Beef Bagel

It’s 00.26 on Sunday night. It’s the first time I’ve been home since……well, you know. I was going to write this report straight after the game - an exercise in time efficiency and cathartic therapy but when I was offered another kind of treatment, alcohol therapy, I took it and I’m glad I did. It wasn’t so much the booze as the company and the oh so painful, but oh so necessary, post match post mortem but like any good doctor, I needed a second opinion.

If I had written this when I had planned to it’d have a very different feel. At least, I think it would. It’s hard to tell, I haven’t written it yet and I never will compose it as I may have at 4pm on Saturday.

Maybe that’s not true. The story’s the same. I could write this a thousand times and that and the scoreline with it will always remain the same. It’s how you feel about it that alters first from minute to minute, then by the hour and finally just every few days as you try to get perspective. I still have no appetite for football. I’ve not seen a second of any other game all weekend and nor am I ready to. But I am…calm; stoical.

Losing the home game of the Derby - which I remind some of the arsenal fans, who’ve now decided it’s safe enough to comment, is unusual - is not the end of the world, although it feels like it at the time. What the game did represent was that even the most optimistic Spurs fan would have to admit that a top four finish is not going to happen this season. In fact, with other new contenders on the scene I’m sure we’ll be quite happy with any old UEFA Cup spot this time. Winning pots is all very well and good, and there are still three up for grabs this season, but becoming a force in English football is the prize we want and we’re clearly not ready to take it; nearly but not yet.

……

‘Wake up.’

‘Wake up.’

‘Hmm?’ I say, croaking my way to life.

‘We’ve got to talk,’ says LB.

Talk? I’m just trying to work on breathing right now. I think I can suck in the odd just of air but get them to vibrate my vocal chords on the way back out? I’m not sure if I can do that. In fact, what I’ve got to do is go back to sleep. There’s a seal of sleep between the two rows of lashes on each of my eyes as hard as diamonds and I’m glad they’re there. Any beams of light going through my eyeballs is going to burn a hole on my brain, I know it. Whatever I do, I must keep my eyes closed.

‘I’m really upset.’

Oh God, what have I done? I reach for my first memory of the night before but my mind recoils. Oh God that hurt. Don’t try that again. Bad move. So I seek the answers from elsewhere.

‘What happened?’ I ask. Worse move. I’m presented with a case of incident or set of incidents from x number of hours earlier. I’ve no idea what time it is or what time I went to bed. It was dark, now it is light. Time has clearly past. I’m not really sure what I’m hearing but I’m feeling bruises all down my side where I fell down onto my sister’s beautiful but very hard polished kitchen floor. I appreciate there may be a whole bunch of memories to which I’m not going to be privy. There’s a good chance I’ve done something wrong. I can do that without realising when stone cold sober, so I start trying to iron things out, it’s just that my iron is sill rather drunk, can barely speak and is also blind right now.

An hour or so seems to have gone and I’m some way towards forgiveness but forgetting is not going to be a town the map for the rest of the day. I’m sure this wasn’t what I had in mind when I pictured the morning of another North London derby, so hopeful and full of promise. I’m sure that day began with my flinging open the shutters of The Bakery windows onto the streets of white-washed buildings in the old quarter of some Spanish town that I seem to be living in this particular fantasy. Funnily enough I’m not hungover and so the three bluebirds, that I’m not sure are native to this part of Europe, don’t bother me at all as they whistle their beautiful little songs while I fetch them some bagel crumbs to peck on.

No, this is a very different start to the day and as I walk to the tube wearing my crumpled four season old, Thompson sponsored, home shirt accompanied by an unhappy girlfriend this doesn’t feel like the kind of day that Tottenham beat arsenal for the first time in 8 years. It feels even less like it as the hot, busy, closeness of the underground train starts to get under my skin that I’m positive is growing sweaty and rapidly green.

The stops are ticking over slower than the Jumbotron clock on a one goal lead and all I can do is think about my two minute freedom. Change at Bank, change at Bank, just got to make it to the change at Bank. I’ll feel better then. And I do. Until I’m on the Central line and surrounded by a gang of chavy Hammers. If they try to give me a kicking I’ll be totally at their mercy. I’ll most certainly throw up and if I can direct it at my attackers it may be enough of a diversion to make some sort of stumbling get away. I may have to create some sort of arc of vomit to make sure I spray the whole gang. Right in their eyes should do the trick.

The tube pulls up as I’m working my way through this fantasy confrontation and I’m thrilled at my release back into the polluted, London air. Ah yes, good clean, fresh smog.

As expected there’s that derby day buzz all around the Lane. Eighty per cent are in colours for our yearly gala event and I can hear the songs already 15 minutes before the start as I queue outside to get in. A few minutes later and I’m bounding towards my gangway and up the steps until I stop and think. I want to savour this moment. This only happens once each year and I want every step up into the stadium to be another separate gift to the senses; the roar growing louder and louder and just a little bit more of the stands, the stewards, the fans and pitch to be revealed one footfall at a time.

My face is beaming as I reach the top with a pause as I stand and drink it all in. It’s like walking into your local, like seeing an old group of mates and you’ve missed every one of them. I love this day.

There’s smiles on all the faces down by my ringside seat; the lads in front, Little and Big Man and even the Junior Harpy taps me on the shoulder for her hello. What the hell, it’s even good to see her today and dressed from head to toe in the brand new home kit. You can’t deny her commitment, even less so when she’s mentions she’s going for her Tottenham tattoo the very next day. I’ve always like the idea but there are times I don’t want to be reminded of football.

Just before kick off Omar arrives down the row, fresh from his last cheeky fag before 90 high stress minutes without a stick to get him through.

‘So are you going to leave early again?’ I josh him as I remind him about JJ’s equaliser in the 90th last season. He wasn’t the only on who’d left. I was bouncing around the stands on my own not six months ago at this very game.

The players take the field and I can’t help laugh at the pantomime of it all as the crowd cheers and boos at the appropriate moments.

‘In goal for arsenal today is….Booooooooooooo…….and Number 1 for Tottenham it’s Paul Robinson…Hurray!’

From the first minute it’s everything we can do to keep hold of the ball. It’s all under control but the arse are playing at a speed used half a beat faster than we’d like to. There’s little time for any white shirt to take the best touch or pick the best pass before there’s an enemy boot bearing down on them. Until the game settles it’s arsenal with the majority of the possession and they look as dangerous as they do each season but we’re matching them in every department.

There’s round upon round of ‘I love Martin Jol’ (to Land of Hope & Glory) and ‘Martin Jol’s Blue and White Army’ in this first home game since the Ramos affair. The whole stadium’s in voice with our hopes as high as our support for the manager and if the arsenal fans are singing there’s no opportunity to hear them. I love this feeling. Please let it last.

There’s just a quarter less pace as the game finds its feet and you tell it’s going to be tight. Clichy makes a break down the left on a typical arsenal counter and play enters that zone on the other side of the field where goals are often shot from. I know that picture. I’ve seen it before and I breathe a heavy sigh as we clear our lines. When it comes, it’s going to be like that. It’ll be fast, sure, clinical and suddenly we’ll have a mountain to climb.

Lee and Bale start to work the ball up the left in this new partnership that seems to be starting to gel and they get the ball to Berbatov, grateful for a little forward’s time on the ball. A lot of Dimi skill and a little professionalism wins us a free kick just to the left centre and every eye with out a word moves to one man in white.

‘Come on them Gareth,’ says Omar, ’show us what you can do.’

I’m remembering the hype - the new Beckham and he certainly stands like him as he holds the kicker stance and composure; feet a stride apart, shaggy black hair down and towards the ball. He’s picked his spot, now what’s he going to do? The whistle blows. A step, a dummy lay off from JJ and….and…it’s in and there’s derby goal carnage that only be seen to be understood. Imagine a normal goal celebration but with less care for your own safety. Bodies fly around the crowd in what’s more like a loved up mosh pit than anything else and after a good few minutes of, ‘BALE! BALE! BALE! BALE!’ the game gets going again and we think about sitting down - well, in a bit, anyway.

I look at the clock. It says 15 minutes and I dread to think about holding this score for the rest of the game. Making it to half time’s going to be tricky enough but we’re looking solid and even a little more dangerous. We’re tackling hard and pushing for a second with every player well aware of what we’ve got to do. There’s foul after foul called on Berbatov as he backs into Gilberto and Toure for every single long ball. He twists up their shirts blind side to the ref and pulls them back down. It’s hard to tell if he’s the antagoniser or the frustrated.

Fabregas takes a turn and with it two players out of the game and the arsenal attack runs free. Fine details of the play fall out of my view but I understand the movement, I know the shape. I know what a fast telling play looks like and this looks like one. There’s a lay off somewhere in front of our goal and I can tell it’s been teed up for a red shirt to hit. I wont know which one until the ball is struck and in what seems like forever as the ball trickles on, my heart sits on top of my tongue. But no contact is made or if it is, it’s with a solid Tottenham block and my eyes can blink again.

And this is how it goes for the rest of the half with no fear from the Tottenham team at a hurried pace and our attacks as probing if not as fluid. There’s new found muscle in the ranks with the Man Mountain just that. He flies in at an open header, taking on three arsenal players, one of them out and winning the ball. Sagna is led over to our side of the field nursing a battered temple but decides the danger of concussion is better than whatever may be thrown at him, verbal or physical, from the Shelfside fanatics.

Steeds running about with his low centre of gravity, fighting three times with every challenge he makes, his little toe winning possession with the final stretch of is leg. It’s a great game. It’s an even match. We’re with them every step of the way.

With 5 minutes left before the break, I have flashes of the past before my mind. We always concede here before the break. We never go in ahead and the players seem to sense it too. We retreat a yard for the last two minutes with half time talk on every Spurs players mind. ‘Just make it to the half,’ they’re saying, ‘just make it to the half,’ and there’s loud applause and an audible out blow of breath as the whistle calls us home.

Up at the Bagel Wagon, it’s tension all round as one by one our gang converges. It’s the same look on every face and neither Oog, Chrissie, Gillian, Liv or my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) will dare say what’s on our lips and bubbling under the surface of every fast flicking set of eyes just in case we catch the same thought in each other ‘We could hold this you know, we could do it today.’

I stay inside for as long as I can knowing that every minute next to the Jumbotron clock is going to be as slow as a whole 90 at any other game but excitement gets a hold of me. I daren’t miss a second of the Derby and I’m back to my seat a good five minutes before kick off.

I splurge a quick ‘We’ve got to do this today,’ to Big Man as he nods his excitement back from way up in the clouds and the arsenal team walk out to the pantomime boos with their heads hung low and their shoulders low slung. Its the sharp comparison that flicks the switch in my head as the boys in white come charging out as one team, with one purpose and a date with destiny. Maybe we really can do this.

The first 20 of the second half plays much as before; the slinky smooth scum liked a coiled cobra waiting to strike, Spurs like a mongoose dancing about like featherweight boxer testing and probing to find another way through. Adebayor’s skied shot with the goal at his mercy is only topped minutes later by Berbatov’s chance to double our lead as he rounds the arsenal keeper. We’re all on our feet as he takes it beyond. My hands are at my face. Shoot, shoot! My fingers are in my mouth as he takes on the next man. Shoot, shoot! My arms are practically down my throat and out the other side and finally the ball is taken away as all the fans and Dimi alike are left stunned. There’s a yelp like a injured dog from the crowd. We all know the difference it would have made. We still holding strong but surely we can’t keep them out forever.

I’ve promised myself I wont look at the clock but I can’t help a glance. I’ve managed to stay strong for less than a minute.

Arms fly up high and we all get to are feet as some travesty is committed in front of our block. It’s a free kick to the arse and I know the routine. I hate a goal from an unjust foul. Don’t let this go…

The away fans make some noise for the first time in the game. I’ve seen the line of players merge into one as the ball’s flown in. The white shirts running out, the reds running in and finally Robbo disappearing into the melee as the balls falls into the net with no one to stop it. We all knew it has to come some time but it’s stupid to concede yet another set piece and from a team who aren’t much good at them.

Sixty-five minutes is the time it took. We know we can score again but no-one’s sure if we will. The fans look to the players for signs of belief and the players look to the fans for support. I’m willing the Park Lane to start their song, to drown at the visitors with a ‘Come on you Spurs’ but nothing comes. We’re all just as frail.

arsenal have the momentum but they don’t have the play. The match is as even as before but as more chances are squandered at out attacking end, more errors are made, more misplaced passes, more hasty, unconsidered moves. We groan and we groan as Keano has a good shot saved and Big Bad Tom miss-hits a volley after such a good game.

‘I thought that was in,’ says Omar and so did I. The ball came in from Chimbonda and our central giants shape looked perfect, his body position just right but just a scuffing today.

On the 80th it’s the blow we all feared; the second, the sealer. Fabregas, their play maker as ever, starts another move up the pitch with strikers in front. ‘Cover the runners,’ I hear from the voices behind and they do as Dawson and Kaboul smother movement from Van Persie and Adebayor. In five yards or so they’ll have to go to the man but he doesn’t need to be that close. At a good distance he unleashes the shot and there’s that terrible moment of disbelief when the ball stops in the netting, only accepted once the away fans cheer, like my eyes aren’t enough on their own.

‘1-0 and you fucked it up, 1-0 and you fucked it up’ sing the visitors, as if to let them score against us was criminal, like they’re not good enough to. It’s a strange way to look at it but it’s not their taunts that are getting to me today. It’s nothing we haven’t heard before. This is standard footballing stuff. Today I’m gutted because of us, because of the score. Sure we can equalise, we usually do but I don’t want that this season. I’m not interested in a draw. I want to win. I want the high. I want the satisfaction. I want to break the curse. I want to prove ourselves a force and a draw will do none of those things.

Before the 65th minute I’d been day-dreaming of it finishing 1-0. Every time I pictured so much as a flash of the scene tears welled up in my eyes. If we had won I know I would have cried, like some tragic and beautiful melodrama, the end of a tear-jerking blockbuster as the want-away son comes good or the old friends team up once again or the death of the heroes father is finally avenged. I knew I’d be in pieces. But however my heart would flutter I know I’d rather look a fool on Match of the Day than feel that kick in the guts once more, the one I know I’m going to feel in less than 10 minutes time.

Darren Bent s brought on for a last throw of the dice and yet more chances are missed as twice he muscles himself an opening.

‘Do think we’ll score if I leave?’ asks Omar with 86 on the clock.

‘Not this time,’ I say, ‘a draw isn’t enough.’

‘We just can’t beat these cunts,’ he says to me and I’ve never heard such a simple phrase sum up such a mess if feelings in my heart and my head. It doesn’t matter who we blame or what we change. It makes no difference who they are or how we play. This arsenal team was there for the taking but right now and for the last 8 seasons, for some reason, we just can’t beat these cunts.

Adebayor’s perfectly taken chest and volley completes are visitors’ dreams and gifts them the most flattering of scorelines and finally, almost mercifully, the torture is over.

I sit at my seat staring out at the empty pitch as my neighbours grunt me goodbyes and the stadium drains. I feel like a Scotsman on a craggy, Highland cliff with the wind in my hair as I contemplate our fate. It’s a good five minutes until I turn around to see one man left at the back of the block.

‘Come on,’ he says, ‘let’s go and get pissed.’ And with that my early plans to right this report disappear like the fans from the gates and I follow Oog down to the Victoria.

Recipe to forget about the darkest of Derbies:

• Post mortem with good friend until the every single detail of Spurs past, present and future has been picked through
• Beers down pub
• Learning to ride a BMX built for a three-year-old on the rest of a sunny afternoon
• Fish and Chips
• A cocktail party
• 1 Long Island Ice Tea
• 1 New York Sour
• 2 Cosmopolitans
• 1 Pink Gin
• Shake, strain, serve over ice
• Followed by a nice, warm, soft sympathetic and very, very accommodating night with one’s girlfriend

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 17th, 2007 at 4:16 pm and is filed under Bagel News. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.