Monotonous grey drizzle, unbearable humidity, thumping headache, nausea, clawing thirst and a sense of impending doom. It could describe one of a number of Monday morning hangovers I've suffered in Hong Kong but this one was worse... much worse. Instead of the creeping horror I usually experience as my brain pieces together the indiscretions of the night before, this time I saw a ball. A ball that was clearly over the line. Then I saw waves of attacking Germans, each one breaching a flimsy defence resulting in yet more humiliation. We weren't just out of the World Cup, we had been pummeled. It had hurt so much the night before, and now it was all flooding back. All the months of excitement, all those idle moments spent day-dreaming of Rooney hat-tricks gone in 90 minutes.
And yet as the day wore on and the hangover subsided I realised this was different somehow. It was nowhere near the misery I remember feeling after watching the hand-ball in '86, or Gazza's tears after the yellow card and penalties in '90. Although I've actively resisted maturing it's an inevitable result of growing older. My only concern is that now I've learned how to rationalise defeat and put things in true perspective, perhaps the ecstasy of victory will now also be tempered. I hope not. I suppose I'll find out in four years time.
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