Cronica de una Revancha Anunciada — Football Case Study

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Crónica de una Revancha Anunciada: Colombia vs England

Words by Daniel Díaz
Match photography courtesy of Yutao Chen 陈昱陶
Archival imagery courtesy of Daniel Díaz & Mike Excell

July 3 2026

Mi amor por la selección comenzó en el ‘94. Ese torneo no lo recuerdo, pero sí recuerdo muy bien un viaje a Bogotá antes del mundial. Colombia jugaba un amistoso contra Bayern Munich, el tipo de amistoso que ya no pasa… una selección internacional enfrentando a un club.

En esa época estábamos entre los favoritos para ganar la copa en USA y todo era bueno. Pura fe y felicidad. En esa visita a Colombia recuerdo que me dieron un montón de regalos futboleros. Un balón firmado por los jugadores. Una camiseta de la selección. Y lo mejor de todo, los muñecos de plástico. Valderrama, Asprilla, el tren Valencia, Wilmer Cabrera, Oscar Cordoba, y—mi preferido—Ivan Rene Valenciano.

En esa visita a Colombia viví por primera vez con mi familia ese amor puro por el fútbol. No había persona que no sentía la anticipación antes del maldito mundial del 94. No hay por qué repetir la tragedia de ese torneo. Ya que tantos gringos la han contado, no queda más nada que decir.

England didn’t qualify for the World Cup in 1994, and honestly, they were not really on my radar. My first memory of England in international football was Euro ‘96.

As the host nation, that summer felt different. It was a sunny day in Whitton at my aunt and uncle’s house. I vaguely remember Alan Shearer scoring the opening goal of the tournament, despite not really knowing who he was at the time. As a Tottenham supporter, my favourite player in that squad was my goldfish’s namesake: Darren Anderton. That year was my first experience of the torturous moments this sport can deliver. The ball rolling in slow motion under Gazza’s outstretched boot in the semifinal against Germany, and Gareth Southgate’s eventual penalty miss to put us out of the tournament. That grey kit.

Football was simple back then. I had two teams, my two countries. Colombia and England. In that order. At home, we spoke Spanish. Escuchábamos ritmos latinos. Salsa, vallenato, merengue. En cassette, CD y a veces en videos grabados en VHS. Comíamos plátano, frijoles, cerdo, aguacate y arroz. Mucho arroz. Cuando invitaba amigos a la casa no entendían por qué le metíamos queso al chocolate. Nos mudábamos seguido, cada 1-2 años, pero nunca nos alejábamos de Heathrow. El vuelo a Colombia nunca estaba muy lejos—Terminal 4, para ser exacto.

Y yo andaba siempre con la camiseta de la selección puesta, con los chores, y las medias. Si no era la de Colombia, era la del Junior de Barranquilla (No sé cómo se dice “full kit wanker” en español). Con mi mejor amigo, Egipcio, comparábamos palabras árabes con españolas. En el recreo les contaba a mis amigos del pueblo de mi abuela materna, que fue destruido por un volcán. Les preguntaba cómo pronunciaban “Barranquilla” en inglés, pensando que todas las familias usaban esa palabra con la misma frecuencia. Y les enseñaba que los mejores jugadores del mundo se llamaban Pachequito, Valenciano y Mackenzie. Sentía el puro orgullo de ser colombiano y el fútbol era la manera más precisa que tenía para expresarlo.

My first time playing football outside of school or with my friends was at a weekend club my dad took me to. I was so excited, so nervous. Maybe 8 years old.

We made a deal: if I scored a goal, then he would buy me my first pair of football boots. I proudly wore my full Colombian kit and remember feeling something for the first time. I’m not sure if it was shame, but it didn’t feel good. One of the kids playing started insulting me for being Colombian. I was so confused as to why this was a bad thing. I never brought it up to anyone. That day, I disappeared inside of myself a bit.

France 1998 came up soon enough. Both Colombia and England qualified this time, and they were drawn in the same group. This would be the first time they met in a competitive game. Three years earlier, in 1995, they had played a friendly at Wembley Stadium. A game that has gone down in history for Rene Higuita’s scorpion kick.

Photo by Yutao Chen

By 1998, my parents had separated—we were moving in with a stepfamily. This was my first experience living in an English household, across the border of London and deep in Staines. My new step-brother welcomed me to his hometown with a menacing, "You're not in London anymore."

I started noticing the letters "NF" written on buses, trains, and street signs. Stories of my mum's Indian colleagues being chased down the high street by pub guys throwing rocks. Abuse and McDonald's ketchup packets being hurled at Black friends from passing cars. In this house, xenophobia and anti-immigrant declarations were commonplace.

One day in the car, I sat in the back with my step-brother while my stepfather, from behind the wheel, declared that "immigrants get everything handed to them, while we get sweet FA." While I naively mistook "FA" for Football Association—rather than the intended "fuck all"—there was no mistaking the irony of this comment as we drove to pick my mum up from the airport following a trip to Colombia.

Durante el mundial hicieron una campaña de promoción en McDonald's, donde trabajaron mis padres y mis tíos cuando primero llegaron al país sin saber inglés. Con cada Happy Meal regalaban un muñeco que representaba a cada país, pero no los tenían a todos. Colombia no estaba entre los elegidos. Mientras comíamos, mi hermanastro me dijo que si hubiera un muñeco colombiano, sería representado por un drogadicto. Sentí la misma vergüenza y confusión.

Ese año me tocó elegir entre Colombia e Inglaterra por primera vez. La decisión fue fácil. Tuvimos otro mundial decepcionante. Fue la última vez que íbamos a ver jugar a esa generación que llenó al país de tanta esperanza durante la última década. Perdimos contra Inglaterra, un golazo de Beckham de tiro libre. No volvería a ver a Colombia en un mundial hasta el 2014.

Back in Fulwell, at my dad's house, footballs smashed against the front of the house. Then the front door. Then the windows. In my memory, this went on for weeks, for what felt like hours at a time. BANG. BANG. BANG. A group of boys lined up in the street, taking it in turns to kick footballs at our house and shout abuse. They kicked our front fence and tore it down. While Colombians and Latinos were uncommon in the area at that time, the group improvised and reeled off racist slurs usually reserved for South Asians. What mattered was that this house was foreign; the factual accuracy of their vitriol was less of a priority.

My dad had told me about previous incidents, namely in Feltham, where he had been harassed in the street, but seeing this level of hatred up close was scary. We waited anxiously for the bangs of the football to continue striking the house. First though, yoghurt was hurled against the window and smeared across the glass for maximum effect. Then the BANG BANG BANG of the footballs continued.

The 2014 World Cup in Brazil was our time—I was so sure.

This team had everything the 1994 team had, plus more. It was the first time we had qualified for the World Cup in sixteen years, and for a football-obsessed country like Colombia, that wait feels cruel, and I believed we had every chance to make a statement on our return. That is, until prime Falcao tragically tore his ACL and was ruled out of the tournament.

While James Rodríguez stepped up to make his name known, winning the golden boot in the process, we were denied the full-strength Colombian squad that could have gone all the way. Or at the very least made it past a limp Brazil before inevitably succumbing to a similar—albeit less humiliating—fate against Germany in the semis.

It had been years since I followed England at a World Cup. After South Africa 2010 and Lampard's goal that wasn't, to be precise. I promised never again. I kept this promise until the 2018 World Cup, rushing between the Red Lion in Stoke Newington—buzzing off England's 6-1 demolition of Panama—to Hotel Mundial off Brick Lane to catch Colombia beat Poland 3-0. This would eventually set up the knockout game between Colombia and England. At this point, I switched off my English brain again and made plans to watch the game with a group made up of Scottish, Welsh, American, and Colombian friends and family. All united in our opposition to England, the magic of the World Cup on full display.

I headed to Elephant & Castle in South London, a hub for the UK's Latin Americans since the early 90's, built around an iconic shopping centre. This was a pilgrimage I had undertaken since I was a child to reconnect with home. A place where the air is filled with a familiar brand of Spanish, those same Latin American rhythms, and nostalgic smells. Following decades of uncertainty for the community, the shopping centre was finally demolished in 2020. The effects of this erasure and displacement are still being felt by the community today in 2026.

Photo by Mike Excell

I sat on the tube packed among England supporters, while I proudly and defiantly wore my Colombia shirt. We arrived at a space set up specifically for Colombia fans. Within minutes, the peace was broken when a tropishly belligerent and red-in-the-face Englishman bounded in, inebriated and intent on agitation. This was a real throwback football lout—more Daily Sport than MUNDIAL—unlike the other convivial England fans in the room. Otro espacio nuestro, invadido y agredido. Sabían a lo que venían y el ambiente cambió. Nos salimos de ahí.

We found a spot in the shopping centre, packed against the glass with fellow Colombians outside Miko's—an Ecuadorian restaurant that had retained the Greek name from its previous owners. There was no space inside, but the energy was magic; we were all there for a good time, and the crowds erupted in pure joy as Yerry Mina's stoppage time header sent the ball thundering into the England net to take the game to penalties. Drinks were flying, strangers were hugging. The restaurant's shaky stream suddenly failed us and the footage dropped as the third Colombian player stepped up to take their penalty… we all sprinted up to the Bowling Alley upstairs to watch there, but we were too slow. As we entered, England fans were already running in the opposite direction, celebrating their win. We sighed, came to a collective halt and turned back, heads hung. Standing in silence as the escalators brought us back down to earth. I made my way to Stoke Newington, thinking I'd get some grief for being the only person wearing a Colombia shirt on the way back home.

I had nothing to worry about. England had won, and my bright yellow shirt was invisible.

Otro mundial sin clasificar, esta vez Qatar 2022. Un problema que seguramente no se volverá a repetir, debido a la ampliación del torneo a 48 equipos. Ahora es más fácil clasificar que perderse un mundial para los 10 países de la Conmebol.

A pesar de no ver el mundial este año, sigo con la ilusión de que Colombia enfrentará a Inglaterra. Si no es en el 2026, pronto será. Una oportunidad más para esa revancha. No contra una selección inglesa que ha llegado a representar la riqueza de un país diverso—todo lo que amo del país donde nací y me enseñó a amar al fútbol—sino contra el fantasma de esos ingleses que tanto nos hicieron sentir extranjeros. A dwindling voice, screaming vitriol, finally defeated. Mientras los demás disfrutamos del fútbol y su magia. Hasta que no quede ni rastro de ese odio. Sweet FA.

Photo by Yutao Chen

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