For those who insist the third place playoff is a pointless exercise, the fixture often produces a peculiar brand of chaos that the final itself can r...
For those who insist the third place playoff is a pointless exercise, the fixture often produces a peculiar brand of chaos that the final itself can rarely match. Friday night in Lusail was case closed on that debate. England and France, both digesting the bitter pill of semi final heartbreak, served up a spectacle that was less a football match and more a glorious, unhinged carnival. The final score, 6 4, barely does justice to the sheer velocity of the nonsense we witnessed.Gareth Southgate's side began the evening looking like a team liberated. With the tactical shackles removed and the pressure valve fully released, they tore into a France side that started with the defensive concentration of a team still on the beach. The first half was a masterclass in transitional play and clinical finishing. England were four goals to the good by the interval, and it felt like the game was already put to bed. But football, as we are often reminded, has a cruel sense of humour. Didra Deschamps' men, stung by the embarrassment, mounted a comeback that had the stadium in a frenzy. Within twenty minutes of the second half, the deficit was down to a single goal. 4 3. Squeaky bum time had officially arrived.When the dust settled on France's furious response, Bukayo Saka stepped up to rescue the narrative. His hat trick goal, a coolly dispatched penalty, restored a semblance of control. But it was the substitute, Jude Bellingham, who provided the moment of pure, unadulterated genius that will define this match for years to come. A darting run from midfield, a shimmy that left the defender in a different postcode, and a finish curled into the far corner that was as audacious as it was definitive. It was a snapshot of a young man who refuses to be defined by his age, a player who simply decides matches on his own terms.This was not a game for the tactical purist. The low block was abandoned in favour of complete, total risk. France's high line was breached at will, and England's backline, normally so resolute, was carved open by moments of individual brilliance from the French attackers. The game was a living, breathing example of what happens when two elite teams decide to just play. No fear, no calculation, just football in its rawest, most intoxicating form. England will take the bronze medal, but for the neutral, this was pure gold.
