In her work Hope in the Dark, writer Rebecca Solnit explores whether one can sustain hope in the face of widespread human misery. She cites Bulgarian thinker Maria Popova: “Reason without hope becomes cynicism, yet hope without reason is mere naivety.” By most measures, this presents a persuasive case for hope as a driving force behind societal transformation.
Elsewhere, Graham Burrell noted: “It is the hope that destroys you” after Lincoln City lost 2-1 at home to Wigan in 2024. “I sense that our playoff ambitions were finally dashed yesterday.”
It’s difficult to rank that Sincil Bank loss among the great catalog of human anguish. The same could be said about England’s collapse against Argentina on Wednesday.
Pinpointing the originator of the phrase “It is the hope that kills you” is equally tricky. Candidates range from Shakespeare to Ustinov, and many have expanded on it. Take Ted Lasso: “So, I keep hearing this expression around here that I’m not too fond of. ‘It’s the hope that kills you.’ You’ve heard that, right? I disagree. I reckon it’s the absence of hope that does you in. Look, I trust in hope. I trust in faith.”
Then there’s Jackson Lamb from Slow Horses: “It isn’t the hope that does the damage. It’s the awareness that hope is what kills you – that’s what really finishes you.”
One wonders whether England might have done better in the final half-hour with Lasso or Lamb in charge. Their styles would have diverged. Lasso would never have deployed six defenders. They wouldn’t retreat. Lamb would brand them all fools and urge them to just crack on. A comforting arm or a swift boot – every approach is on display.
Yet every England supporter, indeed any sports follower, recognizes that hope as a raw feeling can be utterly paralyzing. Hope isn’t instant; it barely surfaces at kickoff. It takes a back seat to dread. Dread in the build-up, dread during that absurd 10-second countdown, dread as the ball is played back to Jordan Pickford. I could sense, nearly hear, my pulse thumping at double its usual pace.
Djed Spence sends Lionel Messi to the turf with a challenge during the semi-final. Photograph: Jewel Samad/AFP/Getty Images
Once the match settles, the heart rate steadies—though “steadies” may be misleading. It’s a baseline anxiety punctuated by bursts of fury as Giuliano Simeone chases, chops, kicks, and snarls. Where is the booking? Are the conspiracy theorists onto something? He swings a foot at Marc Guéhi and misses, then lunges with his head like a shark snapping at empty air. By this point, even perfectly timed tackles by Argentina feel malevolent. England’s fouls seem wholly justified. Another serving of blind partisanship, please.
At the interval, the first swells of doubt emerge. The longer the match remains scoreless, the more probable an Argentina victory becomes. They possess the know-how. I mutter empty phrases such as “muscle memory.” I utter more pointed ones like “cunning bastards.”
Then comes the goal. The ideal delivery, the ideal finish. A release of elation, relief, and potential. That’s the first genuine instant of hope, paired with the thought, “At least they require two now”—a reflex any long-time England watcher knows well.
The only other euphoric flash is Djed Spence’s challenge. Spence has appeared so laid-back he scarcely seems invested. Just deliver unexpected brilliance, then head home to tackle the dishes. Yet his celebration—reminiscent of Chiellini and Bonucci side by side—“Yes, Djed!” I cry out. The finest England tackle since Eric Dier’s on Sergio Ramos, and far more significant. Had events unfolded otherwise, that moment would lead the highlight reel. It would merit a statue.
By now, somebody else in the match may have pointed out England’s tendency to retreat. Was it Thomas Tuchel? The players? Or is it a uniquely English freeze? It’s likely you don’t require another deep tactical breakdown—I certainly don’t.
This is about those brief minutes when hope felt real. When I began to envision a World Cup final. The tournament’s pleasure doesn’t stem from the matches themselves, but from simply remaining involved. It’s the ability to observe other fixtures knowing your side is still contending. The actual contest is the torment you must suffer.
The withdrawal had begun even before the cooling break. Yet how many of us thought: “It’s too early to defend like this.” Down to 10 men at the Azteca, that strategy had logic. Even if England can hold on, can I endure the agony? Still, the clock ticks on, and with each squandered opportunity, each save, hope started to inch back.
In the 82nd minute, Nico O’Reilly intercepts a pass, harries the ball, and forces another block. We’ve ventured into their half—a strange territory. I yelled to my Football Weekly colleague John Brewin: “That shaved off eight seconds.” A minute later, Lionel Messi floats a cross harmlessly behind for a goal-kick. At that instant, I allowed myself to think: perhaps. Just perhaps.
I started to picture England in the final—selfishly, what a dream it would be to spend a few days in New York, with preview podcasts and radio segments practically scripting themselves. I could pen a piece on hope—the other kind of hope. What a gift.
Enzo Fernández revels in the semi-final victory. His equalizer extinguished nearly all of England’s hope. Photograph: Jean Catuffe/DPPI/Shutterstock
England goal-kick. Finding the net is difficult, even with Messi. John Stones bounces the ball on his foot. Pickford drives the goal-kick upfield, and O’Reilly knocks it on. Throw-in to Argentina deep in their own territory. “Eighty-four minutes on the clock,” Guy Mowbray notes. “I keep glancing at the time, and it’s crawling,” Alan Shearer adds.
84:24. Enzo Fernández fires from range. Pickford tips it over. The ball is sailing high. That’s fine. Just maintain the formation. 84:55. Enzo has far too much room outside the box. He shoots. He scores—and everyone understands it’s over.
Two minutes and fifty-five seconds. That was the full span in which I genuinely held hope. And it didn’t destroy me. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and profoundly affirming. I’ve previously pondered whether I’ll ever be prepared to witness England’s men win something—and perhaps I’ll never need to confront that feeling. Yet for now, hope alone is sufficient. Just a tiny fragment. If hope can fuel social progress, if it can assist in reshaping the world, then it can also help us envision Adam Wharton hoisting the European Championship trophy in 2028, even if only for a passing heartbeat.
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