THE 1966 World Cup Final was one of the formative experiences of my child hood. I can still remember bursting into tears when Weber slid in to equalise a minute or two before the end of ordinary time, and my father’s delight when Geoff Hurst nailed our 4-2 victory. Curiously enough, at every post-1970 tournament, a part of me has always wanted England to lose as an antidote to the tremendous sense of entitlement that always attends analysis of our national game.
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