Conor Gallagher scurries to close down Dani Carvajal, he catches him late. The England fans have never cheered a yellow card so loudly. Gallagher sprints somewhere else. We’ve played seven minutes of the five to be added on. Unai Simón launches one forward. The green-bibbed Adam Wharton and Lewis Dunk are virtually on the pitch. They think it’s all over. The referee raises his arms and blows his whistle. Kobbie Mainoo sinks to the turf. Bukayo Saka gleams. Jordan Pickford moves his limbs frantically at the same time. Jude Bellingham stands, arms outstretched, just nodding. Declan Rice and John Stones are embracing like Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman as the camera zooms away to the Pacific Ocean. Get busy living, or get busy dying. That’s goddamn right.

Harry Kane runs from the bench back on to the pitch. His 42nd-minute penalty has won England the Euros. How did Aymeric Laporte miss that header late on? Sweet Caroline. Freed From Desire. Three Lions. Gareth Southgate saluting the crowd. We want to see Wrighty’s face right on full time. Tears of joy. He is all of us. What’s the montage music? The Masterplan? Hey Jude? It’ll be Elbow. And that’ll do nicely.

Then the box parks: Wembley, Croydon, Leeds, Manchester. Trafalgar Square. Cheap lager flying everywhere. Dancing on the tube, stopping the traffic. The joyously drunk wrapped in giant St George’s Cross flags falling off car bonnets like Stuart McCall. The welcome at Heathrow, the open top bus, the knighthoods. Arise Sir Gareth, arise Sir Kobbie, arise Sir Ivan. Arise Sir Jimmy Floyd.

Perhaps it’s important to write about England winning 48 hours before kick-off. Because right now, it could happen. And it could. Forgive me if you heard this existential crisis before – but am I, are we, ready to know what to do if, IF, England are victorious on Sunday night?

As someone who cries at a YouTube video of a hedgehog being massaged with a toothbrush, will I sob uncontrollably like the last ever (not actually the last ever) episode of Neighbours. Just watching the end of The Shawshank Redemption to check if they do indeed hug, got me welling up in this east London cafe four paragraphs ago.

Tears or not, how can all of this not be an anticlimax? Can anything that has been built up for so long be as good as you want it to be? When one of those podcasts tells you it is all about the journey and that there is no destination – well what happens when you arrive?

Are we ready for these players to be placed next to the boys of 66? For so many of us, they have never had a bad game. When you haven’t watched Nobby Stiles play, he has always been brilliant. No one can match that. History (ie Jonathan Wilson) tells us that England were criticised for being boring in that tournament too. In 2064, who’s going to mention the dropping deep against Switzerland or the turgid nature of the first 95 minutes against Slovakia? England are peaking at the right time. It can’t have been a plan to be so bad so early, but better this way round.

Victory would be deserved for Southgate, for how he has turned this team around. For what he’s done off the pitch. This is the first tournament where I have climbed off the Southgate train – or at least moved to the quiet carriage. A tweet by me accusing him of lacking the bravery to take off Kane and Bellingham shortly before Kane and Bellingham scored against Slovakia made it to something called “Freezing Cold Takes”. Not changing things can be just as brave.

All this amid the ludicrousness of tournament scrutiny. In no Premier League game does every substitution get a Silent Witness style autopsy before the player has even got on to the field. Southgate is a kind, considerate, thoughtful and intelligent man. That doesn’t change because he gave Anthony Gordon only two minutes against Slovenia.

And Southgate has shown a ruthlessness that others – Didier Deschamps and Roberto Martínez – have not. He has substituted his centre-forward and captain. There was a time a few weeks ago where taking off Kane was as unthinkable as removing Kylian Mbappé or Cristiano Ronaldo. And Kane has had a more productive tournament than both of them.

Kane will silence the yes‑but‑ers only if he wins and makes a meaningful impact. But to see him lift the trophy regardless of his performance would at least stop the tedious cliche of him not being able to show his grandchildren his medals. Perhaps I was a selfish grandchild, but show me Haribo. Don’t give me your life story, just take me to Alton Towers.

Perhaps, we shouldn’t approach this game like Pep. Don’t overthink it. It is just a football match. You win some, you lose some. History suggests the latter but we know what a final is like. We are vaguely battle hardened. That could help, couldn’t it?

The one tiny obstacle overlooked is the opposition. Sid Lowe will go into more detail on this website. But it’ll go along the lines of: Spain are good. Rodri hasn’t lost a football match for 30 years, and he’s only 28. Fabián Ruiz is playing better this month than he has before. Dani Olmo has made them even more threatening since coming in for Pedri. Nico Williams is as inspiring on the pitch as his story is off it, and we can only hope that Lamine Yamal peaked at 16. Happy birthday to him for Saturday.

We know how to do defeat. We are good at it. Ready that montage. Steel yourself for a mournful, slow trudge around a pitch – mutual applause from players and fans. It’ll be easier to rework Sixty Years of Hurt into Three Lions in 2026. But once again it’s the hope. And we know what hope does. Until it doesn’t. Come on England.