Englishmen in funny hats

Englishmen in funny hats stare slack-mouthed at the football pitch, and the Germans are only having to knock it about now, easy as you like. We’re just chasing after shadows out there, labouring. Rooney’s face is pink and sweat-slicked; Gerrard wears a grimace. Joe Cole is scuttling around their back line; at the other end, Upson is bewildered. For [...]

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Torres prone

He’s running and he feels the clip on his ankle. He goes down, he’s lying there on his side, feeling the cool grass against his cheek, and beneath the din of the vuvuzelas blaring there’s a cheer that goes on and on, and then he’s surrounded by bodies. Socks, boots and ankles. All sorts of [...]

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Mr. Capello, your wife is on the phone

Straight-backed and squinting, Fabio Capello tightens the cord of his yellow bathrobe and picks up the phone. His hair bunches on his head in tight wet curls and he is without his glasses; he catches sight of a blurry image of himself in the mirror and turns away. ‘Mr. Capello,’ says the receptionist, ‘your wife is on [...]

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Judas’ Shin

A bunch of England fans are lording it down the middle of the road; one of them has a vuvuzela, but he can’t really play it and the noise that comes out sounds like a prolonged spittle-fart. Another wrapped in the flag of St. George shouts, ‘Come on then!’   Who he’s talking to, Arthur [...]

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English Invader

He puts his elbow in the steward’s gut and barges him out the way. Most of the players have already disappeared into the dressing room, but there’s Beckham trailing after, looking proper dapper in his grey suit. He charges forward; the next thing he knows, they’re face to face and he’s stopped. Beckham takes a [...]

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Diego Maradona talks to God

Maradona has said his piece. He leaves the players with the assistants and heads for the bathroom. At the sink he runs the cold tap, splashes his face. When he looks up, God is in the mirror, staring at him. Maradona stares back, then makes like a boxer and jabs at the old man with [...]

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Droning of the Vuvuzela

Klose gets there just before Schwarzer and crashes it into the back of the net. He wheels away, but nothing changes; the vuvuzelas are blaring all around. The sound of 60000 people nullifying themselves.

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Howler

The ball skews out of his gloves, tumbles over the line. And everything repeats in slow motion. Green’s face like fuck, oh fuck as he scrambles back in vain; Dempsey’s fingers pressing against his mouth, looking to God; Capello rueful as a father in the technical area. And Beckham’s face is stone, it doesn’t move at all.

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