Arsenal 2 - Spurs ?
11.00am GMT. I am on plane. I am scared. This has nothing to do with the flight. The bumps and jumps of the turbulence are no worry for me and it’s got nothing to do with the airline food. My knuckles are white and my brow is furrowed. Why? Well, if you’re reading this you should already know why and I’ll bet you’re scared too.
It’s kick off in one hour. 12 o’clock. High noon. Very high noon for me. 30,000 feet high noon and I won’t know what has happened for another 12 hours. Twelve hours.
This is the most important day of the year. It’s derby day. It’s Arsenal vs. Tottenham but this time it’s no ordinary derby. Today is the most important encounter between these two giants of the game for as long as I can remember. It’s winner takes all. Fourth place at stake; the final Champions League spot and the bragging rights, oh the bragging rights and least of all, not to mention a certain bet with a certain Gooner buddy of mine. All eyes will be fixed on this game, all that is except mine, which will be fixed on my stowed tray table, all too close on the back of the seat in front of me.
Today of all days I have work; the job of a life time. I’m flying out to the beautiful Philippine Islands for 16 days, doing the job I love but at the cost of missing the team I love and at their most important hour. I cannot know what takes place at Highbury this afternoon but I have thought about this game all season, pictured every move, every touch in my head; the heroes, the villains and most of all the drama, the sheer drama of this game to end all games.
12 o’clock, Highbury Stadium, London. The crowd roars. No ‘Library’ atmosphere today. This is North London at its loudest. The fans want blood.
The red majority chant their tune, to which we have no likeness, ‘Arrr Snel, Arrr Sneal, Arrr Snel,’ and the away fans shout back with their far smaller number but far greater heart, ‘We are Tottenham, We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, From the Lane, We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, We are Tottenham, From the Lane.’
The songs roll back and forth through the repertoire until the first signs of red and white and white and blue come into the light from the darkness of the tunnel. The unison breaks and the crowd go to 11, to a sea of ‘Go on,’ ‘Come on you Spurs,’ ‘Yeah’ ‘Arsenal’ ‘Come on you Gunners’ and almost any combination of words but all of it, all of it with passion and pride.
The teams line up on the pitch; Arsenal led by their captain, Henry and Tottenham by Captain for the day Robbie Keane, no Ledley King today. The captains shake hands, as do the rest of their teams to each and every opposite number. The hand shakes are hard. The smiles are tight and eyeball bores into eyeball.
The players take shape to the songs of the fans and the whistle blows to a roar that can be heard in the south London flat where I write this now.
Arsenal have possession and quickly show the assurance on the ball that is the hallmark of their game and has been since Wenger arrived. They stroke it round the midfield but all to lazily because from nowhere Jermain Jenas stretches out a long leg and intercepts the pass. Already a break is on. Their defence’s eyes open and their bodies widen as back off the ball, retreating towards their goal. A drop of his shoulder and JJ draws the centre backs. There’s space in the middle and he knocks the ball back and all eyes wait for the oncoming runner, Jermain Defoe. Flamini runs to cover and the race is on. The two bodies sprint to the ball and the inevitable head on collision. Defoe arrives and fires the shot but the cover tackle is good and the ball is deflected out for a corner. Applause and cheers.
The centre backs jog up the pitch. Michael Carrick goes out to take the kick. Fingers point as the crowd’s wishes reach out for their so important playmaker. ‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo.’
The kick is good and is met by the head of Michael Dawson, as he climbs and fights to win the ball but the contact is only partial and the ball falls wide for a goal kick. A hard chance missed but we have shown our intent. Game on. Stop us if you can you scumbags.
6 minutes gone.
The game gets tight. Arsenal have the ball but their passes are less and less searching in respect of our hard working midfield and solid defence. Tainio chases about from red shirt to red shirt and each time the ball goes back away from our goal. A few through balls make it beyond but Dawson is on form. He has taken the mantle from Ledley and must be the rock at the back for the more junior Callum Davenport. A ball comes over the top and Dawson runs to meet it with his trademark solid head, as if to prove the point.
The ball continues to travel about the midfield and possession is won and lost until seeing the space on the right hand side, Michael Carrick chips one up to the flag for Aaron Lennon to run down.
The left side of the Arsenal team is no match for the pace of youngster from Leeds. They haven’t had to cope with anything like this all season and after a lot of games and a Champions League run and with Flamini out of position, there’s very little contest. Lennon puts his foot on the ball right on the bi-line and pauses for a second. He’s face to face with Flamini and this is where the Arsenal man can play; midfielder by trade and skilled enough at one on ones but who’ll get the better this time?
Lennon fakes. He fakes again and starts to move the cat and mouse game closer and closer to the goal. He dodges and weaves and looks for the space for the cross and still the action gets closer and closer until the pair cross the line to the penalty box and the defender makes his move. He slides. He makes contact and takes the ball but through the player. A thousand shouts go up for a penalty but the referee ignores them. ‘Play on,’ he says. The outraged Lennon gets up, Keano chops his hands at the ref and Flamini skulks away into the shadows.
‘The referee’s a Gooner, the referee’s a Gooner,’ shout the fans from both sides.
Play continues. 28 minutes on the clock.
The ball is booted out high by Lehmann and brought down nicely by Henry off his chest. Henry holds hard against Dawson and waits and pushes and waits. Dawson tries hard to win the ball but back up has arrived and Henry slips the ball across to the onrushing Fabregas, who’s one on one with Callum Davenport on the edge of the box. The Spurs youngster backs off just a little too much and affords the Arsenal player the space he needs to shape a ball around him and into the corner of the net. Robbo saw it all too late and barley had time to dive.
‘1-0 to the Arsenal,’ sing the crowd,. Keano claps his hands to lift his team and Callum Davenport looks down. He is shocked. He is upset and he is responsible. Dawson runs over to him and gives him a talk. We’ll never know the words but every centre back must have felt the weight of the team on his shoulders at some time in his career. He knows what to say and his words make the difference.
The teams take their shape and as the Arsenal shout dies down, there’s only one song that can be heard, growing and growing, ‘Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs.’ If the Lily Whites needed encouragement, then encouragement they’ve got. 5,000 Tottenham fans sing like 50,000 and the game kicks off again.
33 minutes on the clock.
Play continues in end to end fashion. With at least a draw needed for Spurs, the game has opened and chances begin to take shape at both ends. Shots from the midfield inch wide and through balls are beaten by the skin of a defender’s boot. All that is, until stoppage time when Henry holds the ball up, again with his back to Dawson. The runner comes once more and once more the pass is good and Callum Davenport finds himself face to face with Reyes.
Reyes ducks and fakes and tries to create the space that Callum gave so easily before. But not this time. Davenport stays close, stays strong and shows the enemy no respect. They inch into the penalty box and deciding he’s backed off far enough, Davenport makes his move. Reyes moves. Davenport slides and takes the ball cleanly; a beautiful tackle but all to far from the ref. Reyes leaps under no contact and roles on the deck in front of goal. Penalty.
Players crowd the referee. Cards are bandied about and Martin Jol glares at Wenger, who practices his best, ‘I did not see it,’ for the post match interview. But the injustice remains and slowly the crowd quietens its insults. Thierry Henry places the ball on the spot. He strikes and scores. He doesn’t miss those. He never does. 2-0 and the whistle blows for half time.
The game may have stopped but the fans have not. Announcements over the tannoy are lost and activity on the pitch ignored as both sets of supporters scream their song book at each other throughout the entire 15 minute break.
By the time the players take the field once more, the pitch has become a crucible. Play is about to start but Robbie Keane steps back and holds his hand high in the air. He turns to the Spurs players and calls them over. They players huddle and as they listen to Keano’s rousing words they can make out one clear voice from the crowd, a unison of fans once more, ‘Come on You Spurs, Come on You Spurs.’ The players break and the game kicks off once more.
Play begins at pace. Challenges fly in from all angles. There is no time on the ball. Tackles crunch in all over the midfield as both managers have clearly called to shake up the other’s team and as Teemu Tainio slides in to block a pass from Gilberto, the ball bounces clear to the feet of Jermain Defoe.
Defoe controls the ball with the outside of his boot and starts his run. With the Arsenal back four between him and goal he brings the ball forward in that fluid controlled way that only he can. Lennon and Keano make runs into space, the defenders take notice and back off, torn between the runners and the man with the ball. Eboue runs for Keano and Jermain’s left with three as he reaches the edge of the box. Lennon calls for the ball and as Flamini take his first step towards the runner, Defoe sees all the space he needs. He pulls the trigger and the centre backs watch in awe as the ball shapes high, up and over their shoulders and loops down into the top right hand corner of the goal. The Gooners are stunned. Tottenham erupts.
Defoe runs over to the shrieking Spurs fans and slides into the feet of the crowd on his knees. The team surrounds him. The man who’s found it so hard this season has just made it look so easy. Jermain Defoe is back.
Henry and his men wait positioned in the centre circle. He rocks the ball back and forth, a bad taste in his mouth as the Yiddos jog back. Kick off. 52 minutes gone.
Arsenal lose the ball immediately and the Tottenham onslaught begins. Shots rain in from the midfield as Carrick takes control. Player after player is put through; Jenas, Keano, then Lennon and even Tainio but not Defoe. No, Jermain Defoe is on fire and hungry for another. He does all his work himself, taking on man after man, the only thing stopping him are the hands of Lehmann or the lucky toes of a terrified defender. We’ve got them on the ropes.
And on the 70th minute in a moment of panic Aaron Lennon is brought down again. A fake shot and pass from Jermain Defoe found Lennon on the edge of the box. He ran past Senderos, who brought him down with a clumsy arm.
‘Penalty,’ shout all in white but ‘Play on,’ says the ref. Shouts of incredulity come up from the crowd and the songs begin.
‘Same old Arsenal, always cheating.’
The clock ticks on and Tottenham’s pressure remains unrewarded. We have to score the second goal. We have to equalise. 85 minutes on the clock. Tensions are frayed, fingernails bitten to the nub as still we find no way through the resilient Scummers, determined to keep their miserly lead.
The board goes up on the sideline for Spurs. A substitution is being made. Martin Jol roles the dice and goes for broke as he replaces Teemu Taino with Lee Barnard. Robbie Keane and Lennon go to walk back to the midfield but Barnard stops them both as he runs on. He puts one hand on each of their shoulders, turns them around and points. It’s clear to all what the message is. Four up front.
The onslaught becomes a frenzy as ball by ball is smashed towards the Arsenal goal. Bodies fly in left and right until a shot from Michael Carrick deflects high and wide and back towards the Tottenham goal to the feet of Thierry Henry. All but one committed, Michael Dawson is one and one with the French maestro.
‘Cool head, cool head,’ he whispers over and over as remembers the words of his mentor. He backs off and off as far as he dares. Ledley King watches from the sidelines, ‘Cool head, cool head,’ he whispers as he wills then power to Dawson.
Henry makes his move and unphased by the tricks Dawson goes the right way and stretches out his boot to intercept the ball. But it bobbles. A cruel bobble and the ball bounces over his leg and Henry runs on to face Robbo and the goal. Robbo comes out but with one touch the keeper is rounded Henry flicks the ball to the goal line. He runs to the crowd, back to the ball as it rolls across the grass. Robbo and the Tottenham faithful look on helplessly but just as the ball reaches the white painted grass a foot slides in. The ball is struck hard away from its destination and high up and out of play. No goal. Henry turns around in fury as the Tottenham player is lifted to his feet by the grateful keeper and the fans sing out, ‘Davenport, there’s only one Davenport, there’s only one Davenport, there’s only one Davenport, Davenport!’
89 minutes on the clock.
Carrick’s on the ball. He passes through to Robbie Keane on the edge of the Arsenal area. He dummies and shimmies and looks for the pass, the shot, the move until out the corner of his eye he sees the blond hair of Lee Barnard as he makes for goal. 90 minutes. Keano loops the ball up. Barnard jumps. He climbs for the ball. He rises high and gets a clean contact on the ball and fires it to the top corner but the fingers of Lehmann get the touch and the ball goes out for a corner.
Carrick runs to the flag to take the kick. The Tottenham defenders run forward. The Arsenal players run back. This has to be it. Carrick strikes the ball. The perfect corner right into the box. The players climb. JJ is under it closely marked by Toure. It’s going to be a 50-50 header as both men fight for the touch. Elbows entwine, eyes open wide, heads cock back ready for the shot but just as the ball is about to reach the pair a black shape comes into view; a solid black mass commanding it’s way through the crowd. The fans hold their breath and the figure climbs higher than all to make the contact that counts. The ball sails into the net. Lehmann is left rooted and the white shirts bundle Robbo.
The Arsenal players look down, hands on their hips, none daring to make contact with another, let alone the manager as the crowd in white jump and jump and jump. ‘England’s No.1, England’s, England’s No.1!’
Slowly the noise dies down as the teams realise there is still time to play. The board goes up. 3 minutes of added time. The game kicks off one last time and Arsenal push. They hold the ball tight around our penalty area as all our players become defenders. Defoe and Keano get involved, harrying every pass that’s made, closing them down, affording each man as little time on the ball as they can.
Pires tries a looping cross but Dawson rises up with his giant frame and heads the ball clear to the half way line. Eboue awaits but the ball bounces up high and over his head and before he can think Lennon is passed him and on the ball. The Gooners rush back as the nippy midfielder brings the ball in from wide. Their pace serves them well and some small order is quickly restored but Lennon is still on the ball and once again face to face with Flamini. Cat and mouse once more. He ducks, he faints, he double faints but Flamini stands firm. They pass the line into the box and Lennon runs. The two are neck and neck and just as Lennon gets his foot round first Flamini does the only thing he can and swipes. This time the whistle blows. This time it’s a penalty.
The entire stadium explodes. Fans hold they’re heads, hearts in mouthes. Players crowd the referee. Commentators talk of shocks, last gasps, upsets and spew facts and stats of penalties and derbies of games gone by and somewhere, high in the air one man sits alone, unknowing.
All is chaos, all but for two men. Robbie Keane picks up the ball and puts it down on the spot. Jens Lehmann stands in his goal. The two men are still. Thunder cracks on this warm afternoon and the grey green heavens open with rain; thick thick rain. Robbie Keane looks up at the sky into downpour or is he looking at it something else, someone else? He feels the cool water against his face. The ninety minutes wash down his cheeks. He stands side on and looks down on the ball, hands on his hips. Rain flows down the twists his hair each drop beating a rhythm on the ball but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t see it. He only sees the ball. He turns his head to take one look at Lehmann; one look into the heart of the keeper. Which way, which way? His eyes narrow. He shoots.
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