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I have never understood the fascination some have for what they call the Scottish pike. That courage translates into eight World Cups and three European Cups without ever having managed to pass the first phase. This Tuesday, at the eleventh attempt, back on the street. For them, back in the saddle again, which Gene Autry sang. My first memory of Scottish football is the so-called battle of Glasgow in ’74, that 0-0 in the semifinals of the European Cup against Atltico de Madrid. The Celtic players gave so much that they finished nine on the field. But what a good time they had. He played one winger, Johnstonne, with sparse, witchy hair. I haven’t seen anyone shake any more rolling on a lawn.
This time they were knocked out by Croatia and the crowd in Glasgow chanted Auld Lang Syne: We’ll have a drink for old times. What people. Now that half of them are for independence, in their place I would take advantage and also ask for independence from UEFA. Let them limit their odes to defeat to the joyous and combative religious war duels between Celtic and Rangers, which seem to come from the century of the plague.
What fascinates me is seeing that Renaissance artist named Modric. His assists, his goal, his inexhaustible virtuosity that once again pushed Croatia, from more to less, as second in the group.
Southgate’s England beat the Czechs and passed first dull. I think Southgate has a problem. Forced to combine so many golden boys without everyone making the eleven, his role is more that of a stock market player than that of a coach. Harry Kane, who is looking for a new payer, is feeling the stress. Faced with his drought, Levy, the president of Tottenham, must look forward to the end of the Eurocup. In each Kane game he loses 10 million euros. Yesterday, Grealish’s shares were up and Foden’s were down. Only the threat to Southgate from some investment fund explains why he did not take out until the minutes of the garbage of the third game that gold standard named Jadon Sancho.
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