Instead, she waited for her chance, taking the lead through Beth Mead, the tournament’s top scorer, just half an hour later. For another team, this might be the way to sit down, to arch her shoulders and grit her teeth. But this is not Wegman’s way, and therefore it is not England’s way either.
In the first half, the stadium announcer declared that “as it is, England will reach the final”. I felt a little arrogant, the kind of statement that might be seen as a source of regret, though not for long. Within four minutes of starting the second half, Lucy Bronze doubled her lead, her header slowly drifting past Lindall’s touchdown.
This goal, in hindsight, was sufficient, but at the time it was not enough to be sure. Only with Rousseau’s improvisational and innate brilliance can the audience – and the players – relax. A few minutes later, Fran Kirby, England’s creative heartthrob, managed to score. She, too, was in one of the biggest games of her career. She also knew that this was dangerous.
But she nonetheless opted for the indulgent option, raising a delicate arched slide beyond Lindahl’s fist, and deflecting her gloves into the net behind her. This was the thing a player would try when, despite the situation they find themselves in, they are having fun.
“Student. Incurable problem solver. Amateur baconaholic. Introvert. Infuriatingly humble music fanatic.”