous eyes and receding hairline dance and dart around the television screen non-stop. As if staring into the eyes of a BBC or ITV muggle might melt a mask the world is not quite ready to see yet and which might reveal a lot but little of it to do with football. Now, elves are generally a benevolent lot and not known to willingly follow the Dark Lord, but then again, they do usually have an intriguing agenda or two of their own hidden from view.
My current World Cup prediction is England will reach the final. Which is based entirely on the fact they possess an elvish manager and two players—Kane and Bellingham—temporarily borrowed from the magical realms. However, England have a goalkeeping Achilles heel—Jordan Pickford.
No team has ever won a World Cup final with a goalkeeper whose surname seems plucked straight from one of Charles Dickens’ more depressing works of fiction.
Disaster awaits in a penalty shoot-out, surely?
And at the end, Bellingham will be celebrated, Kane slapped with ‘hard lucks’ on the back, Pickford commiserated with. But, somewhere the Germanic elf, Tuchel will be inwardly smiling that daring smile of his out of view. Safe in the knowledge his managerial reputation remains intact and that English hearts won’t recover from the loss until at least 2086.
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