I knocked on Graham Taylor’s door and cleared my throat. England had just drawn 1-1 with Brazil in a friendly match at Wembley and I hadn’t played. It was the night before the manager named his squad for the 1992 European Championship and I was desperate to be in it, so desperate that I was fizzy and fidgeting. I couldn’t wait a few more hours. And so there I was, inside his hotel room, asking the question. I was 21. I had only been around the team for three months.
All these years later, I can only think, “Where the f*** did that boldness come from? How could I have been that kid?”
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a p**** about it. I might have been precocious but I was also respectful. My question was very polite. Graham’s response was slightly less so and undoubtedly what I deserved. “Why the f*** should I tell you now when I’m telling everyone else tomorrow?” he said, which was fair enough and a question I didn’t have an answer for. I came away none the wiser.
I fidgeted some more, but morning finally dawned and I found out I was in. I was going to Sweden and my desperation leaked away (briefly; unlike football, England were soon coming home). Something lifted from me. I’m sad I never got to talk to Graham about my cheeky question, but I’ve always wondered whether the balls I showed that night might have played a tiny part in his decision. I’ll never know, but I half suspect so.
When people ask what England means to me, I refer back to this story, small though it might be. It’s the best way I can articulate the craving, the hunger, the pride, the desperation of it. And, let me tell you, those emotions have not changed one iota decades later, from three lions on the shirt to deep lines on the forehead. I feel everything. I feel all of it.
As a player, I thought of myself as a winner in the sense that I’d do anything to win, whatever it took. We won the Premier League with Blackburn Rovers, but for the teams I played for and also supported whether England or Newcastle United, I never got to win on the greatest stages. There were near misses and never-wases and plenty in between, but I’m 53 now and I want to experience that adrenaline shot of winning. That release. That sense of history resetting.
It’s like 1992 all over again and I can’t wait these few more hours. I’m desperate, man.
My first memory of watching England is probably similar to yours; sitting around a screen with my family, although I bet my television was smaller and grainier than yours. It may even have been black and white, although it could be age playing tricks with me. On that front, just wait until I tell you about my first call-up… but I also remember an itch in the belly. Maybe it was an ache. Maybe it was a yearning.
There was something different and glamorous about tournaments. The football was played at a different pace, the air was hotter, the commentary was crackly and there was that sense of otherness. It was special, a big party, a drumbeat for the summer. As a boy, I dreamt of being involved, but a dream is all it was. It didn’t feel real or achievable. I was a child of Gosforth and that kind of thing didn’t lie in my future.
The 1982 World Cup was really where it started for me, but details are lost to time. What sticks with me beyond that — before, during and after my own participation — is how we associate these tournaments with iconic images. Diego Maradona leaping, his hand stretching towards the ball. Bryan Robson clutching his dislocated shoulder. Paul Gascoigne’s tears. The anguish of Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle. Gazza’s goal against Scotland, the dentist’s chair celebration.
It is 1996 and Gareth Southgate – poor Gareth – is lost in his own head, locked in his own torment, even as we walk over to commiserate with him, to share a weight we can never quite lift from his shoulders.
Southgate knows only too well how much it can hurt but has been transformative as manager (PA Images via Getty Images)
I could go on. David Beckham’s red card in 1998. David Batty standing at the start of his run-up. Cristiano Ronaldo’s wink. Iceland’s Thunderclap. All the way to 2018 and Colombia and penalties and Gareth’s redemption song and then to 2021 and that old pain again. Perhaps this time it will be Jude Bellingham’s overhead kick or Ollie Watkins and his wonderful finish. Perhaps this time another lies ahead.
My point is that these images live with us, moments in time cemented in our national consciousness. They’re like a communal photo album, how we mark the ticking of the years.
Those snapshots are part of us. And so is this burden, something every England player will have carried at some stage. Playing for your country is the absolute pinnacle, but the further our single World Cup victory in 1966 recedes into the past, the more you become aware of that burden. It’s the same at Newcastle, with no domestic trophy since 1955. You become defined by it. The finish line stretches off into the distance.
One of Gareth’s greatest strengths as England’s manager has been recalibrating our expectations. He came into the job at the lowest of ebbs, but his humility and good sense have helped reduce any sense of entitlement. We’re good tourists now. We’re not aloof or arrogant, which was how we were perceived for a very long time. We’re decent and we know it, but we want to be in the thick of tournaments. We want to be part of them.
In our first few games in Germany, the old fear was back. The England shirt looked so heavy. The irony of Gareth’s success, of getting to finals and semi-finals, has been to make expectation come flooding back and the team played safety-first, more scared of making mistakes than relishing what might be possible. History nipped at their confidence because we all know how our story tends to finish. You watched them and thought, “Oh no, not again, not this.”
The burden was heavy.
What does Englishness mean? In football, I mean. I don’t know. Back in the 1980s, when I was growing up, maybe it was roll your sleeves up and be ready for a battle and fight anyone. When I look at our team now, it’s so different and so gifted, but the connection is pride. And in their best moments, what England give us is that precious element of coming together, when Geordie, Manc, Scouser and Cockney are indivisible. So often, it’s sport that does this.
Kane and England have looked burdened but also resilient and proud (Kaz Photography/Getty Images)
There were signs against the Netherlands and they were positive. We are all shaped by our history, but England have the power to mould history, too. This has been Gareth’s way, Gareth’s message, guiding a young team and encouraging them to make their own memories, to represent their own version of what English means, making it belong to all of us.
And in this tournament, they’ve rolled their sleeves up as well. They’ve battled and fought, the old and the new. They’ve had to. In taking us from rock bottom, Gareth has put a lot of things right but then they’ve discovered something else, an incredible desire to scrap to the very end and scrap for each other. How extraordinary it is after all that bloody hurt, for us to now consider penalty shootouts an English strength (at least until the next time).
It is time to put that burden down. To climb upon it and rise.
How do I explain Teletext to people who can pull out a phone and instantly have a galaxy of information at their fingertips? There was no internet in 1992 and there were no mobile phones, but our televisions had an information service built in — which felt like the peak of technological endeavour — and you could key in page numbers and scan news headlines. That was how I found out I’d been named in an England squad. What an ancient b****** I truly am.
I’d scored a hat-trick for Southampton in England’s top division in 1988 at 17, but it was a few years before I could replicate that early impact. By 1991-92, the last season before the inception of the Premier League, I was starting to score regularly. I was growing up, no longer the young boy I’d been, but maturing and filling out. I was feeling more at home in the big league.
I had done pretty well for England Under-21s, scoring 13 goals in my 11 appearances and helping us to win the Toulon Tournament in 1991 and I knew people in the senior set-up were watching me. Then came Teletext and my call-up and I remember ringing home to speak to my mam and dad. Their pride reverberated down the line. It was one of those moments; this was what their sacrifices were for. This is why I left home at 15. This was the ultimate.
I wasn’t happy just to be in the squad. I wanted to play and I did, scoring against France. There are staging posts in life that change you and becoming an England international was one of them. I looked in the mirror the next day and felt… different. There was a new confidence, a new tag; I was no longer Alan Shearer of Southampton, it was Alan Shearer of Southampton and England. Even if it was my only cap, that could never change.
Alan Shearer, of England (Paul Marriott/EMPICS via Getty Images)
I felt similar when Glenn Hoddle replaced Terry Venables as England manager in 1996 and told me I was a candidate to be named captain. He was concerned that the responsibility might be a burden — that word again — and affect my goalscoring, so he gave it to me for three matches as a trial and told me we’d then review it. I was thinking, “Wow, Jesus, talk about pressure. This is big. Ridiculously big.”
As it happened, I scored against Moldova in my first game as skipper, a 3-0 win, and afterwards Glenn pulled me aside and said, “Thank you, it’s yours.” I had the biggest job in football, certainly for an English player. I was part of a select group. I’d been lucky enough to win a title, to win the Golden Boot at Euro ’96, to be named Premier League Player of the Year, but to be England captain? For me, it didn’t get bigger or better than that. It was mammoth.
I lived for goals, but aside from that insatiable hunger to score, I’ve always considered my greatest quality as a footballer to be my mentality. I had tunnel vision. There were plenty of times when my confidence suffered or my form dipped, but I wasn’t a thinker or a worrier. I could compartmentalise those things. I didn’t allow myself to consider the millions of people I was representing because it would have driven me mad. I could always focus.
At the same time, walking out at Wembley with the armband on, first out of the tunnel, singing the national anthem… well, that feeling was phenomenal. It was the honour, the status. It’s a cliche to say that it made me feel 8ft tall, but it’s the best way I can describe it. I was a giant. And then on top of that, I got to score goals and the only thing I can say about the combination is that it was like delirious insanity. The rush of it was incredible. You touch perfection.
The calm before the rush as Shearer leads out England for the first time (Tony Marshall/EMPICS via Getty Images)
In terms of the perfect England performance, I’ve previously written about our 4-1 victory over the Netherlands in 1996. We shifted systems, we pressed, we were fluid. It was a game that summed up everything beautiful about football, which made it a very, very rare sort of game. It’s like when you middle a shot in golf and the ball pings off your club; you spend the rest of your life chasing that feeling. You chase and search and hunt for it, but it’s not there.
I don’t do regret. Not about football. It’s not the way I’m made and I don’t see the point. You make decisions and you live or die by them. It’s something I’m often asked about my decision to join Newcastle in 1996 and our subsequent inability to win a trophy. But how could I regret coming home, pulling on the No 9 shirt, my other boyhood obsession, and staying for a decade, ending up as my beloved club’s record goalscorer?
I would only feel regret if I hadn’t given everything and it’s the same with England. Would I change individual results? Yes, of course. Like many England teams, we came pretty close; not as close as Gareth’s side in terms of finals, but close enough to taste it. There’s no part of me that thinks, “S***, I wish I’d done this,” or, “I could have done that.” I know I gave every molecule of my being to the cause.
Ultimately, there is a cost to giving everything and my body paid it. Effectively, I missed out on three years of a short career through serious injury, which is another thing I would change but, again, there’s no regret. There’s nothing I could have done differently.
I retired from international football at 29, which is young for a player, but I truly felt I had no choice. It was an unbelievable wrench. Having described in some detail how being England captain made me feel, imagine how it felt to give it up. I hated it, but at the same time, I knew it was right. I couldn’t do two jobs. If I’d carried on, I would have probably been hounded out of the England team and at least I left on my own terms. It doesn’t keep me warm at night.
Celebrating scoring for England against Argentina in 1998 – another almost was (Ross Kinnaird /Allsport)
I got a call from a member of Sven-Goran Eriksson’s staff about coming back for the 2002 World Cup but the conversation was brief. I took it as a huge compliment but it also reinforced my original decision. I’d made the right choice. I knew my own body and there was no way I could have continued to play at a good level for both Newcastle and England, so it was 63 caps, 30 goals, over and out. In other circumstances, there might have been more, but like I said, no regrets.
I suppose I feel similar about the tournaments I played in. My England spell was bookended by two very disappointing European Championships, but it all depends on the circumstances. Losing on penalties to Germany in 1996 and then again to Argentina two years later, you go through pain, but then you rationalise it. We’d worked our nuts off. We couldn’t have done more. It hurts like hell but then there’s almost relief because you’ve been under such scrutiny.
It’s football, so you go on holiday and then you press the button and go again.
The deeper you go in a tournament, the more big moments and big plot lines loom in front of you. There’s no security of the group-stage games. You either stay in or go out and eventually, you either win or you lose. Gareth’s penalty, Beckham’s sending off, Gazza stretching for the ball and not quite connecting. This is what lies in store for one team, one person, in the final. Something to cherish, something to make your blood ache. Hero or zero. That’s top-level sport. You have to embrace it.
My theory, my hope, is that England have gone through all the things that winning teams go through. You need a bit of luck and we had it with the decision for Harry Kane’s penalty the other night. You need a bit of drama and, Jesus, we were heading home until Bellingham’s thunderbolt against Slovakia. We’ve had a shootout and navigated it, we’ve had a sluggish start and improved. You can see why people are saying maybe this is our time. I can also hear the past mocking us: “Oh, it’s you lot. Again?”
I’ll be in the stadium for the final and I’ll be fizzing and fidgeting. It might sound a bit morbid but I said to Will, my son, not too long ago, that I just want to be around when either the Newcastle or England teams I so proudly represented win a f***ing trophy. Surely one isn’t too much to ask? It’s the only thing missing. Football means so much to us and I want to see the reaction. I want to see what it does to us, I want to sample it and savour it and swim in it and lose myself in it.
I’m still desperate to find out.
(Top photos: Getty Images; design: Eamonn Dalton)
