Beef Bagel

I’m sitting in the airport. The flight is delayed but that’s not altogether a bad thing. Myself, Nick The Gherkin and my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) have been racing against time, bad weather and a car that wont do more than 60mph up a hill to get back to Murcia and catch the flight back home.

My head’s been buzzing since we hit the road fresh from being turfed out of bed from our hotel in Malaga a good four hours ago and it’s only now that we’ve made the check-in and cleared immigration that I’ve finally had the chance to unscramble my thoughts on what has been a very European experience.

It’s like I’m spinning on a merry-go-round and every time I stop, I get off in a different place. Each time I think about the game and all that happened I feel a different way about it. Nothing seems certain, not even the facts.

“Sit anywhere,” says a toothless old Spur as we compare our paper printed tickets to the jumble of bodies across the terraces at the Stadium Ramon Sanchez Pizjuan. Each red and white seat of this roofless structure comes complete with a small, brown pool of rainwater. The heavens have been open all day and there’s 55,000 prayers inside here tonight hoping that they’ll stay tight shut.

Up in the gods of this ground is a spectacular view. What looked like a half built concrete monster from the guts of the ground has opened out into a full amphitheatre with a fine looking pitch, the stage for our show. I feel precariously balanced on this cliff-like raking with the seating so steep there’s a genuine fear that one good celebration could send us all tumbling.

Below and beyond the Sevilla hardcore are waving their flags as they sing their unfamiliar songs in their unfamiliar accents, their defence against our travelling voice. We sing it right back. We’re not afraid of them, second place in La Liga or not. We haven’t so much as even drawn a game in this cup and we’ve no reason to think we’re going to do so now. There’s no anxiety like we’re facing one of the English big four. There is no form, there are no records. But this is no Slavia Prague or Bruges. This is a real European team and at last a true test for Tottenham Hotspur. How good are we? How far have we come?

The crowd comes to life as the players enter the stage and as we make out our North London champions so many metres below we know it’s time to test out our voice.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!” we sing at full pelt and to our joy our hero turns round, clapping his hands up high in the air.

“Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!” comes our reply. We are here and we can be counted.

The stadium roars at the sound of the whistle and we take control of the ball. We’ve come out all guns blazing in our Euro-brown strip, a once unpopular early season choice, now so associated with a flawless UEFA record. Immediately our forwards storm up the pitch on the first raid into the enemy at the other end of the field.

There’s a flash of the ball as it comes, from the left, a shot, a deflection and…oh my God…it’s in….it’s fucking in and we go mental. I turn to Charlie as he does to me, surprise written large on our faces and just a split second of silence before we’re hugging and screaming and dancing the Yiddo Dance. Less than a minute and half on the clock and we already know that we’re going to go through.

“There’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano,” we all cheer as the crowd collects its screams into unified song, “KEANO!”

It’s an incredible feeling; this prestigious occasion, this enormous stage and the knowledge that we are a true force in Europe. There is no question as to whether we’ll win, it’s by how many goals will we do it?

When I take the time to notice that the game has once again restarted it becomes clear that Sevilla are no push-overs themselves but we are containing them, out-playing them and we show them no fear.

And then, and then it all changes. Bit by bit, referee Alain Hamer is deciding the way he wants this game to be played. What starts off as his desire for a lighter less physical game becomes more and more ridiculous with each new jaw-dropping decision he makes. One by one the defenders are disarmed of each of their weapons. First no man may muscle another off the ball, then no shoulder to shoulder whatsoever, no slide tackling from behind even if not through the man, then no going to ground at all until finally as Berbatov is sandwiched between two defenders to jump for a ball and the foul is called against him, the game has fallen in to madness. None of our players may challenge for the ball.

The injustice is complete when a defensive mistake sees Sevilla striker Adriano one on one with Robbo. I look down in horror at the action beneath my feet as the film in my mind moves into slow motion. Adriano baring down, Robbo advancing; a car crash unfolding before my eyes; impossible to turn away but in a brilliant piece of keeping, showing us just why he’s number 1, England’s finest makes an extraordinary save with his outstretched glove to deny the certain goal.

Hamer runs into the box. He blows his whistle. He points to the spot. The Tottenham fans about me are screaming but I can’t hear a thing. I’m staring down in disbelief as Robbo and our boys surround the referee in a way so very un Spurs. Their fury is as clear as ours. Hamer shakes his head and motions them away and all I can to is watch as this daylight robbery unfolds.

You can feel the anger from our goalkeeper’s body as he visibly shakes with contempt for the ref. He flings the ball away and turns his back in disgust, while Hamer shows him a card.

The travesty of a spot kick is put away in cheeky cool fashion by the red hot Kanoute but I can’t help but be impressed as the local crowd come to life. Fifty thousand Spanish fans cheer as one, almost as if they’re screaming in pain. It’s an incredible sound and despite my anger it reminds me just why I love this game. The passion, the drama; where else can you see so many feel so much so completely all together?

There is no doubt in my mind that we will score another goal, that we will win this game but the influence of this match official does not end here. He continues to find in the home team’s favour, a crooked judge in this kangaroo court. Every minute the whistle blows and every time this staggering umpire finds a reason to halt our play. We are not allowed to take part in this contest except as mere spectators.

“It’s like another game,” says Nick shaking his head as he turns flabbergasted to Charlie and I. He’s hit it right on the head. It is another game, closer to netball than football and we have no idea how to play it. What are you supposed to do when you cannot challenge for the ball? Should they stand there and wait for the opposition to lose the ball?

It’s here that the game turns nasty. In the tier below we can see chairs flying and people running but most of all the Spanish police striking blow after blow, landing their batons down hard on the heads of the Spurs. Just like the scenes in Rome, the English fans are under attack only this time it isn’t on the news. It’s here and now and it’s right where I stand.

The riot ready squads of these blood thirsty officers have come up into the second tier now, only metres from The Bagel and friends as more of our numbers are bludgeoned for the crime of simply being there.

No one is fighting but the police just push us back. They begin to herd us into the corners as our front line retreats and retreats until there is nowhere left to go. The people at the front can only raise there hands to cushion the blows raining down upon them as these pigs continue their senseless onslaught. No one is retaliating. How many times do they have to hit a person to make a point that never needed to be made?

I’m scared. I’m not watching the game and any time I do look down I see Robbo looking back up. He loves the Tottenham fans and you can see the horror on his face as these scenes unfold on his kind right behind his back and he is unable to help.

An orange bibbed Tottenham steward throws himself between the retreating fans and the advancing police. He slows their progress. He halts their strikes and finally he talks them back down. There is no doubt in my mind that these Tottenham men saved lives this day. I do not know where this would have ended without them there.

Meanwhile below we have conceded a second goal. Good play from the home side and sloppy defending leave us trailing by a goal and with no wind in our sails both on and off the pitch. The whistle blows for half time and slowly the trouble has eased.

All is calm again. The police have backed off but how long for?

When our players take the field once more it’s clear that they’ve had time to re-group and had instructions of how to play this crazy game. The Sevilla players close ours down at speed but unlike in the Premiership, they make no challenge once they taken away the space. There is no crunching tackle to follow the war path run. They just try to poke the ball free. What the Spurs do now is not panic into a wayward pass. They keep the ball. They turn their backs and this possession angers the crowd. The Sevilla fans whistle the more we control the game. It’s shrill shriek of thousands of kettles all boiling at once and it must be enough to put off our players. I know it would me.

We pass and we pass and we take out time. We can play this European game even though if slightly disarmed and but still we cannot find that goal. Sevilla are a good side and they control the ball for longer although in a far less threatening way. Our attacks are shorter but far more telling, more searching and it seems that the home side know it too. From the 50^th minute onward they run the clock down.

I have no problem with slow subs and languid keepers but when one of their ranks feigns injury to break down our play I’m furious. Robbie is furious too and he thumps the ball out of play in the knowledge that we’re being had and so the torment continues.

Minute by minute the time ticks down the full ninety are up. No second goal for the Spurs and I’m left with the strangest of feelings. Our flawless record in Europe is spoiled but it’s the injustice of the outcome that’s really got me. We wait as the stadium empties, no point getting caught in the rush and all I can do is stare and seethe. The result is fine. We have the away goal and the advantage next week but we deserved more and we know it.

As our players come back to warm themselves down we sing for them and their achievements. They’ve played a fine game in the most difficult of circumstances and they deserve everything we’ve got left too. We let them and ourselves know how we should be feeling about this result:

“Glasgow, Glasgow, Tottenham Hotspur are going to Glasgow.”

And there’s every reason to think that’s exactly what will happen.

Epilogue

It’s Saturday night as I sit here and finish this. I had fully intended to get this out as soon as I got home but there were eight little words that I just couldn’t ignore and a conversation just waiting to be had.

“Did you go to the game last night?” asked one of group Spurs who I was sitting amongst as I tried to finish this post. I’d been resisting the conversation for a good half hour before I was drawn right in and drawn in I was. You know how it is when you meet other fans. I’ve known Spurs talk to go on for days but it was my absolute pleasure to meet Leigh, Lester (complete with war wounds courtesy of Barcelona’s “finest”) and the lads from Broxbourne, including none other than “the legend that is” Danny the Drum.

And now? How do I feel now? Where has the wheel stopped? I’m glad to see the press, the public and most importantly the club are on our side and I am just itching to show Sevilla how we do it down the Lane.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Sunday, April 8th, 2007 at 12:09 am 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.