Beef Bagel

It seems pointless to start this story before 3.45pm on Saturday but I suppose every tale needs a background…

…Christmas is over. Sunlight pours through the fabric of the beige blind in room and bounces off the bright cream walls like I’ve woken up inside the bulb of a lighthouse. They’ll be no more sleep this morning and no more rest at all. I’ve said I’ll head back to the Bakery tomorrow back to London life; reality, work and a list of problems as long as the fixture list in August.

It’d be so easy to stay; so easy, massaged as I am in the lap of luxury. Every care of mine is tended to. Here, every meal is prepared for me with the finest ingredients, the most delicious flavours, the largest quantities. I’m beginning to resent having to chew it myself. Three stacks of new and non-released films sit ignored where I’ve chosen to watch effortless transmissions, like the Premiership’s Top 50 Foreign Players, instead on flat screen that’d make a few cinema’s blush.

The double-mattressed cloud, harnessed from the fluffiest of banks in the heavens, embraces me as I consider my plight. Entropy is setting in. It’s getting harder and harder to leave this sweetest of sugary honey traps. Every day I dive deeper into thick cushioned comfort I grow deafer to the cries of my real world; the passions of my adult life away from this palace of pleasure. All I can hear now is my parent’s house, this infant life, calling me to stay in it’s beautiful siren’s song. The individually wrapped bed coils whisper it as they nestle my fetal body. The smooth cream walls and thick cream carpets echo the call in perfect sound-proofed resonance. I’m in a coma and on the outside, I’m dying.

“You can’t take the Clio today,” says my dad as he barges into my lethal paradise; the rude awakening I was hoping for. It seems the all purpose family car is out of action. Already having made one trip to the Lane and back, it’s made its dirty protest in a puddle of oil on the drive way. “To the shops and back only,” it might have well have hooted.

Before I can search my mental statements for a bank account with any money, an overdraft not overdrawn, a credit card not maxed, my Nokia phone buzzes. A message. “Picking Tiffany up. Need a lift. Jimmy Roast.” Damn it. It’s just too easy here.

An hour later I’ve packed my bags, Christmas presents and all - Spurs Top Trumps, the 2006/7 annual, a bottle of Laphroaig, nothing - and the doorbell rings. Standing in front of me is Jimmy Robbo (nee Roast) wearing a brand new, black keeper’s jersey, a parker and sunglasses and at his side is his little sister, Tiffany, clad practically head to toe in Tottenham apparel to go with the present of a ticket to her first game at the Lane. She waves hello in her navy blue and white cockerel gloves.

Jim and I discuss the past couple of days, this strange post Christmas/pre-New Year time, the work around the corner and of course all things Spurs as remind by Tiffany with shouts of “Come on you Spurs” every few miles. There are five Boxing Day goals to break down to their finest touches but most importantly, the return of the King.

“It was pure,” I say, “it was like we’d scored a goal when his name was announced the other day. We all knew it was coming because you could see him jogging around on the pitch but it was like he was a mirage until the p.a. proved it was true.”

“They mentioned it on MOTD. You could hear the crowd applaud every time he touched the ball,” says Jim classic football, boyish delight as he tries to concentrate on the road.

“He wasn’t fit but even a 50% Ledley makes such a difference.”

Up at the Lane, we make for opposite ends of the Shelf as I we wish each other good luck and Tiffany a good first game. I’m the first of the gang to my seat. I haven’t sat here for what feels like a very long time. I’ve been to away days, brought guests, sat up with my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) and even Gill (a mother through and through) when Charlie hasn’t been there. I forgotten how much I like it where I sit. I know how to read the game from here better than I do from any camera angle on TV. This is where it all seems real. This is where I can judge a player’s performance. What will I do when we move to a new stadium? It’s good to be home.

I greet Horseface and the Laughing Mum with a “Happy Christmas” as they arrive to my right and feel slightly guilty that I’ll be referring to them as that. The Laughing Mum’s not a problem. In fact, that’s pretty kind on reflection and that laughing of hers at tense and inappropriate occasions is really starting to grate. I understand it’s the only way she can deal with a pressure situation but when you’ve just gone a goal down to arsenal, the last thing you want to hear next to you is someone cracking up. So no, she could be doing a lot worse but Horseface, well, she must have been in her mid-teens when she first took up her seat near The Bagel and she was going through that tricky time that all adolescents do. Not quite child, not quite grown-up and her features just didn’t fit well together. They sort of stretched and when we won it was often tempting to turn around and say, “Why the long face?” But since that time she’s grown into a fine young woman and as she smiles up at me, genuinely pleased to see me back I find it hard to continue to mock her appearance. However, as yet there is no better name and Horseface she stays. Sorry Horseface. I’ll bring you some hey next time.

“Finally found your seat?” chirps a voice from my left. I turn to see Little Man with a grin like the Cheshire Cat. I’ve little comeback to offer except my hand to shake a firm hello to him, to Big Man and Omar as he takes his place at my side. Always an excellent follower of the game and wise observer, I pick his brains for thoughts on the last few matches.

“JJ’s back but I’d drop Huddlestone today,” he says shaking his Mediterranean beaky head, the cross of an eagle and a tortoise, “I didn’t think he played that well against Fulham. His passes weren’t as good as normal. It just so happens he scored the goals.”

“Yeah, but if he’s got an eye for the net, we can’t leave him out.” He tilts his head and shrugs as the players run out and we see just who Ramos has gone for.

“No O’Hara,” I wonder as the midfield of JJ, Huddlestone, Steeeeeve and Little Aaron line up.

“Nah, maybe Ramos just used him against Fulham to give the others a rest. Maybe he’s got him down as a squad player for this season.”

A cheer goes up again as King Ledley is announced for the second fixture in row and every face at the Lane is lit with a smile.

The whistle blows and voices from the crowd spur on the Spurs, their shouts joined by my “Come on you Lillywhites” to make sure that I’m as up for this as they are.

With a minute gone the game has settled. The first few kicks are always nervy against a lower side. They know this is their chance to unsettle their hosts to catch a scrambled goal and change the cast of the game before the ninety has even began. Going 1-0 down in the first few moments is no shocker for the home side but the confidence boost for the visitors can be all too effective. Instead the bobbing and bouncing ball is put firmly under control as the calm, steady leg of Ledley King takes charge and begins Tottenham’s possession proper. The crowd need little excuse to exalt the returning hero and it’s the most beautiful music to my ears as the WHL stadium choir sing as one the song we’ve been aching to sing all season…

“You can stick Sol Campbell up your arse,

You can stick Sol Campbell up your arse,

You can stick Sol Campbell, stick Sol Campbell, stick Sol Campbell up your arse.

Cos we’ve got Ledley at the back,

Singing we’ve got Ledley at the back,

Singing we’ve got Ledley, we’ve got Ledley, we’ve got Ledley at the back.”

My body is a goose pimple. I shiver on Tottenham high that’s only brought down again by the referees whistle as Stephen Hunt commits foul one of the day as his the surprisingly short midfielder clatters our man; his semi-permed mop bouncing like Brian May with bed-head.

The Man Mountain stands between The Bagel and the goal as he shifts the ball from right to left to find the perfect spot for his free kick. He stops. He stands. A quick breath in with his head looking down and out again as his shoulders round and drop. A beat before he kicks; for me to think he’s going to prove us wrong and he shapes it deep and towards the goal. We tutt as we think it’s gone long but flashes of white and blue through the crowd show it’s found its mark when Spurs fan, Kitson, is forced to head it clear.

Sixty seconds later and the balls in the same position, only this time with Lee in control. Any full-back has two options here but with Lee you always know exactly how they’ll work out. He’ll either get to the by-line, make space a step over and get in a cross that will find no one or he’ll cut inside, circle around the area and put in a safe sideways pass. So imagine my surprise when the fucker cuts in and wait for it, shoots. I’m only barely paying attention as the well struck ball skims over the surface of the penalty area and there are murmurs all around as Marcus Hanhemann has to put in a save at his near post, his first of the day. I watch as Lee runs back into position and narrow my eyes. I’ve a feeling he’ll have an important role in today’s game. How wrong you can be.

The game looks all ready to be well under control. Reading are clearly a decent team but they lack the class that money can buy. They’re a good version of Birmingham but they’re out-matched, out-classed, out-skilled and out-gunned by teams like us. They play with a vigor and a tempo that keeps them in them going strong. Their hunger for the ball buys them points but it’s no surprise after just six minutes when Dimitar the Great strokes us into the lead in a one touch move they just don’t have time to defend. You can here the cheer from those close in the Park Lane End even before Berbatov taps home the point blank goal.

The ball is taken to the middle again and we all sit back and wait for the next goal. We’ve seen this before this season. We saw it a few days ago with Fulham. We’ve drawn first blood against an inferior team and it’s just a question of when and how we finish them off. So we play casually. We change down a gear. You can almost see the smiles on our forward’s faces as they pass the ball about and in accordance we start to smile as well. We smile, we chat and we stop singing. You can hear people cough and I’m ashamed to say we were quiet for a while; quiet that is until Reading spoke up.

There was no fear in my heart as Nicky Shorey lined up his free kick from deep on the far side of the field. It was deep; deep like the ocean and besides “We don’t concede from set pieces any more,” I thought to myself as the ball sailed into the area and the classic melee of players clustered together in that tell tale way when the ball is about to end up in the net. I see two or three white shirts rise and to my horror Robbo rising with them. He scampers to cover the ground and flings his fist just higher than the players heads. “Oh no,” I say aloud with Jedi-like clairvoyance. A flash of Reading foot later and the ball rolls into the net. The Reading faithful erupt, elated that their trip isn’t over but above the their shouts I hear the cries from the Tottenham fans with the blame squarely on our keeper’s head.

It’s hard to tell whether it was his fault. How many defenders were there to cover it? Was his decision right? Whatever the case I curse how easy it was for them to score, how quick. It didn’t look like a particularly good free kick nor a particularly well struck shot. We craft, we play, we ply our art to the game to score a well worked goal and then, through football luck and probably poor defending, they steal an equaliser with no effort at all. For all the superiority we may we have we let ourselves down in such a cheap way.

When play kicks off the play has turned. Possession is equal. Our passing goes astray. Reading step up the fight and they begin to dig in their heels as a solid, steely unit no better represented by Hunt - an economist’s Robbie Savage with not nearly enough hatred. He fights and kicks and chases every one and every thing down. He cuts down the space and gets enough on it every time to stop the ball getting where it is supposed to. Then when he’s in possession he never gives it away. He’ll never beat his man nor supply much of a ball but he never lets it go either. Ruthlessly frustrating.

The first half tails out to the songs of the Royals, who apparently their fans follow “over land and sea” as well as “onto victory” as we’ve heard other clubs sing here this season, but Robbie Keane nearly has something to say about that when he so nearly scores a carbon copy of our first with the Irishman this time the man at the net. I’m on my feet with my fist clenched ready to punch the air at as the ball rolls to Keano but he falls to his knees as our jaws fall to the floor when somehow he doesn’t connect at point blank range. The whistle blows and only then do we see the bobble the ball took as it bounced over the readied foot of our striker.

I turn round to see a more Bohemian looking Charlie with the kind of facial hair you see on a man who hasn’t been to work for a few days and a smile on his face to match. No bagels today but warming cup of Bovril, courtesy of Gill, to take back to the stands on this bitter afternoon, floodlights on, the sky beginning to darken. On the screens we see the half time scores with every one of them in our favour save our own. Pompey, West Ham, Villa and Newcastle all losing and despite the 1-1 every confidence we’ll take the honours here as well, although this season you never can tell.

With a spare seat next to the mother and son team with more visits to the Lane between them than Red Faced Fergie has had sticks of gum, I’m at a higher angle for the second half with a better view of the Paxton end goal; a good thing too. I sip the burning hot, beef drink through tiny holes in the plastic spouts trying to stop the stuff dribbling down my chin. Something is trickling down my face but I’m not sure if it’s Bovril or liquid snot from my frozen nose. A generous wipe from my sweater cuff to the general area seems to do the trick, better that than the empty brown paper sweet packet I mistook as a tissue a few minutes earlier that ended up smearing sherbet up my nostrils.

As the Lillywhites return, I’m relieved to see Ledley among them. He’d shown a hobble or two in the previous half and nasty rumour had begun to spread that he’d done his thigh. Every move he made from that moment on suddenly seemed to be thigh heavy but clearly just my paranoia at work.

The second half begins as evenly as the first one ended only both teams with equal energy and impetuous of a half time talking to. The first chance is to Reading and their vans lap it up as both they and their team sense our weakness just now for crosses and set pieces and after 52 minutes their tactic pays dividends. A quiet, tooth-clenched anger grips the Tottenham fans as yet again we concede from a corner. Ingimarrson’s header from a Shorey corner, close to the line with our keeper and almost all the defenders tied up in one bunch. Robbo flaps at the ball after it’s already crossed the line and from my angle it’s almost impossible to believe it’s slipped between him and Lee on the post. Our stomach’s churn and our shoulders drop; our recurring nightmare coming round again.

Two minutes later and we’re under the cosh again only this time with Robbo to the rescue as he parries away a Kitson shot from only 10 yards out practically pushing my heart back into my chest as he does so. We’re still on the back foot on the hour mark and never slow to make the change that counts, Ramos takes his first chance, removing Ledley King for Jermain Defoe. We’ve given up trying to work out what his changes are all about at WHL all we know is that 60 seconds later we usually score a goal, usually before we can work out what the new formation is and presumably before the other team can too.

“There’s definitely three at the back now with Lee, Chimbonda and Kaboul and,” Charlie’s words disappear as the ball drops to Berbatov’s feet at the other end as the Bulgarian runs in at full pelt. Remembering Hanhemann’s heroic’s in last year’s game or somehow aware of my fear of them, our star absolutely drills the ball into the top of the net, practically lifting the goal posts off the ground and making deadly certain that we get to 2-2. The three of us grab each other in a three way football hug as we find that belief in our side again.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!” echoes around in the ground in rightful acclaim to the tune of La Donne e Mobile.

“Right, we’ve got to make this count,” says Charlie, “the problem is they’re just so well drilled, that’s what Reading are. If you looked up ‘well drilled’ in the dictionary it’d just say ‘Reading’”.

True to form there’s not a single head bowed amongst the players in the hoops. Only their fans are silenced as we mock them in the most traditional football style.

“You’re not singing any more, you’re not singing any more!”

The venom in the words is as powerful for our confidence as it as to theirs. It’s like straight blow to the chin in a title fight; one man’s release from the purest of contact, the other’s legs a-wobble.

Still the drilled Reading side push and fight. They don’t care how vulnerable as long as they can score as well and seconds later they’re at it again in the worst possible way. Still weak at the back with just three players, Juande swaps Little Aaron for Prince Kevin, one can only assume as a measure to sure up the middle but, for my money, Lennon’s been the weakest player on the pitch.

True to form theirs a goal a few moments later, although this time it’s in our visitors favour. The shakes have returned as Shorey takes an inswinging corner right in front of his fans, while the rest of look on with our hands in front of our faces. Kitson runs forward unfollowed, meets the ball at the near post and flicks it perfectly, unstoppably into our net. It’s a well worked set piece indeed. It’s clever. Expecting one as before, we’ve guarded the centre of the box but left the front door wide open. We’ve walked right into the trap.

“Just so well drilled,” mutters Charlie as the game kicks off again.

Twenty minutes left on the clock. There must be time to equalise. There must be time to win. We’re on top of the visitors from the restart, our front three still too much for the Reading back line. We win a corner as the Little Yiddo maraudes his way through blue hoop defenders; a player revived since the reign if Ramos.

JJ’s first effort from the flag is way too short. It doesn’t even beat the first man but our frustrations and abuse are abated as the ball sails out for another crack at the whip. Again he tries but this time it’s deep, too deep it seems until Chimbonda pops up like a Tigger and sends the ball high and central with a looping header. It’s like an age as it comes down to God knows where. Is it even in? We look up, the players look up. They muscle, they turn and in a stroke of Bulgarian genius, Dimitar the Great, casual as ever just taps it in with his foot. A hatrick, only the second I’ve seen live for Spurs. I can barely believe it.

“He’s scored a hatrick. That’s a hatrick!” I babbles to Charlie but this isn’t quite the feeling I was expecting. Somehow I thought my second hatrick would come as we put a team to the sword like Fulham on Boxing Day. I’m a cocktail of emotions between the joy of this feat, the joy of the equaliser and the knowledge that this game could still go either way with just 72 minutes gone.

We’ve barely been singing Berbatov’s name when the game swings again. Just one minute later, the ball is sent high for Kaboul to deal with Dave Kitson again hot on his trail. They clash with Younes at a stretch and whoever wins the header it bounces kindly for the Hoops and straight into the path of Hunt on the break. Damn that Hunt. Kaboul of balance has dropped to his knees and already I can see the problem. He’s yards behind Kitson now an it’s two on one for the Reading attack. Hunt rolls out the perfect ball straight through the back peddling back two and onto the feet of Kitson who finishes with the smoothes shot of the afternoon, chipping the ball just over our advancing keeper. It’s like a knife in the heart as Spurs fan Kitson and the rest of his crew taunt the Park and the Shelf with their celebration run along the Tottenham stands. The singing faces of the visiting fans are silhouetted by wanker signs from the Spurs in front.

“David Kitson

What a bargain!” they sing to the football chimes.

“Not the most flattering of songs,” says Charlie but it doesn’t seem to bother Kitson as he restores the ascendancy for his club again that we just can’t seem to break.

We’ve barely sat down. We’ve barely recovered. I haven’t even had time to look at the clock and suddenly I can see Steed on the ball in the penalty box. He shaping to shoot. You can just tell. We’re on our feet again. I know he’s going to score. I think we all do. I know this position; his squat body arched, his left shoulder to goal, the ball on his right, the keeper at his mercy. He shoots.

It curls past the near post. Past the keeper. Hanhemann dives. The ball goes on. Just the far post left. Please stop here. Please stop here. The net bulges. The ball is buried and I will never, ever forget the look on Gill’s face as I turn to see every one of my feelings reflected so perfectly. It’s joy, it’s pain, it’s bewilderment, it’s delight and it’s a good dose of relief as we equalise once more but most of all it’s a look that says, “What kind of crazy game are we in?” followed by a shaking of the head that answers her own question, “I don’t know but I’m glad we’re still in it.”

The stadium is buzzing. For all the coughs you could hear in the first half, I can’t even hear myself think right now. The Lane is alive. This is the sound of an excellent game. If you looked up football in the dictionary you’d see ‘Tottenham vs Reading 2007.’”

“Come on you Spurs!” we all sing. We know we can win this and we’re sick of going behind. “Come on you Spurs,” we sing. No more conceding now.

Seventy-six minutes gone. We’ve just kicked off and, what? Keane’s gone down in the box. The Paxton have got to their feet and bloody hell, the ref has pointed to the spot. Penalty, and we cheer like there’s been a goal. Charlie turns to me mouth open. We put our hands together and pray.

“Dear Lord, who doesn’t exist apart from during football games, please see to it that your son Robbie Keane slots this spot kick. We need the points and he can’t miss two in a row. That could cripple his confidence.”

Keano kicks to the left, the same way he’s put them all season and my hands go to my face as the awful thud of the keeper’s parry stops the certain goal, but the cavalry are in flight. Two white shirts go flying in and Keano with them too. One dives and as he heads the ball goalward there’s two clear numbers on the back of his shirt “1″ and “8″. Thank you Jermain.

I look at the score board. 5-4? It can’t be 5-4. That’s ridiculous. That equals the most goals I’ve ever seen at a game and there’s still 12 minutes left of the game.

Tainio comes on for Keane. Ramos has seen enough. We’ve taken the lead and it’s clearly time to get four at the back again while we’re ahead, but the fun’s not over. One minute later, the ball comes over the top from Kaboul. All the way over then midfield it flies with Reading stretched looking for their next goal and trying to figure our formation. The gleaming white shirt of Berbatov is leading the chase. He’s not the fastest player and the defender at his shoulder could catch him as he looks for possession but ever the cool head he goes for the man first. A push with his shoulder and he creates the space. The ball bounces and bam! Right behind the volley I can see it fly at Hanhemann who’s dived to his right misjudging the shot. All he can do is stretch out one hand to paw at the exercet missile of a ball which barely changes its trajectory before hitting the back of the net. Seven minutes to go and, with a two goal cushion, we may just have wrapped this up.

“Is that a quat-trick?” I ask Charlie in jest as the name of our hero flies up to the heavens. Whatever it’s called, I’ve never seen anyone score four goals live.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!”

Still Reading fight but we’ve changed our game now. We’re killing it off, we’re keeping possession. We’re not pushing forward any more. We pass it about, we take it to the corners and we let our guest come to us. Suddenly the tables have turned and the game is restored to how it first started. We look calm, professional and comfortable, while Reading simply do not have the power to take control of the ball or the game. We run the clock down and the whistle blows with the ball at Berbatov’s feet. He picks it up smartly and tucks it under his arm. “Mine,” he says and whatever else is said about this game, no one can take that away from him.

Back at Jim’s car, Oog and I are met by Jim, his girlfriend Jules and one star struck, bleary, gob-smacked little lady called Tiffany. There are tears in her eyes and a whacking great smile plastered all over her face. She’s singing Berbatov’s name in the back of the warm car and ten minutes later she’s asleep. At the end of the day, it’s all been too much. I know exactly how she feels.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 31st, 2007 at 1:19 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.