To deny the influence of games—football especially, and yes, even theatre—on human life would be absurd. Just look at the stadiums, packed with thousands, roaring with waves of sound… is it applause? Ecstasy? Despair? And as for theatre—even with a smaller reach—its emotional intensity needs no defense.

At the National Theatre, the second part of Dear England has just completed its run. We hope it will soon be available in cinemas; the first part is already streaming on National Theatre at Home. These aren’t merely dramatic productions sprinkled with stylized movement sequences echoing footballers’ gestures. First and foremost, this is a chronicle of historical events, crafted into a play—we’ve seen that before, haven’t we? Of course.

Both parts of Dear England are historical chronicles, echoing Shakespeare and—surprisingly—chivalric romance. Yes, that genre is technically “imported,” but it became a vital and fully integrated part of English literature, having originally crossed over from Norman roots.

The core moments in chivalric tales—battles, tournaments, plumes fluttering above fearsome helms—are described with the same fervor as a football commentator narrating a match. (One does wish they’d crown a Queen of Love and Beauty at football matches—imagine the spectacle!)

The phrases Dear England, honor, victory—they’re drawn straight from medieval jousts.

Our protagonist here isn’t Richard the Lionheart or Henry V. It’s Gareth Southgate: England’s national coach, who led his team to the Euro 2024 final—only to treat the silver medal as a personal failure.

Triumphant in part one (played by Joseph Fiennes), Southgate returns in the second (now portrayed by Gwilym Lee), exiting the arena not in armor but with the vulnerable curve of his suited back—upright, not broken. The role draws from Southgate’s real-life heartbreak: the penalty he missed in the Euro ’96 semi-final against Germany. In Dear England, that moment replays like a nightmare—only now, he watches it unfold from the sidelines.

He sees a devastated, young player before him—but he’s really seeing himself. Bukayo Saka (played by Jass Beki) hides his tear-streaked face in his shirt. Southgate embraces him gently, as if wrapping him in a knight’s cloak, trying to shield him from the jeers and barbs of a cruel crowd. That scene wasn’t fiction. It happened.

We may marvel at the precisely choreographed penalty scenes—chalk lines, invisible balls, dramatic pauses. But it all rests on the same foundation as English football, English literature, and arguably English theatre itself: a deep, driving romanticism mixed with irony, sharp language, and fiercely protected tenderness.

Here’s Harry Kane lining up for a shot (played by Will Close in part one, Ryan Whittle in part two). No sword, no bow—only his boots, bristling with studs. Still, he’s every inch the romantic hero. Ball, opponent, goal, strike. Victory? Defeat? And if he falls, will they carry him from the field—or will he rise alone?

We watch rows of modern-day Ivanshoe-types cross the stage—each with their own flaws, pride, swagger—led by their king: Southgate, whose time is nearly up. And here’s the key: the audience already knows how it ends. There are no narrative twists. This is historical chronicle made theatrical, pulled straight from headlines and Instagram stories (which literally flicker above the stage).

In this chronicle, kings become coaches, battles become matches, betrayal is a locker room outburst, and honor is measured in post-match silence.

The play begins with its audience. Many came in groups—perhaps the same ones they go to matches with. Scarves around necks. Did you know fan scarves began as knitted gifts from doting grandmothers, trying to protect their grandchildren from the stadium chill? And when the kids asked for team colors, the tradition was born.

Both parts of Dear England are long, meticulous meditations on recent history—demanding, moving work for any audience. The players, these playful young knights in training gear, are transformed as the story unfolds—from champions to those who have been defeated.

Yes, we’ve seen it before, in other matches, other teams, other stages. Even with actors.

Take Roy Keane and Edmund Kean—let’s talk about those two. Yes, Roy is Irish and played for their national team, but he also starred in English clubs (Nottingham Forest, Manchester United). Give me some license to shuffle facts like a ref with red cards!

Both men were public darlings, both volcanic in temperament, both geniuses of their field. One ran on turf, the other on boards.

Edmund Kean: brilliant, impossible, worshipped and hated. Shakespeare’s best actor of his era. Wild, difficult, impossible to ignore. He didn’t act plays. He wrote them with his life—always a tragedy.

Roy Keane: fire-eyed pirate of a midfielder, Manchester United captain, both loved and loathed. And fun fact? He earned his first red card by kicking Gareth Southgate (yes—our Gareth) in the FA Cup semi-final. Oh, the drama!

Don’t roll your eyes—Huizinga said it best: “The death of humor is what kills everything.” Dear England knows that. It laughs often. Boris Johnson, in parody form (played by Gunnar Cauthery), stumbles onstage to break the tension. The audience giggles like children.

Theatre based on real events is always a reflection: a mirror held up to the world through performance, perspective, and collective memory. But Dear England is also a play about play. A game told through the game’s own language. It’s entirely unique.

“Seriousness tries to exclude play; but play can include seriousness effortlessly,” Huizinga wrote in his not-so-serious little book on humanity at play.

Dear England proves it.