I should probably start this post by admitting that one player, amongst many heroes last night, stood out as a towering example of why Thomas Tuchel is an elite football manager and I am a Chaise Lounge enthusiast.

Anthony Gordon.

Thunder, Rain and Mexican Fire

As rain delayed the start of the match, nothing could dampen the crackling atmosphere inside Mexico’s fortress. This was never going to be a polite little kickabout. It had the feel of one of those nights where the football gods had rolled up their sleeves, opened a bottle of Stella, and decided to start causing a bit of bother.

On paper, at a neutral venue, England would have been heavy favourites. But this was Mexico, in their own backyard, at altitude, with a crowd that sounded like it had been plugged into the national grid. It was a leveller. It promised drama. It absolutely delivered.

All the talk before kick-off was about England taking the sting out of Mexico early on. Get to the hydration break. Calm the crowd. Repel the high-tempo start. Keep the ball when possible. Be mature. Be sensible. Don’t start behaving like a man without instructions trying to assemble flat-pack furniture in a heatwave.

England, to their immense credit, delivered.

Pickford, Rice, Saka, Bellingham. Beautiful.

It did take a fine save from Pickford after 15 minutes to keep out Jimenez, who would go on to be a constant menace, but England looked composed. The game settled. Neither side were creating much, but you could feel something building. That wonderful, horrible feeling that football gives you when you know a big moment is coming, but nobody has the faintest idea which way it will go.

Then, on 36 minutes, it arrived.

Pickford raced from his line to grab the ball before Jimenez could get a touch. He threw it out to Rice just outside the box and, with space opening up ahead of him, Rice set off on a lung-busting, altitude-defying charge that made everyone watching from a pub or their sofa feel more than a bit inadequate.

Rice released Saka on the right. Saka took on the full-back, dinked over a beautiful cross, Kane dragged defenders away, and Bellingham arrived to finish superbly with an expertly controlled diving header.

Off the Chaise Lounge, across the room and back, fist pumping, high-fiving Aden, then apologising to the dog for rudely wakening him from dreams of chasing pheasants.

And what hat a goal it was. Pickford to Rice to Saka to Bellingham. A devastating team move from start to finish. A silenced stadium apart from a small section of jubilant England fans. Absolute perfection.

Then, almost straight from kick-off, Anderson robbed a Mexican defender and sent Gordon on his way. Gordon shrugged off a foul rather than going down and found Bellingham. Bellingham released Kane to his right. Kane shaped to shoot, then slid the ball back across goal instead.

Bellingham.

TWO-NIL.

Dreamland.

For about 90 seconds, the game briefly had the feel of Germany dismantling Brazil in 2014.

Briefly.

Because this is England, and joy is not allowed to sit down for long before someone barges through the door carrying a bucketload of gut wrenching dread.

Mexico Bite Back

On 42 minutes, Mexico won a free kick after what looked a very soft decision against Saka. The ball came in from just outside the left-hand side of the penalty area, there was a scramble, and Quinones lashed a half-volley into the roof of the net.

From cruise control to mild cardiac event in less than four minutes.

Suddenly Mexico were everywhere. Jimenez flashed wide when he should have scored. Then a beautiful cross was met firmly by him, only for Pickford to tip it over brilliantly. From the resulting corner, a flick-on landed at the feet of Montes. He controlled it. He scored.

Except he didn’t.

Somehow, Bellingham, now apparently operating as a midfielder, forward, defender and Marvel character, cleared it when 2-2 looked inevitable.

It was a breathless end to a half England had largely controlled, only to find themselves clinging on as Mexico roared back with a thunderous, partisan crowd behind them. It was drama at its most ridiculous and wonderful. No script. No certainty. Not one person in the world knowing how it would all end.

Half-time was a relief to anyone watching, whether in the stadium, the pub, or on the increasingly distressed Chaise Lounge. Everyone needed a break nearly as much as the 22 players battling it out in high octane conditions.

VAR Enters the Room

At the start of the second half, England seemed to have regained control. On 49 minutes, a Quansah throw bounced into the box and a weak headed clearance fell to O’Reilly. He miscued his shot, but it deflected onto the foot of the post.

A big chance squandered. But England looked good. More composed, seeking a third against a vulnerable looking Mexico defence.

Then, on 52 minutes, everything changed.

Quansah went flying into a crunching tackle on the Mexican winger. At first glance, it looked like a beautifully executed interception. One of those where you shout “great tackle” with total confidence and then slowly realise VAR has entered the room like a tax inspector.

There was a fracas between the benches. Tempers flared. VAR got involved. The replays came. Each angle looked worse than the last.

Quansah had to go.

It wasn’t Beckham petulance. It wasn’t Rooney frustration. It was a full-blooded tackle that, in another era, probably wouldn’t have even been a free kick. Without VAR, the game carries on. With VAR, it was red.

I felt sick.

The Museum Tour of English Trauma

Anyone of my age knows how these situations normally unfold. England. Knockout football. Ten men. Glorious failure gently removing its coat and asking where to sit.

Many of my vintage have lived through the full museum tour of heroic English exits. Argentina in 1986, when Maradona broke our hearts twice, once illegally and once brilliantly. West Germany in 1990, when Gazza cried and the nation joined in. Unified Germany in 1996, because apparently one catastrophe wasn’t sufficient enough. Argentina again in 1998, with Beckham sent off and Michael Owen briefly making us believe in miracles. Then Portugal in 2004 and 2006, just to make sure the penalty shootout trauma was properly laminated and filed away for future generations.

So when Quansah walked, the old dread came rushing back. This was familiar territory. This was where England usually start marching bravely towards the trapdoor, accompanied by a soundtrack of commentators saying “you have to feel for them” while the rest of us stare at the carpet in silence.

Stones came on for Saka. Konsa moved to right-back. Backs to the wall.

Kane from the Spot, Nerves from Hell

Then, out of nowhere, a long clearance from Pickford was helped on by a defender and Kane coming together. Gordon pounced, raced clear, rounded the keeper and was taken down.

Penalty.

PENALTY.

At this stage, I could barely cope. My nerves were shredded. Thankfully, Kane’s were not.

With a cauldron of boos echoing around the stadium, Kane stepped up and slotted it home.

That, right there, is why elite footballers have the riches and the rest of us, engulfed in panic, would have somehow kicked the penalty somewhere towards the corner flag.

England were back in control. We could all take a chill pill.

Except, of course, they weren’t. Not really.

Mexico City Erupts Again

Mexico, roared on by a superbly partisan crowd, refused to go away. A goalmouth melee followed. Stones headed away from goal. Kane hooked clear. The Mexicans screamed for a penalty.

Surely desperation?

Nope.

Kane had kicked the foot of the Mexican forward rather than the ball. Again, one of those that never gets given without VAR. Again, once seen in slow motion, the suspicion gradually and painfully became reality. I wanted to cry. I was nearly gone.

The penalty wasn’t stupidity. It was just rotten luck.

I now felt sick again. Sicker than before.

Jimenez dispatched it coolly. The Azteca and the whole of Mexico City erupted. England were down to ten men, under siege, with half an hour still to survive.

Medieval Battle with Shin Pads

This was where the night changed from a football match into something closer to a medieval battle with shin pads.

Mexico pushed and pushed. Crosses came in from everywhere. Spence and Burn came on as reinforcements, giving England a more robust look, which is a polite way of saying we were now building a human wall and hoping nobody noticed the cracks.

Spence cleared when Mexico looked certain to score. Big Dan Burn, like some glorious throwback to Terry Butcher and Tony Adams, got his head, chest, backside and anything else in front of everything. Stones brought class, calm and composure, looking like Cillian Murphy had been cast to play him in an emotionally intense war film. Pickford caught well, punched well, shouted well, and generally kept England alive.

It was breathtaking. It was exhausting. It was remarkable stuff.

And it had heartbreak written all over it when 11 minutes of added time was announced.

Eleven fucking minutes!

At that point, I started making caveman noises normally associated with a man watching his shed blow away in a storm.

Eleven Minutes of Beautiful Agony

Still Mexico came. But England’s bravery was beginning to turn Mexican pressure into Mexican desperation. Bodies flew everywhere. Blocks came in. Headers were won. Clearances were hacked away with all the elegance of a man trying to escape a wasp in a phone box.

Then came one final Mexican surge. Bodies everywhere. The ball flashed across goal and Stones, as cold as Christmas in Norway, expertly poked it inches past the post when an own goal looked the easier option and perhaps, the one Harry Maguire might have taken. I like Maguire, but in a crisis, give me Stones every time.

From the corner, Pickford punched again.

And I collapsed to the floor as if I had played the full 106 minutes myself.

It was chaotic. It was magical. It was heroic. It was a battle unlike anything I can remember seeing from England. For once, in one of those titanic footballing dramas that usually ends with us staring blankly at a penalty shootout and questioning every questionable football-related decision since Italia 90, England came out on the right side.

Extraordinary.

Made even more emotional by the time of night, with daylight starting to creep through the window while the romantic old fool on the Chaise Lounge tried to process what he had just witnessed. It was exhausting yet my adrenaline was such that sleep was not on the menu.

Tuchel’s Logic, Written in Sweat and Bruises

So, I sat and reflected on the questions we all asked before the tournament.

Why Dan Burn? Why Jed Spence? Why Anthony Gordon? Why John Stones, released by Manchester City and supposedly not fully fit?

Every one of them answered. Loudly. Clearly. Bravely. They have clearly been identified as willing bit parts ready to play whatever role they asked. It’s now obvious that is what sets them apart from the marquee players left in Blighty.

Tuchel’s selections suddenly make sense. The logic was there in the trenches, not on the teamsheet. Of course, Kane and Bellingham were immense. They are world-class players doing world-class things. But even they know these nights are not won by stars alone. They need the runners, the blockers, the grafters, the men who will take a whack, chase a lost cause, win a header, clear one off the line, or sprint themselves into oblivion.

Anthony Gordon epitomised all of that. Determined, skilful, brave and mature. A display many of us didn’t see coming, which is why Tuchel manages elite footballers and I manage my supply of cold beers.

The Chaise Lounge has never seen anything like it. Nor has the emotional old fool sitting on it.

Wonderful stuff, utterly wonderful. I’m getting tearful again but for once, it comes from joy and not the miseries of the past..