In her insightful bookHope in the Dark, Rebecca Solnit explores the concept of hope amidst human suffering. She references Bulgarian author Maria Popova, who states, “Critical thinking without hope is cynicism, but hope without critical thinking is naivety.” This notion compellingly argues for hope’s role as a driver of social change.
Graham Burrell encapsulated the frustration of sports fans when he remarked, “It is the hope that kills you” following Lincoln City’s defeat to Wigan in 2024. He reflected, “I feel perhaps our playoff push was finally killed off yesterday.”
Determining the significance of that loss at Sincil Bank within the broader spectrum of human suffering is challenging, just as it is to assess England’s defeat against Argentina on Wednesday.
Similarly elusive is the origin of the phrase, “It is the hope that kills you.” From Shakespeare to Peter Ustinov, many have echoed this sentiment. Ted Lasso, for instance, countered it by stating, “So, I’ve been hearing this phrase y’all got over here that I ain’t too crazy about. ‘It’s the hope that kills you’. Y’all know that? I disagree, you know? I think it’s the lack of hope that comes and gets you. See, I believe in hope. I believe in belief.”
Jackson Lamb fromSlow Horsesadds, “It’s not the hope that kills you. It’s knowing it’s the hope that kills you – that kills you.”
One wonders if England might have performed better in the final 30 minutes with Lasso or Lamb in charge. Their strategies would undoubtedly differ; Lasso would likely avoid a defensive back six, while Lamb would deride the players for poor performance. The spectrum of motivation—whether a supportive arm or a harsh kick—runs the gamut.
Ultimately, any England supporter understands that hope, as an emotion, can be profoundly debilitating. It lacks immediacy and often exists in the shadows of fear. During the game, emotions fluctuate, from the buildup to the absurd 10-second countdown, and finally as the ball rolls back to Jordan Pickford. My heart raced, beating at an accelerated pace.
As the match unfolded, the anxiety morphed into a heightened state, peppered with frustration as Giuliano Simeone aggressively pursued the ball, leaving fans questioning the referee’s decisions. Did he deserve a yellow card? Was there a conspiracy at play? His attempts to tackle Marc Guéhi were futile, and his subsequent headbutt was equally ineffective. At this point, even well-timed Argentine tackles felt malicious, while English fouls seemed justified. Another round of selective vision, please.
By halftime, the first waves of pessimism began to emerge. The longer the match continued, the more likely Argentina appeared to secure victory. They possess the experience to close out games effectively. I found myself resorting to phrases like “Well, at least they need two now” and calling them “It’s too soon to defend this.”
Then came the goal—a perfectly executed cross followed by an exceptional finish. It ignited a surge of joy, relief, and a flicker of hope in the air. It was the first genuine moment of optimism, accompanied by the thought, “That’s saved eight seconds.” After all, we have witnessed enough of England’s journeys to remain cautious.
The only other moment of elation was Djed Spence’s tackle. He appeared so unfazed, as if he were simply showcasing his skills before heading home to do the dishes. That celebration was reminiscent of Giorgio Chiellini and Leonardo Bonucci together. “Eighty-four minutes on the clock now,” I cheered. It was the most significant England tackle since Eric Dier’s against Sergio Ramos—perhaps even more crucial. Had things turned out differently, that would become a highlight reel moment, a statue-worthy play.
It’s possible that someone else in the game has already pointed out England’s tendency to drop deep. Was it Thomas Tuchel? The players themselves? Is it merely an English tendency to freeze? Chances are, another tactical breakdown is unnecessary—I certainly don’t need one.
This narrative centers on those fleeting minutes when hope felt real. I began to envision England in a World Cup final. The thrill of the tournament is not solely in the matches; it’s about still being part of the competition. It’s the joy of watching other games while knowing you still have a stake in the outcome. The match itself is merely a trial to endure.
Even before the hydration break, the defensive retreat began. Yet, how many of us thought, “I keep looking at that clock and thinking it’s going ever so slow,”? With a ten-man squad at the Azteca, it made sense. Even if England managed to hold on, could I withstand the stress? But time marches on, and with each missed opportunity and every save, hope began to creep back in.
In the 82nd minute, Nico O’Reilly blocked a pass and chased it down for another vital interception. We found ourselves in their half—uncharted territory. I exclaimed to my colleague John Brewin from Football Weekly, “That’s saved eight seconds.” Moments later, Lionel Messi lofted a harmless cross out for a goal-kick. That was the moment when I thought, maybe, just maybe.
I started to fantasize about England competing in a World Cup final—selfishly imagining a few dream days in New York, with preview podcasts and TalkSport shows practically writing themselves. I could write a column about hope—on the other kind of hope. What a privilege that would be.
England earned a goal-kick. Scoring is inherently difficult, even with Messi on the pitch. John Stones was performing keepy-ups, and Pickford sent the goal-kick upfield, where O’Reilly made contact. It resulted in a throw-in for Argentina deep in their half. “Eighty-four minutes on the clock now,” Guy Mowbray announced, while Alan Shearer remarked, “I keep looking at that clock and thinking it’s going ever so slow.”
At 84’24, Enzo Fernández took a shot from distance, and Pickford managed to tip it over the bar. It was going over, but I told myself to stay composed. At 84’55, Enzo found himself with too much time on the edge of the box. He unleashed a shot that hit the back of the net, sealing England’s fate.
Two minutes and 55 seconds—this was the duration in which I genuinely felt hope. It didn’t kill me; rather, it was exhilarating, terrifying, and life-affirming. I have previously pondered whether I could ever be ready to witness England’s men triumph, and perhaps I will never have to confront that feeling. For now, though, just a sliver of hope is sufficient for me. If hope can serve as a catalyst for social change, it can also inspire visions of Adam Wharton lifting the European Championship trophy in 2028, even if just for a fleeting moment.
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