[Context: England lost in the final of Euro 2020[1] football tournament last night, on penalties.]
When you come extremely close to achieving something, the pain of pulling up inches short is intolerable. It was in reach. Only a few tiny facts need to change for the outcome to be wildly different. Those minor adjustments, the “what ifs”, playback on loop. For a while.
Life is in the small margins.
It’s quite different to hit the first hurdle and fall. It might be more embarrassing, but you hadn’t had the time to hope. As you get nearer, belief grows. The higher up the mountain, the further there is to fall.
You feel it’s a wasted possibility. The intense disappointment of “almost” is beaten only by the fear of “never again”. What if this was the one chance. Can we forgive ourselves this “failure”. How long does regret last.
Coming to terms with these questions takes plenty of time, or at least until you can make it right. You might have to accept that, yes, we thought we were going to do it, and it has been the focus for so long. We really wanted it. But on this occasion at least, it’s not for us.
I’m not sure I have any wisdom to offer that will make it all seem less like a tragedy. But if you can say that you gave your best, pulled at every inch of rope, and earned every bead of sweat, then there’s nothing more to know. Outcomes are easy to fixate upon because they’re universally acknowledged. But putting every chip down is the hard part. If that’s what you honestly did then you have celebrating to do, whatever.
The bitter taste of “almost”.
The scratching imagination of “what if”.
Let it kindle the fire of next time.
(Congratulations Italy. England, you made us proud.)