Beef Bagel

“If we go to bed together, I promise you nothing will happen.”

The words echo in my mind as I reach over for a glass of water to soothe my red raw throat. I really meant it at the time but the two spent condoms lieing limp on an unfamiliar bedside table tell me otherwise. My bottom lip is cushioned against the hard rim of tumbler by a layer lip smee over an inch thick. The creamy matter squishes against the glass and I wait for a second to find out if it’ll cool me as the water trickles into my mouth. It’s like I’ve a blunt razor lodged in my throat ripping at a little more flesh every time I swallow. I’m going to get a cold but then what can you expect for night, a morning asleep with cocaine blocked nostrils and my mouth wide open, breathing any would-be bacterial and viral assassins.

“My whole body’s stuck,” comes a gentle croak. I take a look at the body with its back to me; mousy blonde hair resting on lightly freckled shoulders and I try to remember what she looks like. I know who she is, I remember her curves, I feel her skin as I fit my body back against hers but I can’t pick out her face through the flashes of lust as they flick before my mind. I relax. What does it matter? She’s warm, she’s soft and I can lie here for another hour because someone had the good sense to make Tottenham vs Reading a 4 o’clock kick off but there is one problem. I’ve made a terrible mistake, a schoolboy error. I’ve broken my own law.

‘Always take the tickets to next day’s game out with you on the night before’ - The Bagel’s Golden Rule

I’ve an hour before I have to think about leaving and making the journey right past the Lane to get to the Bakery and my ticket before getting back to Spurs in time for kick off.

The sheets gum to my skin, tacky from stale sweat. My nose is blocked. It even takes an effort to clear the mucus from my mouth to let the air pass that’ll keep me alive as I try to get back to sleep. “My whole body’s stuck,” I see what she means.

An hour passes in painless slumber and before I can say I’m about to leave I feel a hand come and seek me out, one that wants a bit of Bagel. It wants me to stay and if I let it find what it wants they’ll be very little choice in the matter. Sex or football, sex or football; the most exquisite of agonising dilemmas.

My mind is nearly won, the seduction all but complete but as I close my eyes to drift away the green, green grass of the Lane is the picture in my mind. The Reading hoops; a Robbie Keane, Lilywhite flick; the net bulging; the cheers and Dimitar the Great standing there, arms out in front of the Park Lane, the other 10 Spurs hanging off him.

“No! I’ve got to go,” I announce to my host as I rouse with a start. I dress in a flash into my soiled, dank shirt and pull on my jeans, well overdue for a wash. I follow the trail of socks, shoes, coat and scarf back out towards the door and into the mess that is this flat that I just took no interest to notice last night. Hmm…a lady after my own heart.

Back into the bedroom, a kiss for luck and just a little feel (they’re lucky too aren’t they?) and I’m out the door, ready to brave the cold when the full force of a glorious sun on a beautiful spring day smacks me full in the hang over. Even if I was wearing my contact lenses, now crispy dry and deserted down my hosts plug hole (no double entendre intended), I wouldn’t be able see a thing with my eyes all a-squint, protecting my delicate brain. I make off down this strange street, all too close to Emirates, stripping off layer and layer as I go.

I’m hot and sweating a terrible smell, ripening in a sunbeam amplified by a top floor window of a double decker bus. Forty minutes to get to the The Bakery, grab my glasses, my ticket and catch the WHL Express. The bus is taking forever. Passengers come and go as I watch the herds clamour for their entry and exit on the bus doors below. I’m getting irritated. Time’s coursing by like the search for an equaliser at WHL. I’m shifting about as each of my neighbours tries to take a little more of my seat. I hold my elbows fast and dog into their ribs. Don’t try it today. My fuse is short. I’m hot and I’m late.

‘You want a phone?’ whispers my latest seat buddy, showing me some fancy new Nokia complete with the previous owner’s stickers ribbons. I stare at this junior thief and he stares back like I’m the wanker.
3.30pm and I’m nearly home. It’s taken everything I’ve got not to throw some sort of completely unreasonable fit on the bus and finally I’m free and at high speed towards my door.

“Glasses, ticket, glasses, ticket,” is my mantra with every step I take. I’m visualising their positions to minimise the time, “Glasses, ticket.” I get through the door to find I’ve left the heating on and disrupted by the topical wave I just stand around trying to remember what I’m looking for.

“Ticket, yes, I need my ticket….and…glasses, yes, I’ll need them to find it.” Memory returned I’ve got what I need and plus one thing more, toothpaste. No time to brush but what kind of hypocrite would I be breathe my pungent vapours over Omar, of whose breath I so often complain.

The express and I arrive together. The carriage is eerily empty. If I didn’t know better I’d think the game had been cancelled. No one likes to be late. I stand in front of the double doors chosen carefully to be the ones at the exit at White Hart Lane Station platform. I can almost feel rubber seals at the tip of my nose.

3.56pm.

The doors of the train open and a small crowd, led by The Bagel fly down the steps of the station and quick march to WHL. I suck a length of thick chalky toothpaste straight from the tube and work it about the insides of my sour, dry mouth. I’d spit it back out but there’s nothing to spit except the solid, white cement stuck fast to my gums and tongue. I swallow hard and clear the most of it as the mouthful slides down my throat taking any precious moisture with it.

I can hear the line ups announced as I see the blue and white girders of the Lane high up ahead. The crowd cheers each name, like a thousand spirits dancing over head; an impossible echo from an invisible voice. I break into a run. I can’t help it, like a lemming to a cliff, the urge to migrate is just too strong. Running along Paxton road I think of all the fry ups the crisps, my unhealthy heart. I know that this is how I’ll die on day. I’ve thought it before but well, if you have to go and I can think of many ways worse than to lie in the sunshine next to White Hart Lane hearing the cheers of the crowd, celebrating our goals as I pass on to that great big bread bin in the sky. But not today.

I’m up the steps, into the ground, pushing past tourists and down on my seat just as the whistle is blown.

“I think that’s what you call the nick of time,” I say to Omar with my minty fresh breath but as I stop my smell catches up with me. I stink. I don’t just smell like I’m wearing the same clothes but I’ve got stale sex sweat and the whole cocktail 12 hour old body fluids all over me. I can almost pick each one out as the wind changes direction. Horse face and Mother are sat too my left with their perfume mercifully strong enough for the three of us.

“Are you going to Spain next week?” they ask as I take in the red and yellow sight of the Reading players, disappointingly not in their Championship hoops.

“Oh yes, you too?” I reply. I’m getting on well with them these days and although not really on my high five list I respect their commitment; here every time I am and loyalty points like a healthy test cricket innings. But there’s no more time for pleasantries, the Spurs are on the charge.

A high ball comes in for Berbatov and while all eyes are on the Bulgarian wondering what he’s going to do, Aaron Lennon’s in no doubt at all. He’s tearing up the pitch out the corner of my eye and steams straight in to where he knows the knock’s going to be. He spreads it wide to the squat figure of Steed charging up in support, exploiting the open space on the left and curling in a long shot from the edge of the box, just off target. But with no time to breathe we’re at it again. Zokora’s cross is chested down, this time for Robbie Keane and only six yards out. It has to be a goal as he picks his moment with that cool Keano skill and strikes it true on the volley. We’re on our feet with our arms half way to the sky but the gotee bearded Reading keeper, Hahnemann blocks the shot.

We may not have scored but there’s the buzz about the ground. Two clear chances too fast for the Reading defence and we seen this kind of play before; this kind of irresistible force of a Tottenham team bursting with skill too strong, too creative for a lesser team’s defence. But it’s not to be. Instead a pattern emerges as the game begins to settle. There are two tactics at work that the visitors begin to use and to very good effect.

The next piece of play up front is halted all too quickly by the linesman’s flag. Lee is playing an excellent game, digging right up into the Reading half, a thorn in their right hand side. He creates the move to Berbatov the centre halves step up and it’s offside as Keano gets the ball. We begin to see and hear this irritating combination more and more as the minutes go by and every time the Tottenham crowd get more fervent in the disagreements.

“No fuckin’ way! That’s bullshit, that’s fuckin’ bullshit,” even when not only is ther daylight but full panoramic vista and today that vista is the bright afternoon sunshine onto the eyes of all in the Tottenham East Stand.
The other tactic is Michael Duberry. I didn’t realise the old Leeds man was playing for the Royals this season. Probably something today with the BBC and their instance of putting MOTD on twice but still so carefully to hide it from people who end up having a big one on Saturday night. Thank God for Adrian Chiles.

After 10 minutes or so to find his feet Duberry is set to his task, Operation: Stop Berbatov. With his strength his size and good dose of over physicality and shirt pulling he’s certainly containing him. It’s impressive really. He’s tight on our hitman, leaving him barely an inch to work his magic and even for Dimitar and inch is just not enough. A close range one on one blocked again my Hahnemann, almost a mirror image of the Keano chance is as good as Berbatov can get for the rest of the half. Again we’re almost on our feet. Again we’re in half celebrations. The keeper is playing a blinder but it’s not just him.

The whole Reading side are firing. In fact, I doubt they ever don’t. They play hard and firm with commitment. They show every strength that most middle dwelling Premiership old hands do not. They play efficiently and that don’t make mistakes. There are no wayward passes. They know how to keep the ball and they very nearly show us what they can do with it when Little drops in very tasty cross from deep finding our players sleeping and Lita waiting. The in form striker jumps and picture freezes before my eyes. I’ve seen this image before, the position of the players, the flight of the ball. This is what a goal looks like.
Unmarked and snuck in between out two big men, he makes the proper contact and we all, Robbo included, watch in slow motion with certainty in our hearts as the ball travels down and bounces mercifully clear of the base of the post.

“Nobody pickin’ ‘im up,” says Omar shaking his head.

“Maybe but that’s a damn good cross.”

There’s only one thing missing on the Reading team and it’s a good thing they don’t have it. What they don’t have is what we have in spades; quality. We may not be working quite as hard or as efficiently but we’re more dangerous and we have that potential to score any time we turn it on or any time Reading give us just a sniff of a chance. The problem is, that’s exactly what we’re not doing. We’re creating, we’re moving but despite our belief, we’re just not getting good shots off and every time we do, Hahenmann’s there or the linesman and his flag.

Zokora goes on a trademark surge, unleashing a shot form far but he’s the only one still firing, while the others are trying to score the perfect goal. Jenas starts a beautiful move on 3o minutes as Berbatov, Keano and himself take the ball up the pitch and out wide for a inch perfect cross from Keano just round the Readin defence, where JJ is set up to shoot. Instead, he dummies a shot the fools all our eyes that’s only intercepted by a fortunate Reading defender, rushing back to protect his net. The crowd are angry he didn’t shoot himself but it would have been a really sweet goal, well deserving of our history and name. Good effort.

It’s only after 43 minutes that we finally make the break and a most undeserving one at that. We’ve only been on top by virtue of our chances, so it’s a cruel twist for Reading when their newboy, Halford, is caught for a handball inside their own area. It wasn’t a promising position with Keano on the edge and marshalled well by the big defender but more than just a ball to hand it you can see why Alan Whiley may well have given it. His decisions have been off all game; fouls going unnoticed, perhaps a little too physical than a game should be played, too many backings in and headers over the top but really we’ve been gifted a chance by both Halford and the ref. There may have been no intent but he’s just handled it too clearly and for too long as he practically carries the ball in his palm.

“That’s embarrassing,” says Omar turning to me, laughing guiltily into his hand and when Keano slots the ball we just shrug and cheer with the rest of them. It’s high fives all round from both Little and Big Man, who rarely worry as long as we win.

The well represented Reading support, packed out and on their feet are less their feet are less than impressed as the players make their way in for half time:

“One Nil to the referee, one nil to the referee,” they sing to the tune of Go West and that’s exactly the comment from my mate Charlie, a Yiddo through and through, when we meet for a half time bagel. Quite a gang now we stand at the monitors looking at the incident from every angle Sky can record. There’s Oog, Rich, Chirssy and myself; my hair slick and matted, my toothpaste wearing off. I’m convinced there’s a miasma about me, polluting the taste of the bagels of my friends. I neglect to convey my excuses just in case it’s just in my nose.

One bitter chicken mayo snack later and I’m back at my seat waiting for Reading to come out and get that goal that I hope we don’t sit on but as the game kicks off, it’s us who come out fighting. After some much sought interplay between our two front men, Keano turns with just one thing on his mind and fires the ball deep into the Paxton and well wide of the goal. The intent is clear so early in the half. One is not enough. Just shoot.

Minute later and we’re at it again with Pascal Chimbonda cutting past the full back and with more space than he’d like he knocks the cross seemingly all to deep, where only the skills of Berbatov and keep the move alive and knock it onto Jenas , who volleys the ball home. We stand, we cheer but we haven’t seen the flag. Our visitors have and like all good fans they jeer at our false dawn.

“He’s too good for this team,” says Omar meaning Berbatov, “All of ‘em off side. He’s wasted here.” I take these comments from my pessimistic neighbour with just a little salt but if one man’s thinking it are there others that think it too and how long before Dimitar agrees? Certainly not just yet as he fires wide at the near post of the Reading goal, open on a pass from Lennon. If there’s one man you’re sure is going to hit the target, one man to make the keeper work, it’s him but not today when we just can’t buy a second goal.

Our crowd is quiet aside moans and groans, The Bagel especially so with a throat still torn to shreds and a definite knowledge that I’m getting a cold. I need to rest my voice for the mid-week fixture. Seville awaits and I wish to enjoy that game to the full.

With each extra minute we wait for the Reading assault but it just doesn’t come. Still the white shirts rain shot after shot at the goal and it’s only as the keeper dives to stop another Zokora effort that I notice that it’s another a different on form Reading keeper or perhaps just Hahnemann with a wig.

Keano makes way for Defoe and Malbranque for Huddlestone, with a parting shot curling just wide of the mark. Finally, Defoe pokes one home off a JJ pass and our relief is clear as we cheer what must be the winner but it doesn’t look right down at the other end. The players look still. They look unimpressed and now so do we as word gets round that again it’s offside. Damn that linesman but this time the away fans jeer is barely half as loud. There’s less than 10 minutes left and that goal we’re all sure they’d score is looking less and less likely to materialise. Unlikely that is until Reading get a corner and Tottenham let Lita move. Again the wily striker, impressive with Yakubu-like athleticism, evades our centre halves and darts in at the near post to head just wide before the players and fans alike have had even a second to think. Lita holds his head in agony, his thoughts etched on his face and echoed in Omar’s words,

“That was it. They wont get another,” and my heart beats a little faster as start to hope he’s right.

Five minutes to go and the traffics all Tottenham. A shot from Defoe finds the side netting. Huddlestone, egged on with ’shoot’ as he’s on the ball, does just that a puts it just wide but the real chance comes as Lee and Defoe run free on the counter and into the Reading box. For a minute it looks like the Korean has waited too long but his patience pays off when he works to Defoe in the same spot at the just a few yards out where Berbatov had his last go but he doesn’t shoot wide, he shoot ridiculously wide and properly high; a rush of blood if ever I’ve seen one.

Into injury time and we’ve given up attack as the Man Mountain holds the ball deep in the Reading half daring the opposition to take it off him but take it off him they do, well, after a good forty seconds of time run down.

The visitors have one last go from a threatening move that I finally discover has been a giant throw in from Halsey on the other side of the pitch but it’s easily cleared and with it the game is ended. The cheer goes up, the Glory, Glory music plays and we walk away with the points that we barely deserve.

We can feel lucky, Reading can feel hard done by and finally, I, can get a shower.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007 at 12:58 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.