Beef Bagel

No pain. No headache. Not a kebab in sight. I’m lying on a cloud, a bed so soft and pillowy it’s as if the angels themselves have been holding me as I slept. The sunlight shines a warm and delicate hue though the beige blind, not too bright to keep one awake but light enough to feel like each waiting day is a glorious summer. The walls, the carpets a luxuriant shade of cream and a cat of the same colour and class pads his way towards my head with a small a friendly meow.

‘Morning Danny,’

‘Meow’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Meow’ he bangs his head against mine.

‘Nice to see you too.’

‘Meow’

‘Have you any idea what I’m saying?’

‘Of course I do Bagel, good luck against the Chelsea scum today.’

‘What did you just?’

‘Er…I mean…meow.’

‘Oh, that’s what I thought you said.’

My parent’s polar bear of a cat, mine for many years too, leads me out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen, where he stands next to three bowls already full of a selection of delicatessen treats. He looks up at me over his prawns, his chicken breast and his sliced ham, like Oliver Twist.

‘Jesus Danny, what else do you want?’

‘Meow’

‘What is that, the cat for “surprise me”?’

‘Meow’

‘Ok, ok.’

I go to the fridge and pull out one of the old favourites from the days when we’d both be midnight feasting. I squirt the sweet psuedo-cream into a little bowl for my friend and some into my mouth for myself. The white, furry, eating/purring machine laps it up with a little wink of thanks in my direction.

‘No problem,’ I say as I wipe the cream from my mouth.

‘Morning,’ comes a voice behind. I turn around to see my father walking into the kitchen, four dead birds in his hands.

‘Will you help me with these?’ he lays the carcases down on the work the surface and begins to fill the kettle.

‘What are they?’ I ask with more than a little apprehension.

‘Pigeons,’ he says with a broad grin. He loves his weird and wonderful meats.

‘Been down Trafalgar Square this morning?

‘And this one’s a partridge. Nope a vegetarian friend of mine has just been shooting.’ I don’t even start on the nonsense of non-meat eating hunters. It’s too early and as grim as these things look somehow I feel that this is a life skill I should learn.

I think back to a time lost in the mountains in Scotland for half a day with friend after we’d wondered out from our cottage incredibly high one night. I remember our desperation and our hunger as we eyed up a lone sheep staring blankly in our direction, the little bell around its neck letting out a tinny ring as it moved its head to look at its more important concerns; perhaps a nice juicy patch of dandelion leaves on the other side of the hill. Do they ever get the idea that the grass is always greener? Perhaps the fact that they don’t is the only thing that keeps them going, like a surfer searching for the ultimate wave but in this case a sheep trotting about looking for the ultimate vegetation. Not quite as radical but you get the point.
We would have had no idea what to do with the thing if we’d managed to catch it, let alone have the balls to kill it with our bare hands. It was rather fortunate we didn’t when its farmer came to our rescue twenty minutes later. I don’t think his reaction would have been as generous if he had found us throttling his flock. Even country folk have their limits.

The birds lie with their heads twisted on their scrawny necks, their eyes half open. They could almost just look sleepy and this doesn’t help my will to rob them of their small dignity that remains but as my dad begins tearing the feathers from the wings of one, I come up with a way to overcome my humanity. My first bird is called ‘Terry’, my second ‘Lampard’. The feathers begin to fly as I discover a strange satisfaction in my work.

‘Who are playing today?’ asks my dad.

I hold up the sorry looking ‘Terry’, all but bald. ‘Chelsea,’ I reply with a slow smile.

‘Are you going to Synagogue this morning?’ he asks. I don’t get it. I haven’t been since I was 10. He hasn’t been since I was 10 and besides it’s Sunday. I shake my head, confused.

‘Well, you’ll need the help wont you,’ he explains but he doesn’t know the half of it until I tell him the full extent of the hoodoo. I begin to gush stats and figures, hopes and prayers whether he’s interested or not. I can’t help it. One day we’ll break the curse and every year is like record attempt with nothing to lose except the torment of the West London fans.

‘You’ll never beat the Chelsea! You’ll never beat the Chelsea!’

‘This feels like something else,’ I quip as I stuff my fingers up ‘Lampard’s arse or the new hole that I just tore him and after I’ve drawn his guts from his limp headless body I watch his blood mix with the water from the tap as I wash it from my fingers. How much I would enjoy such a blood letting today.

I go up stairs to wash the rest of me and as I reach for yesterday’s pants I pause for a minute in hope. Sometimes, sometimes there’s a spare pair here from the time I last stayed. I go to the draw and pull it open. There is a spare pair but not just any spare pair. Cushioned on a pile of white sheets and hailed in a sunbeam through the blind are my long lost, now found, lucky, home Spurs pants. There can be no better sign.

Pants firmly on, bags packed, my parents wish me, wish us good luck and I make my way down to the station. I drop my bags off in the Bakery, pick up the most important of all things today, my season ticket and get back to the station to wait for the White Hart Lane Express.

The platform is all but deserted and when the train pulls up I can hear the Chelsea fans singing in the last carriage along. Naturally, I opt for the quiet anticipation of a majority Spurs section as far away as possible. I hear mutterings from a small group of fat balding fans to my left and such phrases as ‘three point lane’ and I’m glad when it’s time to leave their company and their Chelsea stench as I make my way to the ground.

I arrive at my seat at 3.50pm with a perfect ten minutes to take in the atmosphere, cheer the team line-up and of course greet my neighbours before the game kicks off. There’s excited smiles as we exchange prayers and our looks to heaven.

‘Big day, big day,’ I say as I work my way to my place. They’re all here, Omar, Big Man and Little Man, No Name, Penfold and as I look over my shoulder I catch eyes with my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, and his sister Olivia as we try to lip read and understand each other’s hand signals. True communication breaks down but the sentiment is clear as day.

‘Come on you Spurs!’

When the game kicks off to an enormous derby roar it’s clear that everyone shares our feeling as the whole stadium sings as one as the first ball is kicked.

‘Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!’ We cry in hope to this years pick. Lead us to the promised land.
It’s as if the game has already been going on and it has, for the last 16 years. We want to win this game. We want it so badly. Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs! We urge our team on. We can do it. Win this game. Win this game.

The tempo of the play is as fevered as the crowd, with Chelsea not taking an instant to consider any move from possession gained in the midfield and it hits me why they’re so good. They’re not the athletes of Arsenal, lightening quick on the counter and able to cut you open with horrible ease, they’re not the amazingly efficient red machine of Manchester United, whose strikers will close you down and nowhere give you time on the ball. In parts they are capable of both these things but what makes them special is their solidity falling back and their team unit going forward. The minute they take the ball in the middle of the park, the whole front line know exactly which move is about to be made. Three or four players make runs at our defence and a ball is put through, to Drogba or Lampard or Robben or Essien and to another and another until the shot’s on. Each time the ball goes forward and each time at pace and a weakness is exposed inthe most flawless of defences. Throughout the ninety minutes, the number of goal bound efforts charged down by Ledley and Dawson at a five yard range is phenomenal. Their bodies must feel like tenderised meat.

Despite their ability, it’s us who get the first half chance as Hossam Ghaly, so confident on the break, holds off two Chelsea men as he charges towards their penalty area. He’s not that quick but he’s strong and good on the ball with an excellent eye for when a run is on. Twenty yards out he makes the shot but under pressure he can only dribble one in for Hilario to collect with ease.

‘We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, from the Lane, we are Tottenham, super Tottenham, we are Tottenham from the Lane!’ Any good play today is met by the loudest of unified songs from the home fans. We’ve got to take every chance we get and every good play must be rewarded, must be encouraged because while the scores are level there’s every chance it could happen today.

A few minutes later, it’s us again who get the next bite at the cherry when Jenas’ cross is narrowly missed by all as it runs dangerously across the face of the Chelsea goal.

Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap, clap-clap-clap-clap, ‘Tottenham!’ reverberates between the stands with a passion that would make any person love the game of football. The sound of a 30,000 strong chorus is a truly incredible thing.

After 10 minutes or so, the game settles, as much as the fixture can and Chelsea begin to show their class. They see more and more of the ball and despite excellent defending from our back line every move stopped feels like a lucky escape. Lampard gets the ball and blasts one from 30 yards out that’s about 30 yards too high. We wolf whistle his efforts but we know that’s only the first of many for him. Three more of those and he’ll start to get it on target; two more after and he’ll have scored.

A minute later and Lampard is at it again but this time it’s a foul on Pascal Chimbonda right in front of my eyes.

‘He’s making the most of that one,’ I say to Omar as he arches his back in the Platoon cover pose before he drops to his knees but it becomes apparent after the medic comes on, after his knee is strapped up that it’s more serious then my neighbour and I had thought.

‘Lampard,’ comes the cry to the tune of ‘Blue Moon’, ‘You let your country down, you let your country down, you let your country down, Lampard!’

‘Come on Bonders, get up,’ comes a voice from behind and we all share the secret prayers that we wont have to see Paul Stalteri take the field. I never had a problem with Stalteri until I saw Chimbondabonda. He is fantastic. He’s fast, he’s strong, he’s skilful, he’s as excellent going forward as he is at the back. He is the perfect full back. You can even play him at centre half at a push.

Play begins again with a sheepish looking Lampard. No card but he knows what the crowd are saying is true. There’s six players of that England squad on the field but out of all of them, yes, you would blame him for not doing his job in Germany and besides, he’s the only one out there who missed his penalty. Let’s hope he feels responsible too.

A ball over the top is run onto by Arjen Robben, who all seem to think is offside. He’s not and with the ball at his feet he’s baring down, one on one with Robbo. He’s an excellent player and the slim hope of salvation as he covers the last 10 yards to goal is pure torture as it’s virtually 100% that we’re about to be a goal down and long way from winning this game but like a great white knight in his Tottenham shirt, Ledley King comes from behind to slide in one of his impossible tackles, where the player keeps running only to find the ball removed from his feet.

‘Best tackler in the league,’ says Omar, shaking his head in wonder. ‘In the world,’ I’m thinking.

But it’s all the more hollow a minute later when the resulting corner kick first defended by a Tottenham head falls to a Chelsea player on the edge of the area. The player in blue takes a side ways shot and the ball creeps in just inside the post. 1-0 and you can almost hear the whole crowd’s incredulity as each person sees who it was.

‘Claude Makelele?’

Fifteen minutes gone and I’m not ashamed to say that I, along with everyone else at White Hart Lane, believe that just this one goal has killed the dream for another year.

The next 10 minutes pass with Chelsea dominating the play. They take shot after shot that are closed down well each time by our rock like defence but we’re just not making it count up front, if indeed we ever get it there.

‘It’s so easy, it’s so easy, at the Lane, it’s so easy, it’s so easy, it’s so easy, at the Lane.’ The Chelsea fans mock us with the tune to our own ‘Super Tottenham’ chant and they’re not the only one’s who are blue.

A Lampard strike brings a fine save from Robbo as the barrage continues until we finally get the ball in a meaningful area when Berbatov is fouled by Ferreira. Jenas lines up to take the free kick from wide, around 35 yards out. The delivery is excellent and my heart’s in my mouth as Michael Dawson makes contact with the ball and across it goes on a likely looking trajectory as I wait to see where it will end up. Even before the net bulges, the cheer goes up. It’s in! It must be in but all I know is the sound of the crowd as I realise that in the chaos my glasses have been knocked off my head. I want to celebrate. I am delighted, amazed but have to find my glasses before they’re crunched under Tottenham foot, not because they’re expensive and not because of the hassle of having to get a new pair but because without them I wont be able to see the rest of the game.

I duck down and scrabble amongst the jungle of jumping feet and feel for sure they’re as good as gone. My celebrations, though, are two-fold when I see their blurry outline, safe under No Name’s seat. I grab them tight and join my friends in the chaotic melee. All square and all to play for. The dream is on again.

We let Michael Dawson know that there’s only one of him and we and he delight in his first ever goal for Tottenham Hotspur. Will he ever score one more special than that?

Immediately, our spirits are soaring and the Chelsea fans are silenced. They only sing when their winning and we tell them what we think of their support.

‘Your support is, your support is, your support is fucking shit!’

They come back with a world of silence, not used to conceding goals and not used to scoring them against the champions or Chelsea at that, we go through the repertoire with as much as we can think of to continue the wave that our team is on.

The play has become much more even again with our attacks looking as meangful as theirs. Berbatov and Keane are playing well, with the smooth Bulgarian continuing the prowess of his European form. He’s no easy mark for the Chelsea defence. Ghaly’s running around like a man possessed. He wants to keep his place in the team and he wants to win. He chases every ball down and he continues to bring the play forward and start our attacks. As for Little Aaron, he’s even too much for even the booed Ashley Cole and he leads him a merry dance or two down the Chelsea left flank.

To Robbie Keane’s amazement Lennon puts a really good cross in. To his astonishment he is unmarked and has a free header at goal and to his disbelief, he misses the chance and the ball sails over the net. That’s as good as it gets against Chelsea. You’ve got to take anything they give you and Robbie knows it as he grabs his head in his hands

Little Aaron wins another free kick resulting in two bookings for the two man Chelsea wall, much to our cheers and a near miss again for Michael Dawson as JJ’s delivery is deflected just wide.

The whistle blows for half time and our cheers for our players turn to boos for John Terry as he pesters referee Graeme Poll as they walk off the pitch.

I motion up to Charlie and Olivia and the three of us talk over our excitement as we chew on a half time bagel. I go for a tuna and sweetcorn. Big mistake. Never again.

‘If we can hold them at 1-1 and we may be able to nick one at the end as their heads go down. They need the three points but a draw is a good result for us, so they’ll start to panic,’ hypothesises Charlie.

‘We can’t stop Chelsea from scoring for 45 minutes, we just can’t do it. We need to score another goal,’ as I give my verdict.

‘I feel lucky,’ says Olivia, ‘I just have a good feeling about today.’

We continue our chats and our breakdowns but it’s all irrelevant. We just…we just…oh God please, just let it be today.

I’m back in my seat seconds before kick off as I stuff the remaining bit of bagel in my mouth. My row are pleased I’m not late as usual. Boulharouz has come on for Ferreira and Robbie Keane’s now playing left midfield with Berbatov alone up front. It’s making a world off difference. We’re getting more possession off their four man diamond midfield and we’ve got real width now on both sides, exactly where they’re not covered. After mid week torture from Ronaldinho, Boulharouz is not faring any better against Keane, who’s just taking the piss, ducking and weaving and getting the better of the full back every time and after 52 minutes Keano gets a cross in deflected off Makelele that finds the feet of Little Aaron Lennon 10 yards out. A touch and a feint buys him space around Ashley Cole and to our utter disbelief he finishes like a pro and we’re 2-1 up.

Ballistic is not the word. Glasses on, I’m throwing myself onto heads I’ve never even seen before. I’m punching the air and slapping backs and high fiving the crew. We scream and we scream and we scream. We’re up with 40 minutes to play and we can barely hold on to our trembling bodies as we brace ourselves for the onslaught. Can we hold on? Can we break the spell?

Half an hour creaks by with foul after foul and card after card as Ghaly, Ballack, Terry and King all get their names in the referee’s book. Mourinho’s on his feet as we shout at him to fuck off. He goes for broke as he brings Shaun Phillips on for Makelele and Boulharouz back off again for Kalou. He goes three at the back and we sit back in our half and batten down the hatches to try to hold on for this unprecedented victory. Very soon though they have to go just two at the back as John Terry is sent off for his second yellow for some action unseen inside the box. He doesn’t complain.

Even with 10 men, we’re still under pressure and Berbatov’s shot from a JJ cross that he just couldn’t turn in is as good as it gets, as for the most part as it’s clearance after clearance from corner after corner as every one of our back line becomes a hero.

We’re all on our feet for the last ten minutes. You just can’t sit with this kind of tension and no steward is making us do so. My fingers grip each other, they my chest, my heart, throat as every time a ball is thrown in and every time we get just enough on it to see it clear. Ghaly commits a vague foul just inside our half and the Chelsea team immediately make the most of it by pushing Pole around, trying to incite Ghaly and get him sent off for a second yellow and it’s at this moment when our tension is relieved for perhaps what is the chant that I have enjoyed most in all my time at White Hart Lane. It is unison, it is loud, it is passionate but most of all, it is true.

‘That’s why you’re wankers, that’s why you’re wankers, that’s why you’re wankers, that’s why you’re wankers!’ To the tune of ‘Campbell loves Barrymore’ if you know how that one goes.
Keano makes way for Defoe, our only sub of the game. Why change a thing when the heart of our players on the pitch has been so flawless?

The last five count down in slow motion as finally, four minutes of added time is announced. The clock goes black and we have to guess the passing of the time, which I can only assume is a lot less rapid than I want it to be. Again and again we clear our lines until finally, Robben has the ball on the break and he comes inside to that area where he is so, so dangerous. I wont be able to live if he scores now. I know I’ll scream. I don’t know what will happen after that. My depression will be unparalleled.

He strikes the ball, a beautiful curling shot heading for the top, far, corner of the net and you can see Robbo’s eyes widen to moons when he sees it all too late and can only watch what will unfold. Somewhere, someone has decided that it will not be today. Not again. No longer shall this tyranny last. The upright shakes as the ball clatters into it and spins away for a goal kick.

The actions up the right end for a moment and we try to hold it up but Benoit Who knocks a long pass into touch and much to our amusement as the ball girl goes to hand it to Ashley Cole, the much closer Jermain Defoe motions for her to throw it back into the crowd. She does and it eats up valuable time as the Tottenham fans play a little volleyball. Finally the ball comes back and bounces about the pitch for one minute more; one minute of solid whistling from the fans.

Call time Poll! End the game! End it now!

He does.

There is no feeling that comes close to what I experienced next. I don’t recall the last time I felt such joy. Perhaps I never have. There were cheers and shouts and hugs bigger than any goal ever scored. There was not only relief that we’d broken the curse but the achievement. We’ve beaten the champions, our enemy. We out played them and we were there. My whole body fizzed like pins and needles and tears flowed from my eyes as I held my arms aloft and looked up to the heavens above White Hart Lane that night and saw the fireworks burn our celebrations into the memory of that sky forever. I will never forget that moment as long as I shall live.

By the time I gather my senses, there are no Chelsea fans left in the stadium. Our stands are still full and our songs still loud for our heroes to hear. After longer than we’ve ever remained together my crew and I shake hands and wave goodbye and well done. I stride up the rows to meet Charlie and Olivia and we all walk back in the same stunned silence, in which we stood before we left the stadium, just trying to take it all in.

I never usually drink on match day but this is a night to enjoy and I stay in N17 as long as I can. I meet my mates Chrissie and Will and Hugh we drink and we cheer and we share our delight, our joy, our astonishment at what we have been privileged to witness this day. Our post match post mortems slowly break down into drunken stories and slurred opinions and after a few hours, the pub that we helped keep singing long into the night is all but back to its regulars once more and it’s time for us to leave.

The amazing thing we discover are the people who’ve travelled to watch this game. There’s a large Swedish bloke in and England cap, a Dutch couple, two die hard Ajax and Tottenham fans, Yiddo’s through and through. We have their numbers for next time we’re in Holland. We met a Finish Spur called Jari, I think, who’d come all the way for this weekend just to watch the game. We meet a local Ghanaian with a fantastic gold toothed grin and I even heard today of a couple in New York who go to a certain bar in Manhattan to watch every single Tottenham game and when they watch what do they sing?

‘We’re the Yids in America, woa-ho, we’re the Yids in America, woa-ho!’ So this is not only dedicated to the team, to ourselves and to MJ but to every single Spur out there who watched that day. The day we beat the Chelsea.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 6th, 2006 at 9:59 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.