By Dr Rahim Said
Some dreams age like fine wine. Others age like the milk forgotten behind the refrigerator.
England’s dream of lifting the FIFA World Cup again seems to belong firmly in the second category.
The latest chapter of this long-running national exercise in optimism ended in Atlanta, where England fell 2-1 to Argentina. And with that, another four years of hopeful chants, patriotic songs and endless newspaper headlines about “football coming home” quietly packed their bags and headed for the airport.
I watched the match live at three in the morning, which, for someone my age, is either a sign of remarkable devotion or poor judgment. Probably both.
When England took the lead after halftime, I confess my heart skipped a beat. Could this finally be it? Could 60 years of waiting finally end?
My optimism was not entirely for England. It was for an old English literature teacher who taught me at Sultan Abdul Hamid College in 1966.
That year, England conquered the world at Wembley, defeating West Germany 4-2 after extra time. Our teacher walked around the classroom with the quiet confidence of a man whose country had just invented football, perfected football, and, according to him, would probably continue owning football forever.
Being young and equipped with more courage than diplomacy, I made what I thought was a clever observation.
“Sir,” I said, “England is no longer great.”
I cannot remember whether the class laughed. I do remember the look on his face. It was not anger.
It was the expression of a gentleman wondering whether colonial education had failed rather spectacularly.
To his credit, he never held it against me. He continued teaching Shakespeare, Dickens and Wordsworth with the same patience and elegance. Looking back, he was one of those rare teachers who taught far more than literature. He taught grace.
So, 60 years later, I secretly hoped England would finally win another World Cup—not because I had suddenly become an England supporter, but because somewhere in the football heavens my old teacher deserved the satisfaction of saying, “You see? I told you so.”
Then Argentina made their substitutions.
The moment Martinez came on, I sensed trouble. Fresh legs have a nasty habit of ruining nostalgic evenings.
Sure enough, his perfectly timed header, set up by the evergreen Lionel Messi, shattered England’s hopes and, incidentally, my sentimental plan to apologise mentally to my old teacher after six decades.
Football, like life, has impeccable comic timing.
England has now spent 60 years pursuing the ghost of 1966. Entire generations of supporters have been born knowing only documentaries, faded black-and-white photographs and endless reruns of Geoff Hurst’s famous hat-trick.
Every tournament begins with glorious confidence. Every tournament ends with therapists becoming slightly busier.
Still, there is something admirable about English optimism. Every four years they dust off the old slogan, sing louder than before and convince themselves that this time history will behave differently. Hope, after all, is England’s strongest export these days.
As for me, the defeat transported me straight back to that classroom in Alor Setar, to a young student with an oversized opinion and an English teacher with extraordinary patience.
Time has a curious way of making us appreciate those we once teased. Perhaps England’s greatest legacy was never winning the World Cup in 1966.
Perhaps it was producing teachers who quietly shaped boys from distant corners of the Commonwealth, long after football trophies had gathered dust.
Will England finally win again? Perhaps in 2030.
By then, I shall be 84, assuming my cardiologist approves another three o’clock World Cup kick-off. Who knows? Maybe football really will come home.
And if it does, somewhere I imagine my old English literature teacher smiling gently, while I finally enjoy the largest serving of humble pie ever baked.
WE