“I desired for it to be you. I desired it desperately.”
As England’s World Cup ambitions fade into yet another chapter of sorrow, let down in Atlanta by the latest dashing, gaunt Mr. Perfect, a touch more melancholy, not much more enlightened, sunburned, broke, spooning Jägerbomb ice cream straight from the tub, this is an opportune moment to seek solace in a timeless New York romantic comedy. Meg Ryan’s wisdom holds. Don’t mourn its ending. Be furiously angry and exasperated on the radio that it unfolded at all.
The World Cup will now gather again in New York for its ceremonial final vows, that prolonged march down the aisle finally reaching its conclusion. As for England, it will be a while before anyone feels ready to step out once more. There needs to be a period of shock, processing, finger-pointing. There needs to be a stretch of “it’s not us, it’s you, Thomas.”
Absorbing the intense emotional response to England’s tournament departure, which, despite all the irritations, still closely resembled every other exit, it’s tempting to hesitate before laying blame so squarely on the manager. Here we go once more. Another narrative of dubious squad choices and a team that wilted when it mattered most. Have you heard the one about the man who laments that each of his former spouses shares the identical flaw—they simply fail to understand him—and this applies to all seventeen of them?
What’s the deal with all these Mr. Wrongs? Recall the previous one? Open letters about the essence of marmalade. Poor selections and the team wilted on the grand stage. Thank heavens we moved on from him, right? And the one before him? Ray Lewington must see Paris. Poor selections and the team wilted on the grand stage. Before that? Angry, silent, foreign. Poor selections, wilted on the grand stage. Before that? The umbrella incident. Poor selections, team wilted, grand stage. Before that? Icy Nordic sex fiend. Poor selections. Team wilted. Grand stage. What a streak. Could you be any more cursed?
Yet two realities can coexist. The team appeared oddly unbalanced and sluggish throughout the tournament. Tuchel is compensated handsomely for managing precisely these moments. And he undeniably botched this one, with a prime chance staring him in the face to achieve the opposite.
By the time Tuchel emerged post-match in the chilled depths of Atlanta Stadium, he seemed even leaner and more hollow-cheeked, practically reduced to a skull, a morose skull with impeccable taste in tailored attire, speaking articulately about the necessity of maintaining tactical perspective, transparently grappling with how to counter what was bearing down on him, because, as he noted—and this holds true—when you lose, every decision you made appears mistaken, and every alternative path you didn’t take seems correct.
On the flip side, it’s now time for scapegoating. Everyone relishes a collapse. And that’s precisely what we witnessed here. What does the indictment list look like? Chiefly, it’s the period from the 72nd to the 92nd minute in Atlanta, when suddenly England’s entire reality became defense, fright, panic-ball, bracing for the hit. At the 72-minute mark, Tuchel responded to his team having already forfeited all shape, resolve, or attacking menace by shifting to a deep five-man defense.
By the 82nd minute, England fielded six defenders. The talk of energy, courage, guts, fearlessness had all dissipated, supplanted by what was essentially an attempt to steal the result. This was a miscalculation. It narrowly succeeded against Norway and Mexico. But neither of those sides featured a stroll-speed all-time genius who will destroy you purely for amusement if you fail to apply pressure, if you gift him a cozy pocket of space.
This was perishing with your boots scarcely fastened. It was subsisting on your knees. It was the same old story. And this was meant to be different.
Thomas Tuchel’s tactics worked in wins against Norway and Mexico but failed against Argentina. Photograph: Simon M Bruty/Getty Images
Thus, Tuchel will once again face severe criticism for his squad choices, which is a simple target and allows for an unverifiable alternate history. In truth, the squad was broadly successful. England defeated the hosts and reached the semifinals. The peripheral players appeared content and lively. The things Tuchel mishandled against Argentina he had previously executed well. People make mistakes. Your tactical guru won’t always rescue you. Tuchel was on course for a rating of eight overall, downgraded to seven after Atlanta, and with a four for that match alone.
At this juncture, one must examine the broader picture, shifting focus away from the myth of the magic man, the messiah. “Maybe a happy ending doesn’t involve a man. Maybe it’s you, on your own, picking up the pieces and starting over.” Those aren’t my words. They’re famous lines from the romantic comedy He’s Just Not That into You, and an excellent reminder that frequently the deeper answer lies closer to home. Tuchel failed to overcome Argentina in the moment. More broadly, he failed to overcome England, or rather the construct, the abstraction of England, ever-present in every contest, your most formidable adversary, with all its ornate and tormented exceptionalism, its unbearably heavy atmosphere.
The true pivotal episode wasn’t minutes 72 to 92. It was the phenomenon Tuchel couldn’t counteract during that interval, the central occurrence in Atlanta: the complete disintegration of England’s players on the pitch after seizing the lead 17 minutes earlier. In that moment, England recoiled, retreated, clung on, glimpsed the entire horizon, sensed the finish line, triumph over Argentina, and shrank away.
Tuchel’s shortcoming wasn’t a lack of foresight. His diatribe (translation: controlled elucidation of shortcomings) after the Norway game now appears prophetic. He anticipated this. He was powerless to stop it. And so England lost exactly as they invariably do at this phase. Fail once more. Fail in the identical manner.
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All of a sudden, England were being overpowered, forced backward, experiencing the full weight of the Messi aura, desperately hacking corners clear with 20 minutes still remaining. Tuchel didn’t desire this. He urged them forward from the sideline. Harry Kane vanished. His contribution wasn’t exactly poor here. It simply didn’t materialize. Tuchel did attempt to correct matters, went into overdrive during the cooling break, tablet out, kneeling on the turf, flailing his arms in an exhibition of frantic energy.
Knockout matches are frequently determined by those ragged, chaotic spells late in the contest, when the capacity to dictate the tempo and retain possession, the expertise of elite, self-regulating midfielders, becomes the team’s greatest asset. And England’s midfield still lacks the extreme possession-oriented artistry that secures tight knockout games. They succumbed similarly to Croatia in 2018, where Luka Modric merely commandeered the match. They succumbed similarly to Italy in 2021, as the ball just persistently dissolved into that serene blue haze. International football rewards a cultural cohesion, a measure of intelligence and game awareness, spontaneous creativity. And the fact remains, England simply don’t produce the truly top-tier controlling midfielder whose game is built entirely on craft and intellect.
And this is the crux. Tuchel may have failed to reverse-engineer a solution, to apply a superficial gloss over a culture of disjointed development. But perhaps that’s a foolish notion from the outset. England have attempted to game the system, to discover a shortcut, to purchase an exceedingly expensive elite club manager, outsourced know-how.
Thomas Tuchel’s mistakes can be picked out, re-run and dissected but England are a much better and coherent team. Photograph: Catherine Ivill/AMA/Getty Images
The Football Association’s strategy never quite added up. Eighteen months to rectify everything, and with a delayed commencement to boot because that saves some money. This, precisely, is the culture of shortcuts, patchwork fixes, bewilderment, a deficiency of game intelligence, simply manifested at the administrative level.
You cannot manufacture a culture. There exists no genuine English style of play. There’s a Premier League approach, sort of. But what does that entail? The league is a global talent exchange, rootless, rapacious, self-devouring, where very few of the pivotal players in the leading sides are homegrown.
What would an England World Cup victory even signify? What message would it convey? This is how you conquer a World Cup? Neglect your coaching tradition. Yield no managers. Develop academy players who fulfill a specification but lack a coherent identity, akin to how Thierry Henry has so eloquently described the Spanish development model. Then install a handsomely remunerated internationalist club manager atop it all and trust that it coalesces when the pressure intensifies and a genius-caliber player questions your true substance.
Tuchel’s errors in defeat can be pinpointed, replayed, scrutinized. Yet he is also a component of a far broader process, decisions made, paths taken over many decades. England are markedly improved and more cohesive as a team. So much endeavor has been invested in narrowing that divide. It has contracted. But this remains England, still out there staying true to its nature, still wrecking the same vehicle.
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