I was sixteen during Italia ’90, old enough to know football could break your heart, but young enough to believe England might just win the whole thing. What I remember most isn’t the teletext pages — it’s the football itself, and the way the BBC wrapped the whole tournament in something that felt almost magical.
Every match day started the same way in our house: the telly on early, the curtains half‑drawn to keep the sun off the screen, and Des Lynam easing us into the evening like only he could. Des didn’t just present football — he hosted it. Calm, warm, immaculate in a blazer, with that voice that made everything feel important but never overblown. When he said, “Good evening,” you felt like the whole country settled in with him.
And then came the music. Nessun Dorma wasn’t just a theme tune — it was the heartbeat of the tournament. Every time Pavarotti hit that final note, it felt like England were destined for something. Even Dad, who’d seen enough West Ham seasons to be sceptical, would mutter, “This is our year, Ron.”
The football itself was electric. England weren’t perfect, but they were brave. Lineker leading the line with that coolness only he had. Platt scoring that volley against Belgium — the kind of moment that makes you believe in fate. And Gazza… well, Gazza was something else entirely. Sixteen‑year‑old me had never seen a player who played with that mix of joy, mischief and genius. He didn’t just take people on — he took the whole country with him.