Gareth Southgate, thank you. Your boys have restored a nation’s lost pride

I can’t think of a team that has brought such joy at a difficult time. There’s more to it than that, though. Gareth Southgate has assembled a group of players who play in such a way that is right for now.

I want to fault them. I’ve tried – Lord knows much I’ve despaired of England down the years and not just because of their style of play but other aspects, too. The lurid boozing and late-night antics, flashness, WAGs, lack of focus and discipline, hesitancy on the pitch, weaknesses in too many areas. And the moaning and the cynicism. Also, the absence of cohesion, of stars who clearly put club above country; when they met up for England, they divided into camps from their respective top clubs.

We had a succession of managers who weren’t up to the task, who struggled to impose their authority and could not articulate what playing for England should mean.

Oh, and the fans. Let’s not forget the fans, with their beer swilling and pot bellies and songs about the IRA and allegiances to the far right and racist and sexist views. We were ashamed.

They’re still there of course, some of them. But with Covid and the difficulty of travelling, their swaggering influence and ability to abuse is diminished.

It’s diminished too, because this team has tapped a national nerve and gained wider support. The flag of St George is ours to behold again. The thugs are in the minority. This is about evident diversity and inclusivity, bringing happiness to children whose schooling has been interrupted, families who have known worry and heartbreak, people who have never known England succeed and being proud of their country’s team. It’s about throwing off the mask, not only of now, but of decades of hurt and humiliation.

The England team are displaying bravery and speed, throwing themselves into tackles, forcing their heads to the ball, and so, so quickly. The best camera shot is from behind the goal. Watching that is frightening. It’s slick and ferocious, lightning fast and intense. I can see what sets them apart and, for once, I am not begrudging them a penny.

An Italian rolls on the grass, clutching his leg in apparent terrible agony, then his side scores, he hears the roar, looks around and instantly clambers up and joins in the celebrations. So far, I’ve not observed that from England.

Instead, I’ve witnessed chest out, honest endeavour, of the sort we’re brought up to admire and emulate but had seemingly all but vanished.

They didn’t sit back when they scored the first against Ukraine, as previous England teams might have done; they didn’t defend their lead, they went looking for more – for two, three and four. They were pursuing certainty, leaving nothing to chance. Wonderful, and so separate from the familiar pattern.

They’re from a mixture of clubs. They don’t all hail from the mighty spenders, the Big Six who wanted to breakaway and form the European Super League. The names of Everton, West Ham and Aston Villa are there as well. Nobody would say those clubs are elite. They’ve stayed true to their origins, to their roots ground in graft and sweat.

They’ve got that bloody-mindedness that is very much who we are. Southgate does his own thing; he’s not unduly influenced. It’s his squad, his selections, his tactics. He doesn’t do bling; he’s not sporting a huge watch or driving a supercar. He wears waistcoats and stands erect and poised. He’s seen to care. Family first is his mantra. He’s been married to Alison for 23 years. He met her while she was a shop assistant in a clothing store and he was playing for Crystal Palace; they went on dates in a Tesco car park.

He goes home on a Saturday night, not out clubbing. “On Saturday evening, our children are not too bothered whether Dad’s team have won or lost,” he wrote in his autobiography. “Neither does Alison fret too much about football, and this is how I like it. Regardless of the result, it is up to me to ensure that no one’s evening is ruined because of things that happened on a football field. The agonising waits until Alison and the kids are asleep.”

Alison was there for him when he missed the penalty against Germany that crashed England out of Euro ‘96. Southgate, with his long nose, was fodder for stand-up comics. What was his response? To admit his mistake and take part in a pizza advert with a brown paper bag over his head.

Underneath, it was tough. “You play for 15 years,” he said later, “and people remember 15 seconds of it.” What was telling was why he took the penalty in the first place. He volunteered out of a sense of responsibility, even though there were more established spot-kickers available. He deserves the redemption he’s achieved.

They take the knee, Southgate’s eleven. I don’t like it, don’t approve of what it came to stand for in the US – the defunding of police. They do it because they want to and who am I to counter that. Their self-assertion defines them; it’s their way of hitting back at the online cowards who spew bile and hate; they’re doing it together.

So, whatever happens to England on Wednesday, thank you.