Bellingham in Gelsenkirchen: One Year On
Josh revisits his personal experience of a core moment in contemporary English football history
One year ago today, I was in the ground for one of the seminal moments in modern English football history – Jude Bellingham’s overhead kick against Slovakia.
To celebrate the first anniversary of this amazing moment, I am sharing an edited version of the full field diary notes that I wrote that day. In the notes, I reflect on my experiences as a supporter following England at a tournament, the emotional rollercoaster of football and what it feels like to watch history in real time.
These notes were written on 30th June 2024, in my hotel room in Bochum straight after I got back from the stadium. All photographs and video footage from this article are the author’s own, except where specified.
I feel like I’m writing this after every single game I watch at this European Championships, but what a wild experience I’ve had tonight. It’s maybe the best night of my footballing life. Tonight, England’s performance (or lack thereof) put me through the full spectrum of emotions – and gave me memories that will last a lifetime.
For context, this was my first time watching England at a tournament, or watching England abroad in any capacity. I’ll admit I went into today with a huge degree of trepidation. My experience at the Euros has been overwhelmingly positive. Having loved the spectacle, the cross-cultural bonding and the party atmosphere of the tournament, I worried about the presence of thousands of Little Englander “10 German bombers”-type fans in Gelsenkirchen.
As I left my hotel in Bochum and boarded a tram, my hopes for a more refined cohort of England fans was dashed further. A group of 10 burly Essex blokes sat around me on the carriage, and their ringleader “Kev” regaled us with an (admittedly very funny) story about him “shitting himself in Majorca” the previous summer. Joy.
But any seedling of doubt was out of the window as we pulled into Gelsenkirchen station. I looked out of the tram to witness a sea of white, red and sky blue England shirts swarming over the platforms. This felt less like a festival, more like a joyful invasion. As the train doors opened, a warm chorus of “England, England, England” and “Phil Foden’s on fire” washed into the carriage. All of a sudden, I was with my tribe. Any question of me being able to square my Orwellian hatred of nationalism1 with enjoying the occasion were out of the window. I was along for the ride, and football was coming home.
I rendezvoused with my brother Jake and – via a delicious kebab – we headed for the Gelsenkirchen Fanzone. Four hours from kick off, the party was in full swing. The main square - Heinrich-König-Platz – was an oasis of bucket hats and skin fades. Though there were small pockets of Slovakians making themselves known, this was England territory. Beers in plastic cups flew around the square to the tune of the cloying sound of Skinner, Baddiel and the Lightning Seeds.
Every corner of Gelsenkirchen seemed to have been covered in St. George’s crosses and in turn every flag was emblazoned with the crest of some provincial football league club. Leeds fans held down the biergarten attached to a café on the corner. A Burnley supporting kid wobbled on his Dad’s shoulders as he draped his flag from a pharmacy. I scanned the square further – Borehamwood, Derby, Southend, Blackpool, Forest Green, Accrington, Bolton, Mansfield, Bristol Rovers, QPR, Crystal Palace, Blues, and of course – Albion. It felt like supporters from every corner of the country had decamped to Northern Germany, and it felt good.
Tearing ourselves away from the fanzone, we hiked up to ground. On the way, we managed to snatch an hour to satiate our football nerdom with a stop at Schlake 04’s original Glückauf-kampfbahn stadium and to quaff some beers in some fan owned pubs on the Schalke Meiler. As an inconsequential sidenote, it’s going to be difficult readjusting from delicious German pilsners to the lager lite swill we get on tap in England.
Once we were in the vicinity of the stadium, everything seemed to take on a different intensity. England supporters seemed to outnumber the Slovakians supporters by 7 or 8 to 1. It was to the point where I wondered whether there were going to be many Slovakia supporters at all. Jake and I snapped a quick picture outside the ground before we headed to our different seats.
With nerves jangling and over an hour until kick off, and I decided to help the time go past by having a(nother) beer only to discover that UEFA had banned England supporters from drinking any beer at their seats. Having already had alcohol sales in the ground completely banned for our opening match against Serbia, how was it fair that English supporters were being singled out as not being able to enjoy the game with a couple of pints? I couldn’t help but feel that we were being punished for a historic reputation.
All too quickly, the game was on us. Talking to those around me, it seemed there was a shared feeling of optimism. Though most people seemed to think that the group stages had been poor, there was a strong sense that knockout football tends to bring the best out of England under Southgate.
The normal pre-match ceremonies were observed – lots of flag waving, tarpaulin shaking and general under-whelmingness. Then the teams were out. Apart from a small slice of Slovakian supporters in the far corner, this was firmly an England crowd. This was confirmed with the national anthems. After Slovakian’s pleasing, slightly sinister sounding ditty, the English anthem was amongst the loudest and most passionate renditions I’ve ever heard. It takes a lot to make “God Save the King” sound rousing. This delivered.
If only the intensity of the anthem had translated into England’s performance. After a promising 5 minutes, the team regressed into their normal “U-bend of death” pattern of passing around the back. An out of position Kieran Trippier at left-back nullified any threat down the left flank, and thus England looked stodgy, predictable and shorn of ideas. Slovakia sat deep, kept us at arm’s length – and then started coming forward themselves.
After a couple of near misses, they took advantage of our structureless, ragged defending, as Schranz burst through and poked past Pickford. Cue delirium from Slovakia supporters, and a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
A stream of texts came through on my phone – “ffs”, “what are they doing?”, “Slovakia deserve that”, “ruh roh”. England looked shell shocked and the England end started getting aggravated. At one point, when the (very poor) Kyle Walker played it backwards to Stones rather than pick out an unmarked Foden in a good position, the crowd spilled over into outright booing.
This was not going as it was supposed to.
Half time came and went. I spent much of the break thinking how much this resembled my week to week grind watching the Albion lose in various parts of the country. I was flat, deflated. I sat gnawing my nails, with a horrid knot in my stomach. Questions ran through my head – “is this the end of me caring about the tournament?”, “have I done something wrong?”, “should I have worn my other socks?”, “should I have suggested in the group chat that we were going to win?”, “in doing so have I cursed the team?”
Above all, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of melancholy. I wasn’t ready for my adventure in Germany to come to an end. I wanted this to go on forever. What if this shower of shit – or some spilling over of upset violence after the game by English supporters – was going to ruin my memory of the summer of a lifetime?
I nipped down for a piss and meandered back to my seat to accept my fate. The atmosphere was less anger than deflation. Why had we expected any different?
England huffed and puffed throughout the second half. Slovakia sat further and further back into their shape. Perhaps sensing the atmosphere could turn nasty, the security guard on the stadium entrance to my left decided to start letting England fans come up to their seats with pints – “just don’t be idiot, and I won’t look.”
The minutes melt away. Southgate is motionless on the touchline amid an increasing chorus of jeers and pleading cries from the England end. “Fucking get it forward!”, “where’s the fucking desire?” He seems frozen in the moment. Ironic jeers accompany his decision to bring on Cole Palmer and move Saka to left-back, which finally gives us the threat down the left that we’ve been crying out for. The chances start coming. Kane misses a free header from 10 yards, before Declan Rice hits the post with a wonderful drive. It feels like it’s just not going to be our day.
Things are getting desperate now. Jake had texted me at half time to say “still plenty of time”. That time was slipping away. I have to say, when Rice hit the post, I mentally clocked out. I came to a realisation that this was going to hurt, this was going to be painful, angry and maybe even violent. I came to the realisation that after 2 weeks of the most wonderful optimism, joy and passion in Germany – my dream was coming to an end, in the most painful way possible. And the worst thing was it was entire predictable.
The two Romanian supporters sitting immediately to my right sense my deep pain, so decide to poke the bear by singing “It’s coming home” at me repeatedly. I decide to let it lie, not least because they both look like they could crunch me into dust like a twiglet.
This is miserable.
Then, when all hope seemed lost, it happened.
I don’t really have the words to describe what happened in the 95th minute, but I’ll do my best.
As a desperate last throw of the dice, Southgate brought on Ivan Toney with 90 seconds to go. Cue humongous booing from the England supporters. This summed Southgate up. Frozen in the moment, throwing a less senior member of the squad under the bus with little chance to even touch the ball, let alone impact the game. Where had this urgency been previously? Why on earth hadn’t he changed it? A corner comes, surely the last chance? Slovakia clear for a throw in. It’s got to go long.
Walker launches the ball into the box. Guehi gets a flick on – and then… Jude Bellingham.
Star boy, hope of the nation, fellow Brummie. As the ball floats across the box, Bellingham soars in the air and twists, executing a perfect bicycle kick. The ball crashes into the turf and up towards the top corner. Dubravka is rooted, the net bulges.
Cue delirium.
I’m so shocked by what I’ve just seen, I’m frozen in place. I stand, agog, at the most staggering piece of footballing drama I’m ever likely to witness. I’m a solitary still figure in a Boschian scene of unfolding chaos around me. The ear-splitting roar of noise is 40,000 English supporters in part shock, part catharsis, part adrenaline. It’s the most amazing sound I’ve ever heard.
I become aware of a figure hurtling towards me over my left shoulder. A topless Englishman tumbles past me down the concrete stairs, his flesh hitting concrete like wet fish on a countertop. He will wake up tomorrow wondering not only how he’s broken a rib, but just how many ribs he’s broken.
I gaze down to the English supporters on the tier below me, directly behind the goal. I see a writhing pit of human joy. Sat in the opposite end, Jake has a panoramic view of the scenes. He texts me to say it’s the best “limbs” he’s ever seen. Jake’s own celebrations are curtailed by the fact that he’s sat next to a Slovakian family, whose 8-year-old son breaks down in tears as the goal goes in. I’m reminded of my own experience as an 8 year old, 20 years ago sat in front of the TV watching Zinedine Zidane snatch a victory from England with the last kick of the game at Euro 2004. I cried myself to sleep that night in bed too. Two decades on, another boy is having the same chastening introduction to the torment of football. If nothing else, football truly represents continuity.
The final whistle goes, and I’m still in a daze. I stagger underneath the stand and prepare myself for 30 more minutes of craziness. I lean on the sideboard and look out the window, with a view across Gelsenkirchen from the stand. The space fills behind me, and a stream of England supporters run past me. Some hug me, some shake their heads mirthfully as if to say, “how have we got away with that?” I go for a piss. A German posts up next to me, declares England’s equaliser “nur Glück” [only luck], spits into the urinal and huffs away.
As I emerge from the toilet, I’m struck by the overwhelming sense that we are about to win the game. On a purely psychological level, the Slovakian team – who lay motionless, bowed and devastated on the pitch after Bellingham’s goal – are surely psychologically broken. Having been the better team, having outplayed England with a disciplined, brave, courageous display – they have been undone by a single moment of genius. It is brutal. At this sense, the excitement and adrenaline returns to my body. My haze has lifted. It is – once again – coming home.
I throw myself into the crowd under the stand with reckless abandon. The listless Phil Foden is indeed on fire. England are indeed on the piss. I indeed, do not want to go back to work. I join a circle of lads jumping around belting out England classics. From the lowest pits of despair, I have reached euphoria. And there is, inevitably, more to come.
Within second of the restart, it’s obvious that this game is only ending one way. Just 54 seconds of kick off, Saka has pushed high and wins a free-kick adjacent to the corner flag. From Palmer’s deep cross, Eze volleys into the ground, Toney guides an enticing header across the face of the goal, and Harry Kane – captain fantastic – is there to snaffle the chance. 2-1 England. Joy unconfined.
I am no longer in the state of shock I was at the time of the Bellingham goal, so I throw myself into the celebrations. I am a predator on the prowl, and anyone in an England shirt is fair cop for a bear hug. I run up the stairs and jump into the arms of a huge England supporter in a Bolton Wanderers hat. In his excitement he leathers me in the face. Something about the adrenaline helps me shake it off.
Back down the stairs, there’s an England fan who has climbed atop the railings. I grab him around the legs, and he claps my head in his hands. He yells a solitary, single howl of joy straight into my face – spraying me with a fine mist of overpriced Bitburger.
This is what it’s all about. Months of excitement, months of build up – manifesting in on cathartic moment of pure, unbridled joy.
The rest of extra time is coloured by the fact that everyone in the stadium knows that the jig is up. Pickford claims a last gasp corner, and the final blast of the referee’s whistle is drowned out by a chorus of English cheers.
Bliss.
Sweet Caroline – a recent irritant of mine – blasts on the speakers. I join in with full enthusiasm. Life has truly never been so good, so good, so good. England supporters stream past me on the way out, and I’m subject to a relentless conveyor belt of diagonal-handed “bro-shakes” .
I stay in the ground for 15-20 minutes after the game. The players come over in front of us to participate in the mass-Neil Diamond karaoke and meander off the field arm in arm. Southgate’s boo boys are momentarily silenced, and it feels like we’re in 2018 again – the bond between supporters and manager seemingly temporarily healed.
I feel concussed. I’ve been swept away by proceedings and I’m only just getting my breath back. I saunter down the stairs, keen to join in with the post-match celebrations. I feel compelled to call my family. I arrange to rendezvous with Jake at a hotel near the ground, and whilst I sit on a grass verge waiting for him, I’m compelled to call anyone and everyone I care about. Linds, Chelle, Mum, Auntie, Uncle Andrew, Tommy Percival and even my supervisor Andreas all get a bell.
The only thing that made this whole experience slightly less special was the fact that I was ultimately seated alone. What I wouldn’t give to have shared this moment with Jake or Chelle or Linds or Tommy in person. Whilst the absence of loved ones can’t stop you being swept away in the tribality of football, you feel their absence when you’re witnessing something special. I don’t think it’s just me who feels that football is something to be shared. Perhaps that’s why when the goals fly in, the instinct of most supporters seems to be to fly to the nearest group of people wearing a similar shirt to them and leap into each other’s arms. They become a sort of family by-proxy, a flashmob tribe, brothers-in-arms for a fleeting moment.
Jake and I meet up – exchange the biggest of hugs – and eventually slump, exhausted, into our tram seats back to Bochum.
As I watch the industrial landscape whizz past me, it becomes apparent that I’ve been in the stadium for a moment comparable to the David Platt goal in 1990, or the Harry Kane winner against Tunisia in 2018. Perhaps the level of individual brilliance involved even touches Gazza’s goal against Scotland in 1996. Bellingham’s goal – perhaps more than any other in England’s European Championship history – is going to be talked about for years to come. And I’ll get to say, “I was there”.
It’s so special. In a very real sense, I feel I have become part of England’s living football heritage.
My final act of the night – having picked up an ill-advised Hauptbahnhof Burger King in Bochum – is to crash onto my bed and watch Southgate’s interview. On a night where I had mentally turned on him, I found his post-match interview to be disarmingly charming.
One comment especially stuck with me – “I never felt our tournament would end tonight”. Tonight was the last game I had tickets for at this Euros – perhaps the most special couple of weeks of my entire football supporting life. Whilst the prospect of an upcoming week working from Berlin and going to a Bruce Springsteen show in Hannover wasn’t anything to be sniffed at, my final thoughts before going to sleep were bittersweet.
I didn’t want this to be the end of my tournament, and in the words of the England supporters tonight – “don’t take me home, please don’t take me home, I just don’t want to go to work. I want to stay here, drinking all your beer – please don’t ever take me home.”
Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to sort something out for Switzerland.2
Orwell, G. (2018 [1984]) Notes on Nationalism. London: Penguin Classics.
I did indeed sort my tickets for Switzerland.