GAME 64

France 4 – 2 Croatia

And so here we are. At the end. All done. Nothing more to see. Move along now. Anyone else feeling a profound sense of loss? Apart from Croatia, obviously, that sort of goes without saying, I'd have thought.

France will think of themselves as worthy winners while Croatia will, no doubt, feel hard done by. The truth, as ever, is to be found somewhere inbetween.

Certainly, Croatia will look back at a soft free kick and a dubious penalty and wonder what might have been. The penalty, in particular, has caused much consternation here at 64 Beautiful Games. I (Barney) have watched the incident five times now, and I genuinely think there was no intent. Simon, on the other hand, is wrong. There can be no such disagreement about Griezmann’s dive however, he was already in freefall by the time contact was made. From that moment on, I was torn. As a neutral with French friends and a passionate dislike of Dejan Lovren, I was keen to see France do well. This, however, skewed things slightly. Griezmann doesn’t quite make it onto my list of World Cup colossal ballbags (Barrios, Neymar, Pepe, Lovren), but a player as good as he is should be better than this.

In many ways, this game was a microcosm of the World Cup in a wider context, which is just as well as it gives me a useful device to talk about both in a concise way that makes me sound cleverer than I am. There were great strikes (how Perisic found the angle to hoof Croatia’s equalizer home I’ll never know) some awful mistakes (if only Mandzukic could have headed home at the other end rather than into his own net) and it was a game about teams rather than individuals. Even Mbappe started slowly, growing as the game progressed.

There were lots of goals and the game certainly seemed to embody the breakneck speed and chaos that has defined this tournament. However, Russia 2018 has been about the unexpected rise of the little guys; about some teams playing above themselves and stopping others hitting the highs they’ve previously reached. There has been, at this World Cup, a leveling of the playing field, and there’s a certain poetry about Russia providing the backdrop to the unfolding of this egalitarian drama.  

Ultimately, and despite the fact that they looked fucking woeful in the group stages, it’s probably right that France were crowned champions. I certainly have no problem with Mbappe’s award for young player of the tournament – that is richly deserved, if only for the Argentina game and THAT back-heel against Belgium. Meanwhile, Modric receiving player of the tournament was, on balance, a good call. Kane gets the Golden Boot and, before anyone starts bleating on about penalties and that one that came off the back of his boot, they were superbly taken penalties, and he’s the second English player ever to do it. Let him enjoy it.

At the end of the game, as the trophies were handed out, there was hardly a dry eye in the house, although that’s mainly because it was pissing down and Putin seemed to have nicked the only umbrella. Russia has come out of this tournament extremely well, it has been well-organised, fans well-received and that speaks volumes about the Russian people, but let us not forget that this one individual, with his face like a perpetually shitting dog, is a weapons-grade bell-end.

But that’s not the note I want to end this on. This is a celebratory ending to a celebratory tournament. It’s been a great World Cup – at times extraordinary even. It’s the first my son will remember and I’ve learnt that the convenient shortcut to conversation with my brother and father that football provided when I was a kid now exists for him. To be fair, he never shuts up anyway, it’s like showing a cabbie another route to a destination he’s already got 500 ways of getting to. 

Sixty four beautiful games, sixty four beautiful images, sixty four variable match reports. It’s been quite the ride. Thank you to all those who hopped on board, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading and looking as much as we have creating. Huge thanks to our designer, Simon Wiltshire, without whom etc… and lastly, of course, none of this would have been possible without my brother, Simon Harsent, whose fucking ludicrous idea this was in the first place.

When we were kids, many years ago in a small, Buckinghamshire market town, he convinced me that after you were brutally brought down by a SIGNIFICANTLY older sibling, the resulting penalty should be taken into your own goal. I know, right? Forty years on, the workrate that this project has demanded has, at times, left me feeling almost exactly like that kid again – constantly kicking a ball into my own goal.

But you know what? I’ve never been so happy to concede.

Love you mate.

Barnaby Harsent, 16th July 2018.   

GAME 62

Croatia 2 – 1 England

Dear Mr Southgate,

This is a thank you.

Before this tournament, I’d pretty much given up on internationals. Looking back, I’m not sure why. Some of my favourite memories are of times spent with friends watching England in one game or another – from the tortuous 1990 World Cup semi-final defeat at the hands of Germany on penalties, to the tortuous Euro 96 semi-final defeat at the hands of Germany on penalties. Apologies, I don’t mean to bring up bad memories, but it’s important for context, bear with me. Then, of course, there was the 1998 World Cup second-round exit to Argentina. On penalties. Oh, and the 2006 World Cup (Portugal, penalties) and the quarter-finals of Euro 2012. In fairness, that was different – Italy were the ones to beat us on penalties then.

My interest in the Premier League had started to wane, too. Whether right or wrong, it seemed to me that teams had been bought as rich men’s playthings, while agents and money had replaced loyalty and pride as top-flight football’s main drivers. As a young man, living in London, I was effectively priced out of sharing in the tribalism that had defined my childhood support of an often second-division Chelsea.

When I left London in pursuit of stairs and a spare room, I wanted my kids to feel rooted in the landscape of their new home. I took them to Winch’s Field, the home of Herne Bay FC. It was –and remains – an integral part of our lives. I had started to say, when asked who I supported,  “I’m Chelsea by birth”, like a fucking lapsed Catholic or something. I’d then follow up with, “I don’t really watch the Premier League, I’d rather see a grudge match against Whitstable any day.”

That’s not the case any more. In fairness, I’m not sure it ever was. I think I just found the huge amounts of money flooding the game distasteful in a kind of odd, nebulous way and so stepped away from it. I judged football in a completely different way than I would any other form of entertainment – I held it to a much higher standard.

I’ve now been forced to reassess. I have felt so involved in this tournament, it has taken over. Of course, that’s partly due to my brother’s frankly ludicrous idea that I should write a match report – or at least some words, strung together in an impression of meaningful sentences – for every single game of the tournament, but it’s also down to a young team who played their hearts out for each other. A team who looked like they were having the time of their lives; who played as a unit, with confidence and style. And even when they weren’t getting the rub of the green (Colombia last 20 and first half of extra time, Croatia second half), they were still good to watch, comfortable even, at times. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that watching England. (NB: I don’t count the loss to Belgium and, let’s be honest, neither did you.)

Croatia proved too strong in the end, but your team – our team –  kept on running even when energy levels waned. This team of young, largely untried players, proved to be so much more than the sum of their parts. Back at home, a group of vile, self-interested shitbags sell us off to the highest bidder under the gossamer-thin guise of democracy, blindly negotiating us into an unseen future that their personal fortunes will insulate them from (on the upside, it won’t protect them from hereditary syphilis). Meanwhile, from three and a half thousand miles away, 23 young men managed to do more to unify the country than those wankers ever could. As well as a resounding testament to remote working, it speaks volumes about how much we needed this.

So thank you. Thank you for putting your faith in a young team with bright starts and high heads. Thank you for practicing penalties, for that shootout against Colombia, for expunging the memories of 1990, 1996, 200… oh, look, you get the point.

Thank you for giving that Colombian lad a hug after he missed from the spot. Thank you for speaking thoughfully and eloquently, with grace, intelligence and wit. Thank you for being a stop-gap who now looks a lot like a long-term solution. Thank you for not being Sam Allardyce.

I watched last night's game with my father. It reminded me of afternoons at Stamford Bridge cheering Spackman and Speedie with my dad by my side, my hand in his. My son watched the match with us, first giddy with excitement and then sick with disappointment. He'll get over it, of course. That's the deal isn't it? He was outside earlier, kicking a ball about, practising. It reminded me that I don't really play football with him. I've made a note to change that. 

Thank you, Mr Southgate – and your team – for reigniting my love of the beautiful game.

Best wishes,

Barney Harsent

GAMES 59 & 60

Sweden 0 – 2 England

It’s hard to describe what a national team doing well in a tournament means –especially when it’s unexpected. Forget the tits mobbing Ikea, or the knuckle-draggers who smashed up an ambulance, that’s just a distraction courtesy of the stupid. These people are arseholes doing what arseholes do and using football and booze as enablers. They are, to be clear, quite exceptional arseholes.

For everyone else who choses to get involved however, there’s a thrilling swell of goodwill building after a semi-final place went from being a possibility to a reality and with relative ease. This World Cup has brought a sense of unity to a country that has been riven in two and, although a temporary measure – like trying to fix the ice shelf with Elastoplast – at least it’s something positive. We’ve waited a while for that.

Now my hangover has subsided, I’m left with memories of a game that will, one way or another, end up being wallpapered over by Wednesday’s fixture. I can remember crying in my friend’s kitchen after 1990’s semi final loss to Germany, but couldn’t tell you where I watched us beat Cameroon 3 – 2.

I hope I do hold on to Saturday's memories no matter what happens in the next game, as the day was full of friends, children, good food, laughter and shouting – lots and lots of shouting. It was an afternoon full of confidence too, unusual when you have the occupational hazard of supporting England.

This team, while not perfect and certainly the underdogs when you consider the strength in depth of Belgium and France and the clinical capabilities of Croatia, play in a way that inspires this confidence. Yes, most of the goals have come from set plays, but does that really matter? A goal from a corner is still a goal, someone won that corner. Does it make any difference that Ashley young put the ball on to Harry Maguire’s head from the flag rather than the flank? 

And actually, open play looked OK against one of the tournament’s toughest back lines. Jordan Henderson’s beautiful lobbed pass to a sadly indecisive Sterling should have led to more and Lingard’s cool, casual chip towards Dele Alli saw his target in so much space that it would have almost been harder for him to miss.

Harry Maguire has been a revelation, as has Trippier, who created so many chances for the team. And although Sweden didn’t trouble England for huge swathes of the game, when they did, it took career-defining saves from Jordan Pickford to secure the tickets to Moscow.

They look decent. They look composed. They look like they’re having fun.

This could be about to get interesting.

Russia 2 – 2 Croatia
           (3 – 4 on penalties)

I was on my feet when Fernandes equalized for Russia to make it 2 – 2 and almost guarantee penalties. “This could be it,” I thought. “Russia in the semi-finals!” I then thought about what sort of odds you would have been able to get at the beginning of the tournament, and made a mental note to look into the possibility of building a functioning time machine.

I’d been drinking, to be fair.

But what followed was, we now know, a penalty shootout with at least two of the most unfathomably awful penalties I have ever seen as Russia's nerve seemed to fall apart like a clown car in a quarry. What Fedor Smolov was thinking I do not know, but whatever it was, he telegraphed it to Danijel Subasic, who saved the weak shot with ease. Then hero turned zero, as Fernandes went low and wide to miss the target completely. The result was inevitable from that point on.

That Russia had taken the lead in this game, was extraordinary enough, Cheryshev scoring from outside the box meaning that he leaves the World Cup with an impressive tally of four goals and at least one nailed-on screamer at that. Twice as many as Neymar. Again, the odds must have been astronomical going in, but then it's been a World Cup of surprises. 

Not tonight however. Croatia didn’t take long to respond and, from that point on, it felt as though they had the upper hand, at least until that late Fernandes goal. At that point it seemed reasonable to assume Russia would have some momentum and, crucially, that Croatia would have to be made of fairly stern stuff to hold their nerve.

It seems they are. Heart-breaking stuff – even for the neutral.

Russia, you were ace. I’m sorry to see you go. With penalties like those, I’d much rather England were playing you.