First came Joe Cole. Then there was Wayne Rooney. Then Jack Wilshire. Soon after, Ravel Morrison. Next Ross Barley. Most recently Dele Ali, and now Jack Grealish. These current or former boy marvels of English soccer all share the burdensome honor of being compared to the mercurial Paul “Gazza” Gascoigne at some point in their careers. So far only Rooney has built a resume worthy of distinction beyond the dubious recognition as the “new Gazza” whom he has certainly surpassed both in terms of longevity and awards. But as his nickname (“Wazza”) suggests, even Rooney is indelibly linked to Gascoigne.
Perhaps this is only natural. With the exception of the most recent World Cup, England’s most respectable finishes in international competitions since 1966 have come when Gascoigne was a central figure. First, in Italia ’90 where he was undoubtedly the revelation of the tournament – a driving, vibrant force in an otherwise dour and defensive World Cup. And then in the 1996 European Cup when, despite several injuries and being six years older, he managed to score a goal that combined the cheekiness and power of a well administered bolo punch. Narrow defeats in the semifinals in both those tournaments (to Germany on penalties, as ever) convinced the British public that England could win international tournament well before David Beckham and the “Golden Generation” briefly convinced them that they should win one.
More than a brilliant footballer, Gascoigne has become a cultural totem for the English public to whom he endeared himself with his homely charisma and earthy sense of humor. A Falstaff in soccer boots, he continues to signify the eternal promise of playing beautifully, winning, and having fun doing so. Now, any creative midfielder of English stock who blends mettle and flair with a bit of ladish insolence is deemed to be the second coming.
At its most benign, the English fixation on finding its new Gazza seems to be an innocuous declaration of hope that some wunderkind can light up a tournament and briefly unite the nation. At worst, it is a symptom of a peculiar and pathological longing for a talisman to redeem the nation. Indeed, even though the collective English football psyche has tended towards the brash and self-aggrandizing—note the perpetual need to declare the Premier League the toughest if not best in the world—there is an underlying neurosis is born of an all-too-self-aware decline since 1966. In this respect, the impulse to hail the coming of a new Gazza comes across less as an innocuous player comparison and more an interpellation of a national soccer savior. In practical terms, this has translated into a kind of collective (though not universal) mania to push young English hopefuls into the spotlight too soon, only for them to wither on the vine before ripeness.