Watching England at the World Cup felt like coming home again

You cannot choose your family. You cannot choose your fellow fans. That’s what I tell myself as my train carriage makes it to the final German bomber. I’m on the way to the MetLife Stadium in New Jersey for England vs Panama and the chants have already taken a turn.

I hate the song – of course I hate it – but here is the truth. When people ask, I will say that I am a fan of Burnley. It’s where I was born, went to my first game, and watched the team’s apian mascot, Bertie Bee, wipe out a pitch invader. If I am pushed, I’ll add that I used to have an even stronger affiliation with Newcastle United. I loved Nobby Solano and received a kit from a neighbour at a formative age. But if I trust you not to judge me, I will admit that I am, first and foremost, an England fan.

It began with a deception and my earliest memory of football. On 1 September 2001, England beat Germany 5-1 in Munich. It was a stunning victory and I believed it was the start of something. It turned out to be the summit. I should have put more stock in 21 June 2002, when Ronaldinho lobbed David Seaman to knock us out of the World Cup. I chalked off what I had watched as an aberration on the path to glory. But it was not.

Why England? I think it is about place. I was born in Lancashire and brought up in Yorkshire. I lived on a council estate and went to boarding school. I have often felt in between, straining against neat markers of identity, undeserving of a football club to call my own, and certain of nothing except my Englishness. So here I am at age 32. Still in search of myself. Doubtful that I will find any part of it today.

Surrounded by highways, and beyond that by swampland, the MetLife stadium occupies a liminal space and reflects its location. It looks like an air conditioning unit, or from above, a lidless bento box. Past security we are in the land of Giannipalooza, a Fifa fan zone of beer tents and overpriced merchandise. I buy a $15 World Cup pin as the grey sheet sky apes the asphalt. Inside an announcer with a rictus smile tries to gee up an empty stadium. We were worried about crowds so came two hours early.

England’s game against Ghana had reminded me of an Escher lithograph. Kane and the gang were figures on an impossible staircase: attacking, defending, ascending, descending, and getting nowhere at all. The Panama game is no different. It’s 0-0 at half time, the rain has made good on its threats, and as interlopers into a fancy suite, my friend and I are offered chateaubriand steak and an oyster in view of the pitch. Turf Moor this ain’t.

But then Jude Bellingham arrives with a goal and that celebration. When he rescues a match like this, as he comes to do so often with England, it is as if he is stretching out his arms to embrace us. To let us know that it will be alright after all. And it is. 2-0. Top of the group. The figures on the staircase in ascendance.

We will probably not win the entire thing. I am under no illusions. I am not sure if I mind either. When we won the Euro 2020 semi-final, I celebrated the victory like everyone else. But before the final it was strange. I was afraid to win, fearing what would happen if a core part of my identity was reconfigured. I still am.

After the match, we stick around to soak up the celebrations. Eventually the squad returns to the dressing room. Only Jude is left. When he is done with his interview, he heads towards the tunnel on the other side of the pitch. The crowd sings his song and he applauds them in turn. A solitary figure in grey, running across a vast field, on a journey likely to end in failure. My friend remarks that it must be amazing to be him right now. I feel like crying. The dot gets smaller and smaller and then it disappears. And finally, finally, I’ve come home again.

Photograph by Yuki Iwamura/AP