It has been 679 days since my last confession.
Three weeks after my previous post, the London Olympics kicked off. And, for those of you who don't remember, they were really good. Much better than any World Cup could ever hope to be. Or could it? Could this one be the one?
That's the problem with football: the hope.
When, at half time, Arsenal were 4-0 down at Anfield in February, a Gooner friend of mine settled down to watch the second half on catch up. He'd suffered the first 45 minutes but was ready to go again. Until his wife checked the score and laughed. That was enough. Mrs. Gooner had told him there would be no comeback. Mr. G was not to witness a miracle. Liverpool had already won. Inadvertently, innocently, accidentally: the woman he loves most in all the world had crushed any last remnants of hope.
And so it came to pass that, yesterday lunchtime, Uncle Woy delivered a youthful, exciting-looking England squad. Twenty-three men who will go to Bwazil with something worse than expectation: hope.
Nobody really believes that Lallana & Co. will win the thing. But they might do something. They could beat Italy. If we can only get a point against Suarez & Cavani. And then they should get three points against Costa Rica...
And that's how they get you.
All I'm saying is, when Woy's conservatism gets the better of him and he sends out James Milner & Danny Welbeck to 'do a job' in a rigid four-four-two against the Azzurri, I want us all to have expected it.
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