Superlative England have already won at Euro 2022, regardless of final outcome against Germany

I think I want to be Mary Earps when I grow up.

Amid the punishing cloudburst of her side’s incessant Swedish dismemberment on Tuesday night, the England number one towered - stoic, becalming, indomitable - a steady, stony sentinel, vigilant from the first trill of the referee’s whistle all the way through to the grateful breathing space of the Lionesses’ second-half salvo.

The last time someone decked out in green put in such a gigantic performance, he was hawking tins of sweetcorn with a notably jolly disposition.

Of course, in a lot of ways, it doesn’t matter that I - a lanky idiot in their mid-20s - have been left in awe of Earps’ uncanny impression of a raised drawbridge in recent weeks. What does matter though, is that out there, in front rooms and veneration alike, is a nation of young girls who will be watching, in epiphanic joy, not only a genuine role model, but a realistic pathway that they could hope to one day tread themselves.

Sometimes the rhetoric surrounding women’s football, when it isn’t being fuelled by misogyny or narrow-mindedness, can meander between the platitudinous and the patronising. It’s worth reiterating, then, that England’s performance at Euro 2022 hasn’t been inspirational because of anything as menial or restrictive as gender, but rather because this squad and their locust-like craving for demolition is very, very bloody cool.

And there are ready-made idols at every arresting glance.

In front of the stellar Earps, those of a Buddhist persuasion might be inclined to believe that Millie Bright was once a battering ram in a former life, while super-sub Alessia Russo continues to dole out the kind of flamboyantly transformative turns that Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen made a career out of.

Beth Mead and Lucy Bronze, aside from sounding like a viking’s dream, are quite simply world class, and if possession is nine tenths of the law, then Keira Walsh is essentially Dog the Bounty Hunter, Doc Holliday, and RoboCop all rolled into one, such is her legislative supremacy.

Beyond them, skipper Leah Williamson, diminutive marionettist Fran Kirby, Speedy-Gonzales-tribute-act Lauren Hemp, and plenty, plenty more besides have all been exhilaratingly wonderful too.

And of course, masterminding the whole escapade is the magnificent Sarina Wiegman. Cerebral, adaptable, evidently revered by her players - the bespectacled manager seemingly approaches every puzzling twist and tribulation with the erudite inevitability of a Victorian super-sleuth. Forget Benadryl Cabbagepatch as Sherlock, the BBC should cast her in her own primetime murder mystery drama. Perhaps there could even be a cameo role for Phil Neville, maybe as the bumbling chief constable whose ineptitude she has to constantly remedy?

Even better still, I wonder what Sarina will be up to in a few months’ time - say, between November 21st and December 18th? I’ve heard Qatar is particularly lovely around that time of year...

Facetiousness aside, all of this is to say that England have hit upon an alchemical formula that continues to tease the promise of gold. A superlative squad of talent, enabled by Wiegman’s lacerating wit, has served them well thus far, but by a considerable margin, the sternest test is still yet to come.

Anything other than a win in Sunday’s final against Germany would be a gut-wrenchingly cruel blow to absorb.

From the perspective of Wiegman and her players, the prospect of defeat will feel intolerable.

But, vitally, for the masses of young girls and aspiring athletes who have been able to raptly follow the Lionesses’ journey to Wembley, the battle might already have been won.