Land of Hope and Glory

Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope is Wayne Rooney.

Halfway through The Shawshank Redemption Morgan Freeman’s Red looks up at the newly imprisoned Andy Dufresne. Driven to cynicism by his seemingly endless incarceration he drawls, in his inimitable way, “Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane”. It is an enticing philosophy: better to live in the emotionless vacuum of hopelessness than dream and have those dreams destroyed by crushing reality. Normally, I would agree. Normally, I revel in boundless cynicism, building barriers of sarcasm and pessimism which mean any event can be met with a wry smile, a knowing shrug. Yet maybe we live in a World which needs a little more hope. Once we had politicians who promised us the stars, dared to dream that we could build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. Now they are preoccupied with the imaginary evils of immigration, haunted by visions of invading Romanians who never actually come, and seemingly we lap it up. After all, recent elections prove that about a third of us are racist – and according to UKIP the other two-thirds are Sharia espousing Islamic fundamentalists. Hope died in the elections last week. And now, the final straw, we are told we cannot even hope against hope for England to win the World Cup. The one misguided dream we all share every four years has been shattered by the incompetence of our players and a culture in which we fear the worst, rather than pray for the best. No more. The time has come to dispense with fear and seize the hilarious, naïve and misjudged hope which only football can bring. England can end the hurt. England can win the World Cup. Roar.

Hope does not mean delusion. I do not expect England to win the World Cup. Our weaknesses are evident, our tactical limitations almost beyond parody after decades of refusing to change. Where Spain can field Xabi Alonso and Italy Andrea Pirlo, our midfield general is Steven Gerrard; a man who revels in shouting, pointing and kicking the ball hard, but also has the tendency to rake it endlessly into Row Z and fall over at the most inopportune of times. In Wayne Rooney we have a match winner who is an overweight, balding mercenary who has never actually scored in a World Cup. We also have to play Glen Johnson. Our limited parts play in the most limited of systems. Joga Bonito, Tika Taka and Total Futbal ain’t for us English; instead our great tactical revelations have been to dispense with 4-4-2 20 years after everyone else, and to call up a man who has scored 34 consecutive penalties to give us the edge in the shootouts we will undoubtedly play for. In short, things don’t look great. Maybe dispensing with hope is, as the papers would have us believe, the best solution to this near-inevitable impending doom.

That, however, is to fundamentally misunderstand the beauty of football. In a drab and racist World football is the last forum where we can hope, and sometimes have our miracles answered. Yes the Germans normally win. Yes we lose on penalties to an almost absurd degree. But sometimes, just sometimes, dreams are answered. Sometimes Teddy Sheringham scores an improbable last minute equaliser. Sometimes Beckham curls in that free kick. Sometimes Atletico triumph against the greatest cartel Spanish football has ever known in a 66-1 shot that no sane man would have predicted. And just as those lows are made all the harder by our shattered dreams, the highs are made the more dizzying by the fulfilment of our hopes; our fervent belief through 90 minutes, through 48 years of hurt that things will, must, get better. Football is a game of hope, it is the theatre of dreams. Do not despair England fans, instead kiss your badge, pray to Bobby Moore and belt out Three Lions.

And why not? We are not easily beaten. Luis Suarez is hobbling. Should we get through the group our 2nd round is easy enough. Baines is bound to score a free kick at some point, that’s the quarters done. Lambert and Lampard can see us through on penalties in the semis. And Rooney, the great, lost White Pele who never was, is surely due that one moment of football glory we will never forget; his Zidane penalty, his Maradona dribble. Maybe Sturridge and Welbeck can combine gloriously to momentarily trouble the tiny minds of UKIP supporters; torn between latent racism and a desire to cheer, of all things, two black men. Why not? There is enough room to hope at least, and that is exactly what we should do. If you don’t drive yourself insane with hope in the last 5 minutes of an apparently doomed match you’re dead inside. If we can’t hope England win the World Cup, in short, what is the fucking point of anything anymore?

The Shawshank Redemption is one long ode to hope, a story set up precisely to prove Red wrong. Andy, of course, does escape; driven by his dreams to the most improbably and joyous of flights. In his final letter to his friend he decisively lays out the truth: “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies”. It is an overwrought, laughably clichéd and ultimately glorious finale – and what better analogy to a game that serves up such climaxes on an almost routine basis? “Andy Dufresne, who crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side”. Maybe England will crawl through 48 years’ worth and emerge with the Jules Rimet trophy. I hope so.