All we’ve heard for days now is how important this game is. How much the Argentine fans loathe us.
How this battle is about everything from history to politics, national pride to boiling hatred.
Oh, yes, and not forgetting it’s the biggest football match for England since the 1966 World Cup final.
So it’s almost a relief when Harry Kane and his men finally stride out into the Atlanta Stadium, even if they do look rather tense and sweaty as they belt out the national anthem, and, surprise surprise, the Argentine fans begin to boo.
But after all that build-up, nothing much happens for the first half, other than endless on pitch argy-bargy from the masters of the dark arts; at least a dozen fouls, two yellow cards and the roar of hearts beating and nerves twanging from English fans around the world.
Even Sir Mick Jagger looks twitchy as he chews on his lip in the stand. Sir David Beckham is sitting on his hands, Victoria is (sensibly) pretending to be gripped.
And, in the dugout, six-foot-four Thomas Tuchel chews gum like a washing machine, stares ahead like a psycho and seems blissfully unaware of the sexual stir his ‘focused intelligence’, impressive bone structure and ‘abrasive authority’ have been causing on Mumsnet, and wider, this week.
‘I’d like to be on the receiving end of his half-time talk,’ wrote one lady from the Midlands who signed off with a winky emoji and a cheeky aubergine.
Features writer Jane Fryer looking distraught after Englands 2-1 loss to Argentina, which she watched at the Boxpark in Croydon
Which is quite a thought, but maybe she had a point because, whatever Tough Love Tuchel actually said to our team at half-time – and it is unlikely to have been a cuddly chat about just doing their best and the best team winning – it seems to have changed them.
England emerge somehow taller, more grown-up, and less bothered by the other side’s endless dirty tricks, determined never to cry for Argentina.
Until suddenly, in the 55th minute… could it be? Bloody hell! YES! Anthony Gordon scores a brilliant goal, the crowd go mad, Posh and Becks jump about like loons in their VIP box and the rest of us start dreaming of Sunday.
And, of course, now the whole thing becomes completely unbearable. The hope. The tantalising possibility. The abject terror every time Messi gets anywhere near the ball. And the gratitude we feel to have brilliant Jordan Pickford guarding our goal like a crazily obsessed madman.
Because now, the clock ticks at a snail’s pace. We don’t dare look away. Or go to the loo, or the fridge, or even to hide behind the sofa.
And as the Argentinians’ camp out in our end and batter Pickford, we try not to remember they’ve scored in every one of their past 13 games. And that this sort of thing doesn’t tend to go our way.
And that it’s mad and bad and dangerous to hope as, tick tick tick, what feels like another hour passes, but it’s actually just ten minutes.
Now we’re in the 85th minute, Enzo Fernandez scores for Argentina and a lot of our hot air and excitement evaporates. Seven minutes later, Lautaro Martinez bangs in another and the hope goes, too.
And finally, after 102 minutes of agony and not much ecstasy, the final whistle blows. We’re out. We’re going home. We’re not going to our first World Cup final in 60 years.
And after all that build-up, we can’t quite believe it’s over.
