Meet the new minute 55 England collapse, not the same as the old minute 55 England collapse | Barney Ronay
Things started to go wrong against Spain at the same time they did against Argentina, but for very different reasons and with far more cause for optimism
You could feel it inside the stadium, one of those moments where the air starts to shift, the birds fly backwards through the sky, and outside on Wembley Way an old man clutches his copy of the England Pathway Blueprint to his chest and cowers up at the moon. Welcome to the witching hour, 55 minutes in, when things just seem to happen to Thomas Tuchel’s England.
Before this Nations League opener there was general agreement on the desirability of systems, pattern, repeatability. And you can’t say England aren’t consistent. Their last two significant matches, here and in Atlanta in July, have both involved going a goal ahead against the World Cup finalists, playing well and dominating parts of the game, right up until the 55-minute mark.
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At which point a kind of voodoo descends. On both occasions the final 35 minutes have been lost 2-0. On both occasions there will, inevitably, be an attempt not just to blame the manager for decisions made in the game, but for some kind of wider vibes-based DNA-related betrayal. “Cowardice” is a word most often used, because football is of course war, bravery and pluck. But it is, as ever with England, technical and tactical. As it was once again here.
There were 55 minutes gone against Argentina in Atlanta when Anthony Gordon put England 1-0 up. At which point the team fell apart like an over-dunked digestive biscuit, reduced suddenly to a collection of hollow men, stuffed shirts, 12% possession merchants, the manager spooked into fielding a back five.
Here the game also changed on 55 minutes. England were 2-1 up from 1-0 down at that point. For a while at the start of the second half it looked like they might be turning this game into an ordeal for their opponents, playing in surges, winning physical duels, making Spain into a team that has to run.
Jarell Quansah smashed a shot into Marc Cucurella’s face, drawing huge cheers. The crowd had begun to sing the Tuchel song, to the tune of War’s Low Rider, the official notation for which is “Foot-ball’s coming home uh-gain – with Thom-as Tuch-el”. On 54 minutes a lengthy VAR check ended with a penalty awarded for a trip on Jude Bellingham that was combined also with a dive, but trip plus dive does not cancel trip. Was this an exorcism? Are we good now? Is everything going to be OK?
Well, no, as it turned out. Harry Kane had already scored England’s second goal. He waited a little longer than usual, slipped on his standing leg as he planted it and pumped the kick on to the bar. 54 ticked over into 55 minutes.
And at that point Spain just seemed to sense it, the pressure shifted and we were back in Georgia under the lights. Tuchel was up again on his touchline, arms wheeling, shiny blue gilet gleaming. The ball began to tick about between the red shirts. And suddenly Spain had regained that basking quality, easing about with that familiar sense of control, always with more angles, more space, a superior geometry, like trying to keep up with a team of 11-year-old chess prodigies.
