Spurs vs. Dinamo Bucharest
Hang on. Where am I?
This looks like my row. I think. The view of the pitch looks right but…where is everyone? There’s a few faces around but this isn’t a crew I’m familiar with. I’m not even sure what my seat number is anymore. I sort of forgot it. It doesn’t serve much purpose these days. I know where I sit relative to all the regulars around me. The only problem is, none of them are there. Hmmm. See, this is the problem with charging £50 a ticket for a game that is not only an irrelevancy but a televised one at that. I’m just about to pick a seat at random between two groups of strangers, when I hear a voice from behind,
‘Lost?’ it’s Little Man.
‘No, just dropped a contact lens,’ he’s not sure if I’m serious. Neither am I. I think I put one inside out this morning and my eyeball’s dried up. All the way to the Lane I’ve known that one good blink could send the invisible, mini throwing star straight into someone’s face. It could cause a slight awkwardness or worse if not noticing, they continued to talk with my eye soiled lens hanging off the end of their nose, while I try to let them know they’ve got a little something on their face.
Big Man turns up to his friend’s side with their usual cups of tea and between the three of us we seem to work out where to park ourselves.
‘Who’s starting?’ I ask. They always seem to know before even MJ and the team do.
‘Defoe’s fit and Ghaly’s straight back in, along with Zokora.’ I look puzzled.
‘Not banned in Europe, is he.’ Good point.
We mull over the team sheets; us with more or less our full strength side (so pleased that includes the Man Mountain these days) and Bucharest with…well…with a team stacked full of Romanian ‘who’ but as top of their league we know they’re not to be sniffed at.
‘You’re all sorted then,’ nods Big Man with a cheeky look for me over my other shoulder. I turn round to see Horse Face and Mother arriving, hot dogs in hand.
Is he referring to Horse Face or the hot dog? As I look from one to the other, it’s hard to say which I’d prefer. The meat’s a little whiffy and far from fresh but I don’t much like the look of the hot dog either. But I’m being unfair, I’m thinking she seems a nice enough girl and most importantly, Tottenham till she dies. You can’t argue with the commitment of a season ticket.
‘Who are all you lot?’ comes a familiar voice from behind. I know that screech but somehow it’s not so harsh, so piercing. It’s hoarse, it’s, it’s… yes, it’s the Junior Harpee but joy of joys, she’s got a cold. My prayers have been answered. Now if only she could lose her voice altogether.
The players take the field to the cheers of a 34,000 strong crowd including a handful of Romanians. You’ve got to give it to them. That’s a hell of a long way to come and a very expensive ticket for a poor country to see a game where both teams have already qualified. They’ve already earned The Bagel’s respect.
The Spurs line up in their beautiful Euro Whites. It make us look so classy compared the red Dinamo strip made from real pieces of eastern bloc and probably rivets to hold it all together. You can hear the clank of the iron curtain as they run. We expect a physical encounter but to our surprise no such tactics arrive. In fact, it becomes very hard to see what tactics at all have been employed by our visiting comrades.
The very first seconds produce a good chance for the man in form, Dimitar Berbatov. A slick move started by Defoe in the middle finds Ghaly, playing on the right, who slides one in for our new man, unmarked at the back post and in the rarest lapse I’ve ever seen from him, he completely misses the ball. It’s a golden chance to take an important lead and a small part of The Bagel, perhaps somewhere near the hole, wonders whether we’ll will rue this brief advantage while the game has yet to settle. But I’m wrong. I’m very wrong. You see what I’ve failed to realise is that although only thirty seconds have graced the LED’s of the clock of White Hart Lane, the game has settled because Dinamo just simply never get the ball.
I sit there, as normal, making a rough mental log of the chances on goal but frankly it’s ridiculous. Within the first 15 alone there must be six good chances and perhaps one or two passes for them strung together by a timid looking midfield. To their credit, well one of theirs anyway, the right full back, couldn’t tell you his name but you can bet it ends in a ‘u’, he isn’t doing too bad a job at marking Lennon. Little Aaron’s playing on the left wing and for the first time I can see how perhaps this isn’t the best idea. There’s something about this change of sides that our supersonic gnome doesn’t quite get. He doesn’t make his runs when he should, much to Berbatov’s frustration as he uses the universal angry pointing football hands to overcome his Bulgarian native language. Our winger can’t quite seem to turn his man inside out as he normally does. When he does make the by-line, his right foot crosses swing away from the onrushing strikers and every time into the hands of the waiting keeper but worst of all, when he’s on the break and running into the box the ball is always at his left to for a cack-footed shot that he’s not so willing to take and with good reason too.
Little Aaron is not the best striker of the ball as we all know. He can be better but he needs the confidence of experience and this evening’s efforts for him seem to result in a litany of hesitations, scuffed shots and impossible passes as he tries to shift the goal responsibility. But all this is merely comparison to his usual standards. It’s no problem and no urgency, seeing as this is a game, of which we are comfortably in control. This is not, however, how the fan to my left and his mate in front seem to feel.
From what I gather, these two are season tickets holders from the North Upper ‘on a bit of a holiday’.
‘Lennon! You useless piece of shit. Get up there!’ goes his true Tottenham whinge. ‘Can’t shoot for toffee,’ he confides in his mate, who nods in agreement. I’m about to point out that he’s out of position but I sense an argument I don’t want to have, involving comparisons with some footballer from the late sixties, who played in one of those long extinct roles, such as centre wing half or something.
Thankfully, my new neighbour is silenced after fifteen minutes when an abysmal throw from the Dinamo keeper is intercepted by Berbatov on the edge of the area, after the keeper had saved his initial effort. With one touch for control, he goes for the same side swipe and this time, makes no mistake. It’s an absolute corker and the he buries it in the top corner of the net; as sweet a strike as you’ll ever see.
Dimitar turns to the crowd with a touch of Cantona-esque arrogance as he raises his arms in easy triumph. At the same time, he seems slightly embarrassed to have scored such a soft goal against this helpless club. The rest of the teams does not share his concern and it’s only as he’s leapt upon by Zokora, Lennon and Co. that a smile shines on his face and in a moment that brings a tear to The Bagel’s eye, they kneel before the master craftsman and polish his boot. It’s a beautiful thing to see that they’re beginning to respect this man as much as we do. It’s a beautiful thing to see this team gelling.
‘Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov’ sing the crowd to that operatic song that one day I’ll find some media for.
Play kicks off once more and still there’s no away team response. The chances are simply flowing for the Spurs and song after song is rolled out for each player as their moments of slick team play, individual brilliance and woodwork hitting shots are applauded with the ohhhs and ahhhhs of the crowd.
Ghaly’s playing out of his skin, working the ball at pace down the right and every touch from Big Bad Tom is met by ‘Shoooooooooot’ from the fans. Very often he does and very often he’s so, so close. Berbatov is not so impressed at his willingness to ignore the simple ball to feet, his feet.
What chances the visitors do have are met by sarcastic cheers from the crowd. The shots are painfully off target and their headers more than a whole goal wide. In fact, it’s one of their attacks that becomes their very own undoing. When a soft effort from Danciulescu finds Robbo, without hesitation our keeper lets loose one of his trademark torpedo kicks, as good a weapon of attack as a Schmeichel throw. Long and flat the ball flies, perfect for our nippy forwards to get behind the enemy defence and this time right to the feet of Jermain Defoe. A quick shimmy and the Little Yiddo’s by the first two backs and by the time he reaches the third he’s already at full pace. He strides past the hapless player and strikes true to find the net. 2-0 and his first goal in Europe. He runs down to the corner and gives the flag a spank.
‘Jermain Defoe is here,’ it says.
Once again the crowd go nuts and I’m punching the air just as Jermain did. 38 minutes gone and already it feels like we’re through.
There’s time for one more effort before the half is up. Defoe again shoots for his second from Aaron Lennon’s cut back. The strike is good but a hand from the keeper does enough to reduce some of that venom that no doubt his manager will be spitting in his stopper’s direction.
I rise to my feet and turn around to look for the towering head above all other Spurs of my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through and to my abject horror, he’s not there. I recall the mention of a snowboarding trip and trust he’s having a good one. I hope you are Charlie.
Meanwhile, I’m left at the Lane with no half time banter or bagel, as my pockets are short and my known company even shorter. I simply stare off in the direction of some Romanian who’s playing keepy ups in their tracksuits, smiles on their faces, all too glad they don’t have to be in that dressing room right now.
The field is graced by two legends of the 1984 UEFA cup winning side, Alan Mullery and someone who’s name I can’t catch over the simply impossible PA system. They echo words about the stadium to the cheers of the crowd when we think they may have said something good and sooner than I had expected the teams are out and the game’s kicked off once more.
There’s the briefest of 10 second spells, where Dinamo look like they’re running on that kick up the backside that they’ve just received but it disappears with their confidence as their one effort from 35 yards finds the top tier of the Park Lane.
Minutes later and they’re totally destroyed. The move of the night, save the odd back heel from Berbatov, is spoiled only at the end as the keeper blocks Little Aaron’s shot after a break from Zokora leads to some excellent work from both Dimitar and Ghaly but it matters not as the true poacher animal that lies within Defoe is woken in an instant. With his new found taste for the European net, he buries the ball to grab his second and our third.
There’s a feeling around the crowd now and that feeling is the wonder of just how many we can put past this sorry, sorry team. For the next ten minutes there’s no let up from the Spurs as a pure training ground short corner routine that has the visitors flummoxed gets the ball to Lennon on the edge of the area to blast one straight on target. The blast turns into a miscue and the ball goes out for another.
‘Rubbish!’ says the miserable bastard to my left. Three nil up and all over them and he’s complaining. With the Junior Harpee being the worst it gets of my usual neighbours, suddenly I’m appreciate that devil that I better know. I’d trade being surrounded by 20 Harpees for one of the Miserable Bastard. I’d sleep with her if I had to. I’d have her children. Never would one see a more bogus a sight than the product of the union betwixt Bagel and Harpee; some vicious flying bun with piercing voice and rapier wit, from my side of the family of course.
Zokora has a dig from the following corner and my angle’s right behind the shot. The ball squirls away towards the goal like a guided missile and is only stopped from becoming the certain fourth by the palm of the keeper. A minute later, it’s The Man Mountain from the same distance. He takes a touch on the ball, taking the pace right iff it but still musters such effortless screaming power into a shot that skims the very woodwork. The players still want blood but it seems MJ has had enough. He calls time on our fun after 70 minutes and substitutes the game into stalemate. Huddlestone and King go off for Malbranque and Davenport to two of the biggest standing ovations I’ve seen at the Lane, despite myself and the rest of the crowd feeling a little like yo-yo’s, given the 30 second gap between the two; a true mark of how the faithful are beginning to feel about Big Bad Tom.
By the time full back supreme, Pascal Chimbonda, is replaced by stalwart Stalteri, the game is all but over. The only problem is that no one has told the ref. According to him, there’s still 15 minutes to play. The Jumbotron clock appears to agree and stranger still, the Dinamo Bucharest team are playing with all eleven men behind the ball, like they’ve got something to protect. Perhaps it’s their pride they’re thinking of.
The rest of the game runs down in one of the most tedious passages of football I’ve ever seen. Bucharest find their consolation and their fans their voice on the ninetieth minute when a defensive fumble spills to their front man, Mendy to slot home and the whistle blows shortly after. We applaud our teams superior show and we applaud their team and fans for coming all this way and taking it on the chin. It’s not a vehement victory of one upmanship and we want to show our respect. Any team can be outclassed but not once did they turn it into a dirty game.
As we leave the ground, the fans mob their way past the most budget looking Romanian TV crew. One camera man of around 23 and the presenter, who could pass for his younger brother stand on the corner of Park Lane and Worcester Avenue buffeted in the sway of the crowd as they try to capture some footage on their handicam with as few idiot waving Spurs in the shot as possible. It’s not a night they’ll look back on with the fondest memories but then a paid trip to London could well be the stuff that dreams are made on.
I go down to meet Hugh for a pint at the Victoria, as is fast becoming a tradition. As the time goes by and our empties begin to gather, our post match analysis turns into our usual Tottenham dreams until we’re discussing the possibility of signing Ronaldo to sit on the bench and the idea of sending Andriy Shevchenko on loan to Preston North End. But tonight there’s one dream that seems to have some true. The UEFA Cup. Six games. Six wins. Top of the table with maximum points and into the last 32.
“When Leds goes up to get the UEFA Cup, I’ll be there, I’ll be there…”
The Bagel.