It was nearly 9pm in the Puskas Arena. Gabriel sunk to his haunches. Red flares went up in unison in the PSG end opposite. Freed from Desire. Bedlam. The wrong kind of limbs. Arsenal fans around me collapsed against the metal railings, spent, vacant. Before leaving I made sure to gather myself, clap the players as they drifted over to thank the support. They didn’t know I was there of course, but I still applauded them in an official manner like I was a retiring Premier League veteran, taking in the adulation one last time. Knackered. If that was how I felt, I can only imagine what it must feel to have crested the wave of a 63-game season, and somehow find it within you to go again for six weeks on the biggest stage of all.
Football is increasingly a hysterical mix of romance and logistics
That was almost three weeks ago. Since then, football has been played. The Arsenal players have pieced themselves back together, boarded private jets to the States, muted social media, and alongside 1,248 colleagues, prepared themselves to be heartbroken all over again.
I don’t think there’s ever been a World Cup that has felt more exhausting. That’s before you enter nonsense cuckoo land of England coverage where every decision is wrong. We must debate the integrity of a German man being in charge of our national team. We must decide on Morgan Rogers or Jude Bellingham. Phil Foden (until recently) is the second coming of Christ, and every single player of colour in the team braces for impact for the inevitable tidal wave of racial abuse that will crash over them if they do something wrong.
