Beef Bagel

Three little keys. Each no bigger than my thumb. Somehow I expected more. A remote control, a sensor pad, perhaps key card for a console to check my finger prints and retinal eye pattern. But no, just these. Three little keys.

I turn them over in my hand. I run my finger down their teeth. Each crest and fall a joy, an anxiety, a hope, a prayer, a wonder of what’s to come. New life or new death?

It’s started to rain. I huddle under the bus shelter with other waiting commuters, each body closing in for warmth, hands finding pockets, arms folding, protection against this forced proximity. I put my keys away. Like holding my wallet out in public, I’m suddenly aware of the riches in my hand, exposed for anyone to see and anyone to take. These are the most expensive things I’ve ever bought.

I carefully remove my hand and pad the outside of my jeans. The keys to my new flat nestle gently against my other two prized possessions, my passport and my season ticket. I give them a protective squeeze and trust that they’ll look after each other.

I look up at the countdown in this strange stop in this foreign part of town. The next five buses are identical. Each no good and each a choice of three random numbers that mean absolutely nothing to me. The two routes I need that go to White Hart Lane promise salvation every 10-12 minutes but the red LED’s read up to 18 mins and no sign of a bus that counts.

The crowds are gathering and the sky is getting dark. The small dry island of concrete flagstones struggles to cope with the demands of the feet that want it. Shoulders clash, coats rub and bags are pushed away as critical mass approaches. This property’s at a premium and it’s survival of the fittest as one by one it’s man over board until only the young, the old, then infirm and selfish have a place they can call their own. I’m exposed and I’m still waiting.

The rains continue to fall; a first drops of Autumn kind of rain. It’s not cold and it’s definitely damp but no matter how much you get hit, it never seems to get you wet. The only signs that it’s happening at all are the flinches from the drops that touch my eyes and the dark blue colour at the bottoms of my jeans, as the water soaks up in capillary action.

True to form, three buses arrive at once. All the same number and all of them full. The passengers breathe out as the doors slide open and the air brakes hiss and handful of people are expelled to the street. The remaining firm up in their new found freedom, ready to protect their space from the advances of the outside army. The crowd tut and shuffle as a handful squeeze on. The bus inhales once more and the doors slam shut. Again, we wait.

I look at my phone. 18.10 glares at me but I worry not. 16 minutes to Seven Sisters tube says the bus map and twenty minutes to meet my friends. The bus’ll turn up soon. No problem.

And so it does. I squeeze on board as did my predecessors before and stop by stop renegotiate my position until eventually I’m sat down to the comfort of my mobile’s pinball game and the large cushion of a larger man wedged in to my left. He’s warm and he’s comfortable and I can rest my elbow on him as leverage for my thumbs to hit those flippers as fast as they can. He doesn’t feel a thing.

Game by game I’m absorbed in my neon world and it’s only when I have to take the console from my sore, unblinking eyes and the travel sickness of my head that I realise the short distance we have gone. Stuck on Stoke Newington High Street and moving about as fast as Pascal Cygan on a good day, the doors open and close as more and more people take to the streets in favour of the comparatively lightening progress they can make on foot. But I know this road. I used to drive this way on match days and it’s a long, straight slog up to the stadium from here and there’s no way I’ll make it in the 5 minutes I’ve got. As a matter of fact, there’s no way I’ll make it in 5 minutes on the bus. I’ll be lucky to do 15 but it’s over an an hour on foot. No contest. I get back to my pinball and the bus creeps on.

Another five or ten games, half an hour down the road, several vessels in my eye fit to bursting and the bus has stopped completely, indefinitely and as it happens, forever. The driver makes an annoucement to the groans of the few left on board. The lights go off and we drain from the bus and onto the wet of the pavement below.

I make the call to my awaiting friends, ‘Adie, sorry mate but my bus has broken down on Stamford Hill. It’s a good half hour walk to the pub, so I wont be with you till half seven.’

‘That’s ok,’ replies my well traveled friend and fellow Spur, ‘the pubs are rammed anyway. We’ve found an offie with some shelter out the front and we’re drinking super strength cider like a gang of pikies.’

I chuckle at the image, ‘Save me a can.’

‘Already got you one,’ comes the reply. We’ve seen some distance together. He knows me well.

With half an hour on the clock, the rain still coming down, no umbrella and a hole in my stomach like the Grand Canyon, I gird my loins and set the pace.

With a pit-stop for chips the coal for my furnace, I drive my way over the hill and onward into the night. I stab at the crispy potatoes, eyes on the horizon chewing each with added grit, added determination and with irresitible strides force my way unto my destination. Holsten hoodies and training tops make way as I charge on down the High Road. The traffic stops, the lights make way and before long I see my compadres, Strongbows in hands and grins on their faces.

‘Here he is,’ comes the greeting as my reward is stuffed into my hand. I gratefully open my can and pour the sweet fizzy apple down my throat, 7.5% more courage with every swig I take. We will win this game tonight. We will.

Boo, one of our four does not agree. Czech born and Slavia through and through, she’s here to see that 1-0 deficit upturned, she’s loud and proud and she’s sitting with the Tottenham fans. Sparks may fly and all there’ll be between her and 36,000 angry Tottenham fans will be her boyfriend, Dan armed with a nervous smile.

Metres from The Lane and we’re met by two policemen forming a road block with cans of lager and bottles of spirits littered at the their feet. It’s clear what they’re here to do. I finish my can before I’m asked and lay it on the pile. Adie’s is robbed from him as he tries to sneak it through. The gormless pig pours out it’s contents onto the street from the highest point he can, basking in the glory of his small, small victory. The world is a safer place.

I way goodbye to my friends as they make for the lower tier of the away stand, today awash with white and blue. Slavia are condemned to the gods. It’s expensive to get here and the tickets aren’t cheap. I’m pleased to see they’ve taken a crew away at all and a noisy bunch they are.

As I make my way to my turnstile, I can hear the music from the Tottenham montage. Kick off is near and I break into a run. I’m not missing a second of this. I’m not missing a jot of my first European night down at White Hart Lane. I bustle my way through the crowds and into the stadium like a pro. I’m up the steps, into my block and out onto the stand in seconds. It’s beautiful. The floodlights create the hot bed, crucible atmosphere. The stadium’s full, the crowds are singing. An unfamiliar team graces our lush green pitch. Dressed like Wolves but named like a World Cup team, they’re not phased. They do this every year and they’re here to do a job.

The Tottenham XI are here to do one too. We’re dressed all in white. I’ve never seen us like this before. We look like Galacticos, the white giants of Real Madrid. The question is, will we play like them as well? The whistle blows and we kick off to roars of support from the home fans. This game has been long in the waiting and we’ve got a slump to pull this team out from.

‘We love you Tottenham, we do, we love you Tottenham, we do, we love you Tottenham, we do, oh, Tottenham we love you.’ We tell them we’re still behind them.

With injuries aplenty it’s a fairly predictable XI with Lee in place for Assou-Ekotto, Davenport for Ledley, Ziegler on the left and Mido and Robbie up front. We’re by no means looking hot but we’re comfortably in control. In control that is until Reto Ziegler is on the ball. We’d all been hoping for some genuine wing play from our only left midfielder but it soon became clear why he isn’t usually played.

I don’t know if it’s a Slavia plan, perhaps he is seen as our weakness but every he time he gets a touch he is set upon by three of the players in orange, all converging on the poor Swiss youngster at break neck speed. As if this isnt enough, when he isn’t on the ball the same three pass triangles about him as he runs around like a piggy in the middle. Soon enough, he gets the idea and as the game wears on, he affords them the space to move up the flank.

Thankfully, elsewhere we’re in control. Zokora is on top of the midfield, going from strength to strength as each game comes and goes. Every match minute he spends on the pitch, he is becoming the player we want. He can be Makelele, he can be Essien, he can be Vieira and most of all, he can be Carrick.

Slavia are playing a heavy game. They know how to get a result. Every player pulls shirts blindside to the referee. Every player goes in with a heavy shoulder. They’re doing the job on any weaker player but they get no such joy from Didier. He turns and circles and re-turns in that way that all the best anchor men do to afford them that fraction more time, that inch more space, until room opens up for that pass that they need.

Still though we’re looking toothless but at least we’re looking more threatening than we did against Liverpool. We’re winning free kicks from heavy handed Slavian play and even the odd corner too as Lee does his usual double step over and deflected cross that goes behind and very soon we see why Ziegler’s on the pitch.

His set play delivery is the bet on the field. His left foot whips in corner after corner and every time the keeper must act to prevent a goal. We go close with ohh’s and ahh’s as Davenport nods one passed the post, this time from a Jenas effort as Spurs play corner kick ping-pong and Slavia dice with death.

It’s good to see JJ getting a warm reception from the Park Lane as he goes to take the corner. All the talk about me is of his terrible miss at the weekend. No one mentions the ground he covered to get in position for the chance in the first place. So it warms my heart as the rounds of applause start and the fans point and bless him,

‘Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!’

He’s doing his job as usual. Running tirelessly box to box whether he plays the ball well or not. He’s always there and I respect that more and more as I shout at Chimbonda failing to get back and cover after he loses possession from a surging run deep in enemy territory.

‘Get back to him,’ I scream.

‘He’s trying,’ Omar tells me, teeth brushed today thank God, ‘but he’s too knackered.’ We afford a wry chuckle as Dawson covers his full back and halts the Salvia drive but it does go to show the efforts the much maligned Jenas goes to.

After 45 the whistle goes, as is it’s custom and I go upstairs to see my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through.

No bagel today. No money and no hunger and I can’t help but wonder if I’m tempting fate again. Charlie’s sister, Olivia, laughs at us as we fuss over our rituals and superstitions and I have to confess that I’m not even wearing my lucky home pants. The sad truth is I’ve lost them and even still as I write this, I can’t help think that our diminutivedomestic position is no coincidence. I’m making a mental note to reinvest.

Back to our seats for the second half as the Park Lane crew tease the tracksuited and training Slavia bench,

‘Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?’ Good question really. I haven’t heard of a single one of them. Do they know who we are? Very soon, we let them know.

‘We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham from the Lane, we are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, we are Tottenham from the Lane.’

The game kicks off and the coach from Prague must be some Winston Churchill or perhaps have broken out the steroid syringes left over from the Soviet days. They’re full of life and added strength and they’re matching our endeavours. Playing like a home team now, they exploit the space afforded by the backing off of Ziegler as their full back runs unchallenged into our third of the pitch. A good chance and save before half time tested Robinson with the very same move and now the Slavian’s got the idea. He makes good progress a few times down our exposed left side.

The home crowd’s songs begin to fade as the away team start to look our match with one Prague player in particular proving no slouch as he matches JJ for pace. The rake thin and Crouch legged Svento is their left winger and the man can run. Where was he during the summer window?

The Tottenham voice is surpassed by the the minority in the corner with their thick foreign accents as they stamp out their songs.

Ba-ba, bang, bang, ‘Slavia Praha!’ ba-ba, bang, bang, ‘Slavia Praha!’ Their ‘r’s roll out across the stadium.

‘Cor, this is the most boring game I’ve ever seen,’ screeches the Junior Harpy behind me. For once I tend to agree. I daren’t look but I know she’s gathering body mass by the day. I can hear a slight muffling of her consonants as the puppy fat around her face is replaced by genuine lard that restricts her mouth sounds. At least there’s some hope, even if the cavity of her body is increasing.

‘I’d rather look at the rain.’ Again she is right but I’m not sure if she’s looking in the same place as I am. It’s true, it’s been coming down all game. You can see the spray off the ball as it kicks the water up from the grass but the best sight of all is something altogether more exquisite.

If you look straight up, it’s possible to see sheets of glistening rain drops, like dust lit up in a sun beam. An angelic flow of nymphs and fairies like something out of a magical wood. I wish I had the words to describe this beautiful sight but this is football and it all seems out of place.

I could have stared at the rain for the rest of the match but there is work to be done and on sixty minutes with MJ’s clock-like regularity he makes his first change. Teemu Tainio comes onto the pitch to take the place of the struggling Reto Ziegler and the crowd sings his welcoming song. This is the change we’ve been looking for and instantly we’re solid and threatening once again.

Free kick after free kick is squandered as JJ, Murphy and Mido fire high and wide and it’s only after 70 minutes when we make the second change that we become the force we should be and the crowd are behind the team once more. Danny Murphy makes way for Hossam Ghaly, a player it’s never been my privelage to see so far in the flesh. It’s a treat worth waiting for. With the build, the hair, the skin tone and the movement of JJ, it’s no surprise when he takes his place on the right wing and Jenas is moved to the middle.

He looks more like a natural winger than JJ, although a central player by trade. He get’s himself to the by-line with ease, he comes inside as he beats the full back, he puts crosses in high and crosses in low and most of the time, they seem to get there. As I watch him in the distance his body position as he touches the ball is that much more of a wide player. He’s said in the press that he can hold down a spot and I’m beginning to think he’s right.

On 79 minutes, Ghaly chests down a Chimbonda cross for Keano to bury in the net. We jump, we applaud but it’s not so much elation as palpable relief. I catch the eyes of one of the lads in front. We shake our heads. We look to the heavens. At last. It’s been a long time in coming but after 500 minutes of Tottenham play, we’ve finally broken the duck.

With 10 minutes to go and 2-0 down on aggregate, Slavia open up in their attempts to come back. They know they’ve a mountain to climb.

They reap very little and nearly concede another as a Robbie Keane’s header from the Hossam Ghaly cross is judged to be offside. With no Jumbotron to help us we’re still celebrating hard until word filters round that the goal was never given.

‘Yeah, just er…stretching my back,’ says Omars buddy as he continues his mock calisthenics.

Seconds later, we’re all at the same gag as it’s Mido’s turn to miss with his head. That man again, Hossam Ghaly puts in a fantastic cross and from 5 yards out Mido does what we can only hope he will never do again. Let’s get all those misses out the way now, shall we, when it doesn’t count? After all, if he’s no good with his head, he hasn’t got a lot else.

The whistle blows to the Tottenham cheers and I meet up with my friends once again. Boo is not happy,

‘Fucking shit,’ she exclaims, ‘my first and last time.’ I know how she feels. I remember a game down at Pompey on Boxing Day a few years ago. At least she had a roof to protect her from the rain. It turns out that the nearby crowd were indeed less than sympathetic towards the lone Slavia Prague guest and Dan was relieved by the scoreline to say the very least.

A few beers by Northumberland Park Station and catch ups on drunken weekend exploits as yet to be traded and it’s time we were getting back. We catch the last train home and dissipate down the Victoria line until I’m on my own, on my way back from Vauxhall. I’d promised myself a little visit, just a peak at my new place before I went home but it’s late and I’m kind of drunk, so I make do with some nuggets instead as I say goodbye to my local dirty chicken shop.

They let me off the five pence, of which I’m short. I’ll miss that. I wonder if they’ll be so generous at my new place?

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 29th, 2006 at 6:04 pm and is filed under Match Reports. 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.