On evidence of this England performance, football might just be coming home

This cavernous Ruhr Valley stadium heaved with the emotion of it all, as Watkins’ masterstroke sealed a 2-1 victory and sent his team to a second straight European Championship final. This one deserved a place in folklore all its own. England’s only two past appearances in finals came at Wembley. Now they have a third, against Spain at the Olympic Stadium in Berlin on Sunday night. And it has never, just as the timeless words of Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline have it – felt so good.

The breakthrough happened in a blur, and it came courtesy of two substitutes. Few can say with confidence now that Southgate is terrified of making changes, or that he is scared of his own shadow. Cole Palmer threaded a sumptuous pass and Watkins, with his back to goal, responded in a flash, rifling a wonderful low shot into the far corner from the tightest of angles. It was the ultimate proof of the mission England had set themselves. Against opponents awash with talent, they were not about to die wondering.

England were unrecognisable from the haunted, frightened side who had laboured to this stage with a minimum of style. They looked, from the moment Jude Bellingham sang God Save the King with such intensity that you thought he might combust, hell-bent on confounding anyone who had decried them. Bukayo Saka was creating mayhem on the right. Kobbie Mainoo, who at 19 years and 82 days became the youngest player ever to represent England in the last four of a major tournament, was winning challenges as if his life depended on it.

The entire nation was captivated. Adele and Ed Sheeran perched in the VIP seats to scatter the stardust. “Come on England,” tweeted Sir Keir Starmer from the NATO summit in Washington, with a St George’s Cross emoji attached. The Prime Minister confirmed he would be flying to Berlin to savour a final like no other, while the King combined his congratulations with an ironic instruction to England not to leave it quite so late next time.

Southgate’s players are making these staggering late flourishes their trademark. Think of Bellingham’s 95th-minute overhead kick against Slovakia, or Trent Alexander-Arnold’s nerveless penalty to vanquish Switzerland. Neither could compare, ultimately, to Watkins’ coup de théâtre, so improbable it suggested some celestial alignment. “I swear on my kids’ lives,” he laughed, “that I told Cole, ‘We are going to come on today, and you are going to set me up.’” How Southgate could use this clairvoyance as he plots to outsmart Spain.

In another first, England came from behind to win for a third time at the same championship. Even the German Embassy in London could not fail to applaud them for defying the old preconceptions, acknowledging that they were beating them at their own game. “Football is a simple game,” they said. “Twenty-two men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the English always win.” Unconditional praise from Germany? This, if nothing else, should persuade Southgate that his players can go one step further than in 2021 to claim the most coveted prize, banishing the parallels with 1966 for good.

An electricity pulses around matches of this magnitude. You could sense it not just from the stands but the skies, with a thunderstorm drenching the pitch just as the players emerged for their warm-ups. An ominous portent? England fans could have been forgiven for asking, with 58 years of pain fuelling a suspicion that they were victims of some diabolical curse. In customary style, they relieved the pressure by chanting “Southgate, you’re the one” at a bemused German policeman who bore more than a passing resemblance to their manager.

A semi-final magnified a feeling, captured best by the Three Lions anthem, that these players did not need to be defined by a pattern of failure that began long before they were born. More than half the players who started here were also involved the last time the stakes were this high, conquering Denmark on a delirious Wembley night three years ago to reawaken the spirit of ’66. If they had cast the dead weight of history aside once, surely they could do so again?

The air at kick-off was thick with the noxious scent of flares that Dutch diehards had smuggled into the stadium. It was heavy with expectation, too: Mainoo’s family gathered beside the pitch to bask in his glow, while Harry Kane’s brother, Charlie, watched anxiously to discover whether the nation’s record goalscorer could shrug off his troubles when it mattered most.

Soon enough, the apprehension would turn to horror as Declan Rice, normally England’s choreographer in midfield, was muscled off the ball by Xavi Simons. The winger did not require a second invitation, barrelling forward and leathering a rising 35-yard drive that Jordan Pickford could do nothing to stop. The Dutch, resplendent in their day-glo orange behind him, were in raptures. For England, there was only creeping, nauseous fear.

Still, at least the early goal simplified the equation: England, having lapsed into a habit here in Germany of waiting until they fell behind to play with any purpose, would have to go through the gears quickly. Who else to oblige but the captain? It was Kane who drew the penalty when Denzel Dumfries was judged, harshly, to have tackled him studs-first. And it was Kane who duly dispatched it, angling the ball fearlessly beyond Bart Verbruggen even as the goalkeeper dived the right way.

Finally, we discovered how England could perform with the handbrake disengaged. Vibrant, positive, enterprising, they shredded the cautious image that had clung to them after a string of unconvincing displays. Foden, as frenzied as a hornet who had just had its nest disturbed, was tormenting the Dutch defence from all angles. Bellingham, the Real Madrid phenomenon whose reputation preceded him, was asserting himself like the dominant force everyone had hoped he could be in national colours.

It rarely stays this way with England, of course. Free-wheeling in the first half, they were edgy and jumpy in the second, the tension of the scoreline seeping into the players’ souls. “Make a change, Gareth,” the supporters pleaded. Eventually he relented, having seen an instinctive Saka finish ruled out for offside against Kyle Walker. On charged Palmer and Watkins to inject some impetus as Berlin beckoned.

The fans’ roar, incessant all evening, had quelled to a murmur, the precariousness of the situation dawning. It was a mood that could only be relieved by Watkins, the hero of the hour. “Football’s coming home”: perhaps never has that chant been delivered with greater ferocity or belief. On this evidence, it just might be.