Poland’s manager, Michael Probierz, wore a shapeless tweed-ish suit with bulging waistcoat and, when the Dutch scored their winner, had about him the demeanour of a dispossessed country squire who has just seen Angela Rayner walking up the drive with her canvassing team. He had a right to be disappointed. The Poles have been written off by everybody, as they usually are, but perhaps deserved a point from a Dutch side which combined the familiar flair going forward with the familiar frailties in defence. Poland took the lead, conceded, but for much of the second half ran the Dutch ragged, until Wout Weghorst found space inside the Free Polish Corridor to poke home the winner eight minutes or so from time. ‘Wout Weghorst’ is a popular Dutch sausage made from ground up fence posts, btw.
The first five games of this tournament have given us nineteen goals, although that largesse is primarily down to the fact that the jocks were taking part for the first time in a while. They are following their usual trail of tears: humiliation, consolidation, gutsy final defeat, plane home. Italy scraped through against Albania, Spain thrashed the serially overrated Croatians (whose best player is almost as old as me) and the Magyars – last Magnificent when Imre Nagy was prime minister – lost to Europe’s most continually over-achieving side, Switzerland. How do the Swiss do it? Largely by assuming that all people from the Balkans are kind of de facto Swiss.
England later, then. If I don’t file tonight it’s because I’ve been out with my hammer, looking for Serbs.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in