Where were you at 9pm, the 30th June 1998? I was six, allowed to stay up late for the first time and bouncing on the damask sofa in the first house I remember living in.
There are some things you don't know when you are six: that Argentina means "silver coast", that we had fought a war sixteen years earlier, or that there's a place in France called Saint-Etienne that you might one day visit. I'd just discovered who Diego Maradonna was, earlier in the day and I was outraged.
There are some things you shouldn't know when you are six: anger, confusion, the fallibility of adults. David Beckham was my hero and here he was, sent off for lightly brushing Diego Simeone's calf with his boot. David Batty's missed penalty in the shootout seems merely incidental. I had a tantrum.
Where were you on the morning of 21st June 2002? I was in the school hall, watching my heroes half the world away. Watching as if in slow motion, Ronaldinho's free kick flying off at a weird angle and the dawning realisation that it was looping over David Seaman's flailing glove. I felt then that if only I reached hard enough I could help him claw it out before it crossed the line. Never mind. Brazil are Brazil and they always win and I was proud of England in defeat: I wanted to console them. To let them know that we always lose and that was fine.
Where were you in 2004? Penalties against Portugal in the beautiful city of Lisbon, eyes glued to the television set, one hot summer's evening: the familiar quarter final outcome, even then, as a 12 year old amateur pessimist.
2006? Same team. Same opponents. Same result: Owen Hargreaves the pub quiz answer, the only Englishman to score his penalty. YouTube is glorious: a nostalgia trap, that lets me relive my youth in shaky camera angles, dodgy aspect ratios, old commentator's voices and Des Lynam before he left to present Countdown. I can spend hours on it, as an amateur pseud, filling in the gaps of my shaky childhood memory. I can map out my pessimism: how it grew and flourished, watered by the inevitable tragedy of English football. How they invented disappointment for me.
And it felt like tragedy. Growing up with an interest in football lumbers you with two teams. Your club and your country. I grew up with Manchester United in the zenith of their success. I grew up with the English football team as the unspoken assumption in the school playground. We all believed. This year. This was the year. It was a camouflage. Boys growing up are taught in the playground to assimilate. To not stand out, to bray with bullish confidence, not to have weird interests. We all liked football. It was just what you did. It was all that was safe to talk about, so it was all that we spoke about. Growing up, England were the antithesis of Manchester United: they were the shadow of failure that stalked everything. From my teenage years I sunk into pessimism, defeatism: a world view informed by the world around me that whatever happened, we would lose. Whether that was sport or socially or my exams.
Somewhere along the line I tried to stop caring. We didn't make it to Euro 2008; I'd discovered birds and books and the surprise first sip of warm bitter being pleasant, and that sport wasn't really for people like me anyway: chubby, awkward asthmatics who got bullied by those who were better at it than me because they could run. But 2010 was my A-levels. I spent that summer, hot as all past summer seem, with my text books open in front of the TV. England in South Africa, thrashing about: 11 men with the coordination of a dying animal, being mercifully put down by a German team who could've won it. I couldn’t pretend any more than I didn’t care.
I have shaken that pessimism off, more or less, though it forms the foundations of my life. Subsiding is always a danger. There is something that will always be attractive, something less painful, about the premature expectation of disappointment.
England are through to a semi-final for the first time in my life. The teams that seemed stalk me - Argentina, Brazil, Portugal, Germany - have fallen by the wayside. I have even witnessed in the last week the great impossible: a strong handed English keeper. Eric Dier defying his name. A penalty shootout success. Gareth Southgate’s team have invented something different, something unfamiliar for me: hope.