Beef Bagel

Prologue

Writing a match report for me is thoroughly involved affair. I’m not even sure why I do it the way I do. It was never a conscious decision. I’ve tried in the past to cut them down, to give the facts and more than anything to keep them brief, but I can’t. I just can’t and believe me, they take plenty of time to compose. But don’t for one second I do it expecting any kind of rewards. I have my selfish motives, because every word I type takes me back to those 90 minutes and I get to relive it all over again.

It’s 1.28am - a few hours after referee Howard Webb sounded the final whistle, not that anyone actually heard it. I’m sitting at the desk of my night job ready to spend the shift telling my tale. The only problem is I don’t know if I can handle going through it all over again. Football fans die early, I’ve always said that. We stand there week after week being put through the mill by our chosen clubs dear to our hearts, which beat so fast and erratically; the antithesis of exercise and here I am about to bring the terror, the joy, the elation and tears to life in body again. Wish me luck.

Now, where to begin…

Match Report

12.45pm, 22nd January. Noise. Noise in my sleep, not my dreams but my sleep. I haven’t slept enough to dream. Dreaming is for your mind to repair itself, reorganise information from the senses collated during the day. Dreaming is important to keep you sharp but it’s al luxury compared to the sleep that comes before it, the sleep to rest your body; the sleep that repairs and charges your muscles and aching bones and readies you for another day, the sleep that eventually, you’d die without.

I haven’t dreamt for a while. I snatch my sleep in fragments; two hours here another few there. You don’t need 7 or 8 hours of sleep each night, you just need enough every now and then to convince your brain that your hearts still in it. Between you and me, I’ve been cheating myself for a good few days now. I must have totalled just six hours of shut eye out for the last 60. Christ, that’s rubbish. That’s bad even for an insomniac that’s allergic to pillows. Day after day of deadline upon deadline for three different jobs with only one pay cheque between them; how long can I keep this going?

The noise is getting louder as my mobile phone alarm clock buzzes over the surface of my bedside table like a miniature hovercraft on a white plastic sea. I can’t see it. I don’t have to. I know it’s happening. I stare up at the plaster of my ceiling wishing it was some kind of mistake and only after a minute or two do I accept the horrible fact that no one else it going to stop it but me.

I snatch my phone and smother its alert in my thick winter duvet while I fumble for the snooze button. It’s stopped, for now anyway. I hold it to my chest in futile prayer desperate for an excuse to sack off the day and fall back into that delicious slumber. I feel dumb with shock, my body and mind dead, too stupefied with tiredness to even complain. I need to get up and do it fast. I’ll be a goner if I lie here much longer contemplating the streaks of daylight piercing through the cracks in my metallic bedroom blinds, plea bargaining with myself for just five more minutes.

Damn it, my bed is just too comfy. I’ve got a fantastic bed. It’s big enough for at least two and a half Bagels to sleep comfortably together without fear of waking up in an uncompromising embrace. The mattress is thick; soft, supportive and individually sprung like a hundred hands supporting every contour of your back. The duvet is 14 togs of some kind long extinct breed of duck and particularly hard to catch goose down. Fluffed up it sits a good foot thick until it meets my body which it welcomes with the warm hug of an old friend. My sheets are the finest brushed cotton, soft like an angels request. I blew all of my money on my bed when I moved into the new Bakery over 12 months ago now. The rest of the place is a mess. I don’t even have a wardrobe or chest of drawers. My clothes sit around my bedroom in neat piles of t-shirts, trousers, socks and those marked ‘miscellaneous” that I’m too frightened too touch. But who cares about all that when a third of your time is spent asleep - well usually anyway.

I throw myself out into the cold before my mind can complain. The soles of my feet shrink as they hit the stone cold tile floor of my bathroom and I stumble into the shower with the warm water only serving to remind me of the sleep that I should be having. I squeeze a pair of contact lenses into my red raw eyes, blinking as the shattered reflection of my face comes into focus staring stunned back at me. I stagger back to my bedroom and ask my brain for just a few seconds of its time; one decision for it to make before it switch of again - what pants shall I wear? My “lucky” pants haven’t done the job in the job for the last six years and, like a good manager, sometimes you have to make a hard decision and if they’re not performing, well, it’s time to change it up.

I’m out and back from my lunchtime meeting in what seems like a blink of an eye, the world racing by like it’s in fast-forward while my life moves just one frame at a time. I’m awake now and it’s nearly 4pm; four hours till kick off of the biggest game I’ll have ever been to. Even if I was still tired, how could I possibly sleep? I while away the time cooking, cleaning up, checking e-mails and any number of filler tasks, each one getting more and more ridiculous. I realise the game’s up when I catch myself arranging my dental floss and, with an hour to go, I resort to simple pacing up and down before I eventually fold and get the 7 o’clock train which I know will get me to the Lane a good half hour early, but fuck it, this is a derby, I won’t be alone.

Sure enough the streets of Tottenham are buzzing. Full voice cries of “Yid Army” burst out the minute we touch foot on the platform at WHL station and every shout is answered by another fan like message relayed from road to road across N17. I walk down the Park Lane, along the South side of the ground, in a tight gang of Spurs taunting the arsenal fans queuing up at the visitors’ turnstiles barracked by stewards,

“We hate arsenal and we hate arsenal,

We hate arsenal and we hate arsenal,

We hate arsenal and we hate arsenal,

We are the arsenal, haters,

WE-HATE-aRSENAL! WE-HATE-aRSENAL!”

The doubled police presence, mounted and on foot, look on in silence, bewildered but alert, while a helicopter hovers nervously overhead. Police horses shift from hoof to hoof as our gang walks by; strong hands on the reigns and words from their experienced riders keeping them from animal panic.

“Yid Army! Yid Army! Yid Army” come the shouts from near and far with a volume like we were already in the ground.

It’s 7.40pm by the time I reach my seat. No Name and My Old Mate George of the Lads in Front are already there, soaking up the occasion. I creep up behind them and take them by the shoulders. “Alright lads,” I say as they turn to face me with big game anticipation in their eyes, nodding with firm determination, bouncing slightly on their toes like athletes limbering up before taking the blocks.

Big Man and Little Man arrive minutes later after a random has taken up Omar’s spot to my left, where my neighbour has neglected to take up the option of his cup game seat. We try to talk, myself, Big/Little and the Lads but already the fans are in song.

“We are Tottenham, We are Tottenham, Super Tottenham, from the Lane,” we chant with our bodies stood still and our arms high in the air to tell all that would listen and all that would not. “We are Tottenham,” we call to our guests in the South-West corner, quickly drowning any small songs they have of their own. “We are Tottenham,” we say and we will beat you today.

The ground is pumping long before the players have taken the field. I imagine the players in the dressing room as we sing our way through the White Hart Hymn Book for fifteen minutes before kick off. Robbie Keane had called for the 12th man from the Tottenham faithful and I know he can hear us; the last words of motivation and direction, the last acts of togetherness of our young side to a background of 30,000 fans already singing their hearts out, a score for this greatest of epics.

The arsenal players come down the tunnel first as our songs turn to a dirge of boos. No one player is singled out. Each is equally loathed; their red and white strip like devilry on our holy turf. We know how hard we have to make this game for the ears of the younger, more inexperienced players alarmingly few and far between in Wenger’s chosen XI tonight. I’ll be sparing no thought for conscience or morality. Tonight we need every edge we can get. Any arsenal player within earshot of The Bagel will receive whatever depths of filth I can summon and fling at them like handfuls of mud, one of many as pelted by the fierce home crowd.

Groans turn to the loudest of cheers as the Spurs are introduced, each one like a goal celebration at a normal football game. The surprise in the start is Teemu Tainio with Huddlestone fit to play and there’s a turn of heads as No Name and I catch eyes and question the decision to play the utility Finn, first on every journo’s list to be leaving the Lane under Ramos’s reign.

“Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!” we sing on our feet as well I knew we would while Robbie Keane looks from man to man raising his arms in fast, furious rhythm, firing his team-mates up. The whistle blows to the roar of the crowd and the people to my right sit down as usual.

“Don’t sit down,” says a coarse voice behind me; one I know well, one perfectly suited for game like this.

“I’m not going to,” I reply with a steely gaze as I turn to see the Junior Harpy back from uni in Manchester for the night.

“Get up, get up,” we call to those around us as we motion with our hands just as Keano had done and very soon much of the Shelf is on their feet matching the Park, the Paxton and even some of the West Stand too.

“Spurs are on their way to Wembley,” we sing in glorious chorus using the song uniquely ours,

“Tottenham’s going to do it again,

They can’t stop them, the boys from Tottenham, the boys from White Hart Lane, Oh!”

The last note ricochets of the corrugated metal of the four stands and fires out hard on to the pitch. We may not be in the lead but we believe we can do this and we need the players to believe it too. We are going, Tottenham team, take us to the promised land.

You can see there’s a difference in the players tonight. The arsenal team are as dangerous as ever and they come forward straight away with the classic Wenger fluency. I can’t tell yet which Tottenham have turned up tonight and how much technique we’ll show but the Lillywhites are most certainly fired up. Dawson is up like mountain at the back towering over the visitors’ forwards winning an early header, setting out his stall, steady as a rock with his favourite centre-half buddy at his side, King Ledley, O captain, my captain. arsenal are forced back from our turf with no way through despite their passes from to player as they cross at speed, blindside of our defenders, like an illusionists slight of hand. But tonight our back line are no saps. Such parlour tricks do not phases them as Lee covers Ledley, who in turn covers Steed, switching and rolling as fast as the gunners can. Every runner is checked, every overlapped accounted for.

Gilberto flashes at the ball from 30 yards in frustration and we cheer like a goal as his shot fires high into the Paxton. We have to punish them for every mistake they make and ridicule their every wrong-doing. We must break down their confidence piece by piece.

The ball goes forward on our first possession and it’s knocked out to Berbatov who passes it to the middle of the park in typical nonchalant fashion, but his body belie the danger of the ball and it’s only as JJ tears into view level with my view that we realise the move is on and at speed. My hands are at my heart as he weaves his way around the motionless arsenal defence. He takes the ball blindside of my position around the last defender and my heart stops as I struggle to see where he and the ball have got to. Then crack, out of nowhere the shot fires out low and hard. The yellow-jerseyed keeper dives. We hold our breath. Keano stops dead in his run for the post and stands as shocked as we do when the ball hits the upright and deflects in for an excellent goal with only 2 minutes on the clock.

Chaos.

My block heaves and sways as we dive about on mass in jubilation of our perfect start. We’ve undone them already. We’ve drawn first blood. Come and get us if you can, arsenal, but we know they can. We re-gird our loins with dogged determination as the gang and I look from one to the other. “Let’s not blow this start,” we’re all thinking but no-one daring to admit it. We can’t let the players feel our fears, so we sing, we sing again.

“Spurs are on their way to Wembley,” we rail at the stunned away fans as we bolster the spirits of our side. My body has turned to jelly, my strung out nerves are shot and I find myself clock watching with 82 still to play.

The game pauses as Denilson takes to the turf in the middle of the pitch under no particular challenge; usually a good sign but not with Fabregas ready to come on instead.

“Let him die, let him die, let him die!” we mock hoping it hurts him all the more in his mind if not in his body.

When the game restarts our aggression, our nine-year anger, our ferocity is etched on the move of every white-shirted player. Lee and Steed work the ball precariously close to the touch line to the arsenal corner but it’s Robbie Keane who fights his markers every step of the way. He leans back into Sagna using what strength he has to wrestle what space he can from the arsenal full-back. Twisting and turning like a Tasmanian Devil, you can see the fire in his eyes and the flashing of his cheeks. He wins our first set-piece but it’s our willingness to do battle that is more of a danger to our nervous looking guests.

“There’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano, there’s only one Keano,” we sing as his sheer tooth-grinding grit captures our hearts. “KEANO!” The song goes round and round four or fives times over in what becomes a minimum for any chant all game.

At the other end, our guests are on the march again, testing, teasing trying to break their way through our hawk-eyed disciplined back four and my heart is in my mouth when Hleb, the weasel, sets up Bendtner, who gets his shot away from some distance but dangerously close to a something out of the top drawer and into the top corner. They’re coming. I know they’re coming. Just how close will they get? How many lives do we have?

But no immediate onslaught arrives; no hammering of our defence until it buckles. Instead, we take control and it’s Keano yet again put passed the arsenal back line by a ball from his strike partner and his work from the tightest of angles as he dances down the by-line is topped with an amazing piece with foot-flicking skill that nearly sends the ball into the net.

After 20 minutes, there’s movement on the sidelines and the change we’d been fearing is upon us as the injured Denilson leaves the field. How will our midfield cope with one of the Premiership’s best? Quickly we find out that it’s not going to be Steed who does it when his crab-like leg work earns him a soft yellow card and a caution I’m sure we’re going to regret. I’m sure he’s going to get himself sent off and our chance will be blown yet again. But there’s no need for concern because one of our middle men is up to the task. It was a bold move to pick him, but Tainio is playing like a man possessed. He is the most focused of all the Spurs. He knows any mistake from him will cause a break for arsenal and most breaks from arsenal result in goals for arsenal. But the Finn is as sensible as he his professional. Every move he makes, everywhere he places each foot, pass or tackle is evaluated and tactically figured in the blink of an eye. He stifles moves, he clears lines and he never slips up. It’s his best performance for our club and I smile as I realise he’s the only arsenal beater amongst us. Perhaps he will show us the way.

Keano battles with Gallas on our touchline until the foul is conceded and we scream our abuses at the “filthy, cheating” visiting captain.

“Oh when the Spurs,” we sing in slow melodic chorus.

“Go marching in,” our arms up, hands shaking with life.

“Oh when the Spurs go marching in,

I want to be in that number,

When the Spurs go marching in.” We begin another beautiful round of the 30,000 strong song - as all are this evening.

“Oh when the Spurs,” JJ places the ball in front if us.

“Go marching in,” he takes a breath as our glorious choir sends the sweet sound up into the heavens.

“Oh when the Spurs go marching in,” he takes the kick and it arcs perfectly into the box.

“I want to be in that number,” but the song is never completed. For instead, as the players jump high Bendtner gets a touch and I our eyes seem to deceive us for a second as it arrows in passed his hapless keeper - a perfect centre forward’s goal.

I throw myself into the air and onto my gang to the left. My body trembles with the uncontrollable joy of a two goal lead and we try to collect ourselves and hang onto the advantage. My body is custard. My shaking hands are knitted in prayer.

Still singing, nerves jangling like a jailer’s keys, we fight on into the half. Suddenly Berbatov appears through a sea of red as the ball follows close behind. He takes it on his feet and we know how this goes. Eyes wide open, hands reaching for the sky, this is the perfect position for the Bulgarian. These are his moves, this is how he scores. He holds for what seems an age and shoots low. It passes the far post. We hope. The keeper dives. We pray. It heads for the net. We start to cheer. And it hits the far post and it’s pure agony.

I clutch my head with both hands and turn to the crew, all with various poses of tension. Little Man’s hands are over his mouth and No Name is hoping about. We all look from one to the other. A three goal lead feels like a win. It just does. That’s a big gap to bridge and we know we missed our chance.

“We don’t need it,” says Little Man, breaking the spell, “we’ll get more chances.” We all nod and hope.

Thirty minutes on the clock and we sit and wait for the half to draw in. We battle and fight with arsenal winning corners and free kicks but still it’s us who are on top. When the whistle finally blows, a cheer goes up like we’ve won a league game and I head up to the Bagel Wagon to meet the crew for a 15 minutes that I can’t work out if I want to disappear or last forever.

It’s the most high energy silence I’ve ever witnessed as myself, my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through), Chrissie and Rich stand with only one thought on our minds. We don’t want to talk about it. We’ve all been here before. We’ve had the pain of coming so close and fucking it up and we just don’t want to jinx it. It’s just so hard when all you want to say is, “We can win this! We can fucking win this!” and jump about like loons. We leave it with an agreement to have a drink should it finish in our favour and take as I take the stands to return to my seat it feels something of a dead man’s walk. It’s 45 minutes for the rest of our lives.

We boo the arsenal team as they appear. We turn up the heat just for them and we cheer our heroes as they re-enter the fray with another round of:

“Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!” Just 45 minutes to hold strong. Come on you Spurs!

arsenal seem to have the better of the opening two minutes with a free kick or two and still we stand where normally we sit and watch with hope in our hearts and terrors in our minds. We gain possession in a flash and with a brilliant flick deep from the flank, Dimitar the Great finds Little Aaron picking up speed with space to run at but before we can tell him to peg it, he knocks it forward to Keano running between the arsenal centre-halves and besting them for pace. It’s at the far end but we can see he’s through. He must be ready to shot. We can’t quite believe our eyes. He’s kicks and I feel like I’ve been thrown into an ice bath when the ball buries itself in the netting. For a split second, time stands still as the crew and I catch sight of one another, shock mirrored from face to face.

Pandemonium.

I slam my body into the random to my left. He falls onto Little Man. Little Man folds and we all end up in a writhing heap screaming, joyful fans. We pull each other up in the melee and dance and jump and punch the air. My hands are shaking as I grab hold of my face to try to get a grip on myself. It think I’m going to break down in a minute. The thought of the win, so close now, has put me on the brink of uncontrollable tears. I’m going to be a blubbering mess. I know it. My body is thick gravy.

“KEANO!” We sing his name over and over and over and over and over. The song is never going to die. Nobody wants to stop. My voice has all but gone. My throat is two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

Within a minute, arsenal are at our area and in full flow. Don’t concede Spurs, please, not now. I’m wringing my hands together, sliding each clammy palm over the other in desperation, knowing that a quick goal could start a horrible collapse. Please God, not today. There’s a shot. The ball hits the underside of the bar and bounces just out. A scramble. I can barely look. Please, clear, clear and the ball flies high as white shirt boots it high and away.

3-0, still holding we’re starting to believe.

“Tottenham till I die, I’m Tottenham till I die.

I know I am, I’m sure I am, I’m Tottenham till I dies.”

My singing isn’t for the team any more. It’s not to support our men or to shatter the enemy. It’s for me; the only outlet for the emotional wreck that is The Bagel. Screaming out my hope, anxiety, joy is the only normal existence I have left and I clutch onto it for dear life. I’ve never been a big fan of “Tottenham till I die”. Something about the concept of death has always seemed to grim but when holding my hands aloft with my voice and my arms quivering into the night, I know I am, I’m sure I am, I am 100,000% Tottenham till I die.

On 55 minutes, Taino starts to limp and I find myself shitting it like it’s Ledley or Keano. The man has been a hero today and I’m afraid to lose him. I’m afraid of what will happen if the man who has had the measure of the midfield has to leave the pitch. And then it hits me that this is Teemu Tainio I’m talking about?

Our new superstar runs it off as he gets stuck in again with everyone from Berbatov backwards pitching in to keep the arse at bay. The reds try and try again to thread it into the box but in frustration their passes go astray and their ling shots are deflected. Every miss kick, hoof and moment of anger is another small victory for us; another blow to their famous cohesion and confidence. They are beginning to look ragged and then it’s our turn.

I always say that arsenal are at their most dangerous when their opposition has a corner. Their countering at speed is what they’re all about. But as one pass is intercepted, it’s Tottenham who are on the break. It’s the Lillywhite shirts running forward in numbers. Ours are the perfect passes and when Little Aaron applies the clinical finish to goal number four a riot ensues.

As I travel the rows and seats of my block from front to back and side to side at the will of the mob, I pass hundreds of faces of different Spurs; some old, some young, men and women, but all of them, every single one bears the expression of a Yiddo who knows that tonight is the night and that finally it’s our turn to go to Wembley once more. A few minutes later, I find myself in Horseface’s lap when the tide of the crowd finally abates. My body is water.

“Wem-ber-ley, Wem-ber-ley

We’re the famous Tottenham Hotspur and we’re going to Wem-ber-ley!”

The arsenal fans are starting to leave.

“We can see you sneaking out,” we sing and it hits me this is only the second or third chant we’ve used against their fans. Every other choral word from our mouths has been of support for the Spurs - well, minus the odd “Sit down you paedophile” to Wenger but as said, no holds barred tonight.
All I can do is hop and sing. I do not want to stop either. I need both. My nervous, shaking body needs direction and hopping gives it just that. The singing uses up the energy before I explode. Both are vital. I continue to hop and sing. But no body cares because each and every one of us is a complete and utter mess.

With their last roles of the dice both managers switch it up. Boateng and Defoe come on in place of our number one strike pair and arsenal bring on Adebayor to the pleasure of their remaining fans. They sing his name:

“Adebayor, Ad-e-bay-ooooooor,

give him the ball and he will score,” they scan clumsily to the tune of the Sloop John B.

Sure enough a few minutes later, the Premiership’s leading striker scores the only kind of goal that this arsenal team are going to slot today. It’s an stoppable shot from outside the area. When it hits the net, there’s little noise. We’re still nervous but even the remaining gooners can take little hope. Twenty-five minutes still to play. I’m thinking if we can get to the 80th without conceding again, that’ll be enough. We wait. We continue to work and dig and our Lillywhite hearts out.

“Juande Ramos’ Blue and White Army!” goes round the ground in full voice for the first time since the new man arrived and how fitting in recognition of what an achievement this looks set to be.

70mins. We’re still holding and any arsenal resistance is fading. They try to call on their striker to save them again but we high-jack their song for a version of our own:

“Adebayor, you’re mother’s a whore,

Adebayor, you’re mother’s a whore!”

For a second the Togo striker looks puzzled. He can’t work out why we’re praising him, so we point straight at him and annunciate every syllable for him to hear. He soon gets the joke but probably doesn’t find it quite as funny.

Ten minutes to go and I just can’t register what I’m seeing as I look to the Jumbotron at the scoreline - 4-1 and suddenly we realise that this really is it. It’s finally here; the promised land, the promised victory - a glorious night of double celebration and for a solid 10 minutes we sing the same song over and over again and I swear you must have heard it at home, even if your telly was off. With our hands high in the air and our hearts soaring like birds, we finally embraced our destiny:

“Que sera, sera,

Whatever will be, will be,

We’re going to Wem-ber-ley,

Que sera, sera!”

Round and round it went sinking in that little bit deeper each time we got the third line. We’re going to Wembley, we really are. The only time we stopped was to cheer the final goal, the icing on this most magnificent cake. We couldn’t let them have the last laugh. Tonight had to be ours 100 per cent and Steed made sure of that at point blank range after yet more heroics from JJ, who along with Tainio, was incredible in the middle. The whole team was perfect. We never made a mistake. We took almost every chance. We were the better side and we won. My body evaporated.
When the whistle blew it was all complete; so perfect, so very perfect.

“We beat the scum 5-1, we beat the scum 5-1, we beat the scum 5-1, FIVE - ONE!” we sang over and over again. We clapped and we cheered for God knows how long while our players did a lap of honour before sliding together onto the ground as an encore.

I bounded up the rows to meet my friends, breathless, speechless, voiceless and complete. Complete. I was due into work for 10pm but I couldn’t miss a couple down the British Queen, not tonight. The CD in the pub played “We’re off to Wembley cos we beat the arsenal” on repeat until we left and all the way home the Tottenham fans - Oog, Rich, Chrissie and The Bagel included - took over train carriages, railways stations and tube platforms going through song after song, over and over until finally I was alone, beaming, basking in this night that I will never, ever forget.

It’s now 8am. I’m spent. I’m a husk of a bagel. I’m going to bed and I’m going to sleep, all day. But, when I wake up, I’ll remember. It will have felt like a dream. It does now because we didn’t beat arsenal. No, no we didn’t. We spanked them. We taught them a lesson in football and now, we’re going to Wembley.

The Bagel

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008 at 9:32 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.