Spurs 1 - Man Utd 2
‘Wake up, wake up, it’s 10 o’clock and you’ve got to be at Spurs by 12.’
These must be the only words that could ever rouse me from two hours unconscious sleep.
I groaned. Well, I tried but all that came out was air across my red roar throat. I peeled open my mouth and licked away the gak that had glued it shut with what little moisture I had.
Wait a minute. The facts. 10 o’clock. Spurs by 12. Manchester United and I’m…I’m…on…a sofa. This isn’t my sofa. So, who’s sofa is it? I open one eye and survey the scene. Big white room. Strange girl asleep and…and…two men. Friends. Yes, friends. Jason and Ellis. The table. Beer cans. Oh. Beer cans and a Tequila bottle. Empty. Cigarettes, ash trays and empty wraps.
The full horror hits me and the pain begins. Brick Lane from 1pm the previous day and back to this flat in Clapton for 6 am via 4 bars, 1 club, a lot of beer and a pharmacy of pills. I’m still drunk. I’m still high and I’m a long long way from my season ticket in Battersea. The journey begins. The clock is ticking.
10.05am
We leave Kelly’s flat. She’s still asleep. I’m sure I was in there last night. She had asked me if I was single. She had asked me why I was but the tequilas put an end to all that. I sneak a look at the comatosed girl. Is she attractive? Right now she’s just sweaty and it’s hard to tell with her face buried in cushions. Oh well, another time Kelly.
10.06am
It’s really broad out there and I wish had sun glasses. We stagger down the street towards where we hope the station might be. My legs totter and drift but we’re making progress and at least it’s warm.
10.25am
Clapton station. Platform 1. Lying on my back. Warm sun on my face. Just let me die here.
11.00am
Liverpool St. Station. I stagger off the train and flail my hand goodbye towards my friends with a few words of the sort of drivel that only mates can understand.
11.10am
My bus arrives but uncertainty dawns on my frail mind. I’m feeling sick and I don’t know how long a can last on a warm and stuffy bus as it shakes me like a fizzy can from corner to corner. The question is, how much shaking can I take before I pop?
11.55am
I fall out the bus and gasp for air; safe but rather nauseous.
12.00pm
I look at the clock in my car. I’ve been up to my flat. The ticket’s in my pocket. 45 minutes to kick off. I catch myself in the mirror. This isn’t a good idea. I start the engine.
12.40pm
I’ve hared through London. My back street route has served me well but no radio. No radio. I can’t take the voices. The smell of my car is bad enough.
12.45pm
Sherringham Avenue, Tottenham. No spaces left but I must park here. I always park here. He may be a Hammer but he’ll always be a Yiddo. I find a space and throw my body from my car. The air is good. Fresh.
12.50pm
The game has kicked off. The echoes of the crowd bounce about the empty terraced streets like ghost from the past. My head gets clearer. The excitement builds. My pace quickens. My eyes open.
12.53pm
I can see The Lane. I hurry to the turnstiles.
‘Any goals yet?’ I ask the steward at the gate. A cheer rings out to answer my question. It’s loud but not loud enough. I know who’s scored and as I climb the steps to the most beautiful site in the world the tanoy confirms my thoughts.
‘A goal after 8 minutes for Manchester United from Wayne Rooney.’
Ah well, early days and at least it’s Wayne.
I shuffle my way down row 3 with a series of ‘Excuse mes’ and ‘Cheers mates,’ which turn into ‘Alright mates’ ‘How you doings’ and ‘How was the holidays’ until I’m in my seat. The Man with no Name on my left fills me in on the story so far. Really good guy. Knows plenty about the game but sometimes his breath could cut through bank vaults. Today though it’s me that’s wreaking. I can barely stand the taste in my own mouth.
I turn to watch the game. It’s Manchester United. It’s really Manchester United. After weeks and weeks of West Broms, Man Cities and Wigans, here is a real team. I forget how good they are. They’re always so well drilled. They chase every ball down from the strikers back and they do it in style. You can only really appreciate just how good they are to see them in the flesh. They really are a Champions League outfit.
‘U-Nigh-Ted, U-Nigh-Ted!’ comes the chant. And how could I have forgotten the fans? They have the best away fans in the world. Say what you like about prawn sandwiches at the Morgue but away from home they are second to none. They always fill out the stand and they always sing throughout every single game but then again perhaps we would too if we won as much as they did.
Now, before I go any further I must warn you that I don’t remember too much of this game. I wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to be making mental notes but what I can tell you is this. We played out of our skins that day and so did they. It was one of the best games I’ve ever seen live and not for the drama, because there wasn’t too much of that but the style and spirit, in which this game was played.
It was proper attacking football; end to end stuff. The chances were few but always well worked and every good pass and solid challenge and trick or skill was met by gasps form the crowd. There’s nothing like a good team to bring out the best from yours and this year our best was very nearly good enough.
Straight away there was a chance on goal at my end of the pitch. A run from Aaron Lennon, who had drawn the defence out wide and pass from the marked Robbie Keane found Jermain Defoe open in the box for a quick shot on goal. But with the United cavalry running back from the midfield the shot was under pressure and not good enough. Defoe’s side footed effort bounced wide of the post. He had been at the six yard box and against a team like this it doesn’t get any better and rarely does it get that good again.
It was great to watch Ruud ‘The Horse’ Van Nistelrooy. I forget how good he is and as much as I hate him, it’s a pleasure to watch Ronaldo’s pace and his blurry quick feet but the joy of the day for me lay in the game of two players, Wayne Rooney and Aaron Lennon.
It makes me grin like a child to think of the World Cup and the way we can play when I see these two young players twist and turn the way they can. Lennon scared the hell out of Silvestre and the United defence, who are certainly no slouches. There’s nothing better than to watch a defender back off and back off, hopping from toe to toe, not daring to challenge for the ball, knowing if they do that the ball and the player will pass them. This is what Lennon caused time and time again. He gets the ball at pace and puts his hands in the air in what I have dubbed the ‘I’m a little tea pot’ position and ducks in and out of defenders on his way to goal. Now all he’s got to learn is how to shoot.
There was only one poor piece of play all game and it was us that had to rue it. After 36 minutes, Lee was in possession on the left edge of our penalty box, shadowed closely by his countryman Park Ji Sung. It was clear to me exactly what was going on here. Lee didn’t want to lose face against his mate and Park was determined to show him up and show him up he did. Not wanting to clear the ball off the pitch and give away a throw or corner and not wanting to give away his pride, Lee held onto the ball and before long found himself trapped and caught by a tackle from Park. The ball ran loose to the six yard box, where an unmarked Wayne Rooney was waiting like the predator he is to put the ball passed the helpless Paul Robinson. We were 2-0 down with a lot of work to do.
Ironic cheers went round the crowd whenever Lee next passed the ball. I understood the disappointment from the crowd but I understood his motives. It was selfish but it was unfortunate and it had cost us dear.
The whistle blew and it was time to go see my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through). No bagel today. No money, no appetite, no stomach.
We greeted each other with our usual comments on each other’s performance in the first half.
‘Well played mate,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you’ve had a brave half,’ I replied.
I can’t even remember why anymore but the game is somehow down to us. If we’ve rested well and trained hard and concentrated all week then the performance of the team is down to us. We talked and smiled in the sunshine and it was only as I mentioned that I couldn’t make the next home game that I realised that his was my last of the season. My last game. I went back to my seat for the second half with hope in my heart and a sense of nostalgia in my head, along with last night’s fuzziness of course. My last game. I wanted to enjoy it whatever the outcome.
I was, however, blissfully unaware, that what was to happen that afternoon was entirely my fault. In all the hurry to get to the game, in all my racing around from North East to South West to North East again, I had forgotten the most important thing of all. I had forgotten to wear my lucky pants.
The second half began and both teams came flying out once more, if anything with even more vigor than the first and before I knew it we had pulled one back. A corner ball was lobbed right into the mixer and a touch from Jenas and a deflection of Ferdinand saw the ball settle into the net. Of course, I saw nothing of this. The action was down the other end and there were too many bodies in the way to make much out at all but when the Paxton Road’s arms went up and their cheers rang out we all knew what had happened. We were coming back.
I was on my feet and in the arms of all around me. My usual crowd and I went nuts. Actually, I think it was really just me that went nuts. I grabbed the Man with no Name, I dived on My Old Mate George and Penfold and I whooped like an American. I was right back up on my pills. Lucky it hadn’t been a last minute winner. I probably would have exploded.
The team came running back to the centre circle hugging and jumping just like us until Robbie Keane pulled away and turned to the crowd. He shouted and cheered and threw his arms in the air. I couldn’t hear him and I don’t know if he spoke at all but I knew what he was saying.
‘Come on, help us. Make some noise. We believe. Help us to believe.’ And we did.
We sang and we sang. We told them there was only one Jenas. We told the United fans they were shit and they only lived round the corner and when Michael Dawson put in a goal saving sliding tackle in on The Horse to stop a sure goal, we told them what was going to happen.
‘3-2! We’re gonna win 3-2, we’re gonna win 3-2, we’re gonna win 3-2. 3-2!’
As I sit here reliving this as I write, I almost feel like we were about to. But it was not to be.
There was plenty of good work from both teams but no one could break through. Murphy came on but to no avail. Lee Barnard, débutante and top scorer for our League winning Reserves side came on for Lennon to add some height to our are attack. He did well and caused problems but again to no avail.
As the clock ran down, we knew it was not our day. It was fantastic match. The boys had done well. They couldn’t have given anything more. They’d thrown everything at United. The kitchen sink had been on the pitch inside the first 5 minutes.
Michael Carrick hung his head. He had worked so hard and it was plain for all to see how much he’d wanted the win. If I hadn’t known that I would lose my seat at Spurs I would have run on to console him; to console the whole team. We all would have. But instead we did the only thing we could. We applauded. We stood and applauded until the last man had gone off the pitch and into the tunnel.
Three points dropped. Three games left and D-Day to face at the weekend.
Make sure you’re all wearing you’re lucky pants.
The Bagel.
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