In the end, the World Cup has failed to draw me in. I watched England’s matches against Senegal and France, and other odd bits here and there, but it’s broadly passed me by. I might have felt differently had England made it to the final; and I imagine I’m not alone in that.
For my seven-year-old son, football-mad as he is, the tournament has been more of a success. His lip wobbled when Harry Kane missed penalty number two against Hugo Lloris, and again at full time, but he remains invested in the magic of the competition and is now rooting for a French win.
I’m pleased for him, of course, even though his passion for the game has resulted in several furious rows about whether he can watch or listen to matches that start at 7pm. He has somehow managed, generally, to get his way. The final flashpoint may be if the final goes to extra time at just the moment we need to leave the house for a trip to the panto.
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