The World Cup in 1998 was the first time I found myself caught up in the wave of nationalistic pride and optimism that accompanies the announcement of every fresh England squad. I can recall hazy vignettes of the month-long football extravaganza – eleven bleach blonde Romanians, Michael Owen’s mazy run and chipped finish against Argentina in the last-16, David Beckham’s petulant kick later that evening, and France’s steamrollering of Brazil in the final. Where Euro ’96 in my backyard came slightly too early to appreciate, France ‘98 is the first tournament I was really cognoscente of. Two years after the disappointment of Saint-Etienne in 1998, the nine-year-old version of myself fell in love once again with tournament football during the summer heat of 2000.
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