England face humiliation and the full weight of a nations crushed dreams if they lose against Uruguay tonight.  The country with the  strongest leagues and the longest footballing tradition can tomorrow be on flights home to a welcome of derision and contempt.  To return this early from Brasil would be sour indeed.

It is not the young men who wear the shirt who decide their level of pay, who determine the assignation of the millions of dollars that surround the game. They are simple athletes, most of whom would still be desperate to play the game without the mad money go round that now surrounds it.  Every boy child kicking a football in the streets and parks and playgrounds of England strikes the ball dreaming that this time the ball crossing some imaginary line will be the goal that wins the World Cup for England.

Now these boys are men and those dreams are being played out for real in some foreign field, some throbbing South American city has built a stadium for the greatest competition in the sporting world. Now Gerrard and Rooney and Cahill and Sturridge – all of them – have to see if they can overcome the hard and hardened professional footballers from two times World Cup winners Uruguay.

It is summer in England and the sun shines on the green fields and trees. Our city parks and gardens bloom and football is played on asphalt, on concrete, on grass. It is played in cities , in towns and villages – by everyone and all the  time.  You need nothing but a ball and some friends and some time. It is the same around the world.

England stand on the edge of defeat. They also stand just six games away from greatness. Six games from the greatest sporting glory of a generation. Time ticks on. This is England. They are our young men.  They cannot hide from the challenge.  We are on the edge now. The edge of greatness.

COME ON ENGLAND.