Beef Bagel

“The only enjoyable thing about a cup game at Wembley is the final whistle, and then only if you’ve won” - The Bagel, 24/02/08

The half-covered red LEDs of a clock radio read 7.30 on a dresser beyond the foot of my bed. ‘Wembley’ the first word in my lips before even my eyes were open. ‘Wembley’ I let it roll around my mouth. I try to say it without smiling but it’s like eating a doughnut without licking your lips. ‘Wembley’ - the sound of the ‘m’ and the ‘b’ bounce around my head like a Berbatov ball juggle when he lands it from 70 yards up and under and onto his thigh, his foot, his ankle and puts it down wherever his genius chooses. ‘Wembley’ I’m wide awake, my eyes like saucers scanning the blank plaster ceiling of this dimly lit bedroom like it’s the stadium itself, the crowd and noise shimmering before me, Jenas eating up the turf as he pulls away from the helpless blue defenders and down the keeps throat in front of my eyes and thousands of Spurs willing him home. Wembley. Wembley.

7.32. Will this clock never speed up? The two shines in blurred soft focus through discarded pair of knickers draped over the display. Maybe it’s not a two. Maybe it’s a 20. It’s 7.320am, which must mean it’s time to get up, but I don’t really fancy touching the stringy pink undies to find out. They don’t belong to LB. They don’t belong to The Bagel either before you get any ideas. Their owner is on holiday in Morocco, although quite what she has taken with her is a mystery because all of her clothes and possessions are strewn about this bedroom. The wardrobe stands open, it’s contents belched onto the floor with CDs, a hairbrush, scraps of paper, assorted potions and lotions adding to a general detritus a good three inches deep.

I send my hand down on reconnaissance into the wreckage and search the part of this mess that belongs to me - my glass of water; found. I prop myself up onto an aching elbow and drain the contents before my shoulder can collapse under my weight. I suppose I’m a little hung-over; a little. I’d finished the night shift on Saturday morning at 6am and knew I had to reset my body clock before 3pm today. So, I stayed. No sleep, just whiskey and online Texas Hold ‘Em until the world woke up and I headed into town.

I’d gone to get my hair cut, 1pm on the Saturday. The normally sleepy salon was faster than my eyes could see, than my brain could register. I’d sat stunned waiting for my turn while black uniformed stylists whisked about in their high-tempo ballets with non of them in time or tune with another. I watch like a mountain in millennial age as the animals of the earth scurry before me and are gone before I can blink. Each creature in black tortures the heads of their oblivious victims, who reading magazines and drink tea. They sit unaware as their hair is stretched into shape with driers and roll brushes or scorched hot irons or clamped up in foil or split with blunt scissors.

“Can I take your coat,” comes a voice as I look up slowly, my red eyes meeting those of an assistant moving at humming bird speed. She leads me off to the beginning of the production line where I’m washed, wetted, cut, brushed and spat out before I’ve had time to recognise the person looking back from the mirror. It was everything I could do not to fall asleep in the chair.

With an hour to kill before meeting my friend I’d stumbled on down to Peter Jones on the Kings Road, my neck in goose-pimples as the wind breezed past skin newly uncovered, sending beautiful shivers across my shoulder, down my spine and to the bottoms my heals before disappearing down into the earth. I’d found four plasma screens lined up on the fourth floor, Birmingham vs arsenal playing, a sofa in front and the sound in 5.1. Yes, I think I’ve found somewhere to exist for a while.

By the end of the game there were 12 men around the screens, the staff helpless to do anything about us, while parents and partners were shopping elsewhere. A huge cheer from myself and a Birmingham fan as McFadden twisted the knife in the gooners’ deep wound and that devilish thought across my mind, “Could this just be the perfect weekend?”

I’d spent the evening with Mitch (a big football fan with no affiliation, save the national side, the poor chap). It was never so much a case of getting drunk as just drinking to stay awake, knowing the minute I stopped would spell the end of my Saturday before I even knew I was passing into unconsciousness. I’d made it through most of MOTD but that was about it. So, here I am, refreshed more or less and with that one word on my mind. Wembley.

8.40am. That’ll do. A snatch of sleep here and a daydream there and I can get up. The plan is clear in my head. Out of Mitch’s place, back to the Bakery for 10am, out again by 11am and meet the crew for 12am. Don’t fuck up.

I pull the covers back and find last night’s clothes in the neatest looking pile in Mitch’s sister’s room. I scoop up and armful of clothes, plonk them on the bed, where I’d found a similar amount of litter, and a spread them out like child with food that he wants to look like he has tried.

I meet a dressing-gowned Mitch rubbing his head in the hallway with an offer of tea and breakfast too good to refuse. So, I’ll be a little late back home but somehow I know this porridge meal could be very important, all I’ll have to get me through most of the day.

Back at the Bakery, I check my mail, turn on Sky Sports news and jump in the shower with the door open so I can watch the endless reports from Wembley Way, the interviews, the pictures, the excitement of the day. Piece by piece I’m more and more pumped, the secrets of the Tottenham camp the final straw in my Ramos belief. The press haven’t even been allowed on the same road as the team hotel. Juande’s got them removed. They’re out of harms way, untouched by the world. Everything for them is normal; toast, cereal, a cup of tea and not a word from anyone outside. They’ll be no contact from anybody else until they walk out to that 90,000 roar, just as it should be; no hype, no anxiety, no nothing - just their gameplan, their football.

And what of my gameplan? I’ve got to get this right. It’s my first final and I can’t screw this up for Spurs. I’ve had a few ideas on the way home and I’ve one thing decided - colours. I’m definitely wearing colours. The question is which ones. What blend will give us the best chance of winning. Lucky pants are out, I know that much. We did arsenal when I ditched the lucky pants, so I’m going with a good pair of Saturday night pants. Ok they’re on. What next?

White t-shirt to go under; everything’s got to be navy or white today. I was going to where the 2002 Thompson home shirt to keep me warm but the blue piping’s going to be uncomfortable, besides, save signing Robbie Keane, it wasn’t a good year. It’s going to be the all white Thompson/Kappa shirt on top. It was a good strip and the purest of Lilywhite. I wore it at the semi and it worked. So what can I wear in between the two to keep me warm? It’s got to long sleeved. I’m searching through my tops: a moth-eaten navy job - too thin; a dirty tracksuit top - too soiled; and then I see it, it’s white cuffs poking out at the bottom of a pile of clothes. I’d forgotten all about that. It was never lucky when I wore it before in those early days at the Lane but, but it’s perfect. It’s thick, it’s long sleeved, it’s navy blue, it’s Tottenham and best of all it’s just so apt. I pull on the 1967 away shirt and my Sunday best is complete.

When I arrive at Baker Street, there’s clearly been some sort of mistake to our cunning plan. I’d passed a pub and platforms full of singing Yiddos at Liverpool St who’d been singing an excellent song from the Valentine’s trip to Prague to the tune of She’ll be coming round the mountain:

“You can stick your red roses up your arse,

You can stick your red roses up your arse,

You can stick your red roses,

Stick your red roses,

Stick your red roses up your arse.

Cos I love Tottenham more than you,

Singin’ I love Tottenham more than you,

Singin’ I love Tottenham,

I love Tottenham,

I love Tottenham more than you.”

But Baker Street was no Yiddo haven. It seems our plans had crossed with the Chelsea scum and I’m not just referring to Chelsea fans. When I say the Chelsea scum, I mean the Chelsea scum.

Across Marylebone Road stands The Globe, or what remains of it after the assault from the Chelsea Blues with their flag draped over the railings in front to claim their territory. Packed to the gills with fat-headed, Michelin tyre-necked, bald, white, electric-shirted Chelsea fans waving their arms in the air and surrounded by police, The Globe shakes with gurgles and monstrous song while plastic pints half full fly through the air like mortar boards at some hideous graduation. Insults are thrown at members of the public already fearful of football fans and more solid matter at any Tottenham shirts within range. The police can only do so much. How do arrest the projector of a missile when you’ve no idea from where it came.

I give The Globe the widest of berths and pretend to find something else far more interesting as I make for the back streets and the safety of our rendezvous pub, mercifully distant from this hell hole in front of me. Thirty yards down the pavement I can see a tall man in black. He’s pointing my way repeatedly and he’s saying something: “Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo!” It’s my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) and I sing right back and it’s good to see my friend on this, our most special of days.

Yes, it’s good to see Charlie and Livy and Oog and Chrissie and Gillian and Dave, but there’s one person who it’s best of all to see, Jimmy I got me a ticket to the final (nee was desperately looking on Ebay and utterly gutted that all my mates were going and not me).

To begin with I think he’s just there for a drink, but the smile on his face, the hopping from foot to foot and the delight in his eyes are just too much to hide.

“Are you…” I start, too full of hope to finish the question, but that’s all it needs. My friend nods. He nods like the Churchill dog on speed. This is the best news I’ve had all day. Although I’d been to the Lane once before as a small, it was with Jim that my love affair with Tottenham began. After seasons of saying that we should go and catch a game, we finally did do back in 2002, I think it was. It wasn’t a good game of football but it was dramatic, and that’s what gets you hooked. A last minute penalty for Teddy Sheringham saw Spurs go top of the league and Jim and I hooked. We bought our season tickets one week later.

But that’s not where it ends. Jim and I used to sit next to each other on the Shelf until a few years back when he just couldn’t afford it any more, but he never got to see the big games. Three years in a row he missed the North London Derby, and great derbies they were and it was Jim for whom the first ever match report was ever written, before Beef Bagel ever existed. I remember writing him every detail of the game, how noisy the crowd were, what songs we sung, what it was like to really be there, not to watch it on TV, much in the way I try to do now. I wanted to write that because I knew how much it meant to him; I knew how upset I would have been to miss those games. So, to see my Tottenham friend, so famous for missing us at our greatest was as much as a thrill for me as it was for him. It was a special hug we had when we met - manly, very manly, and special. We’re all here, Yiddos United and the most magical of days ahead of us.

The conversation at our outside table is of course on nothing else. Oog carefully hands out the oversized tickets. “I’ve checked these things at least five times today,” he says glad to be relieved of the responsibility. I don’t blame him. My wallet seems like a lump of lead at my thigh with the precious piece of Carling branded card inside. After just one drink, our nerves get the better of us. We just can’t wait any longer and back to Baker Street we go; back that is, save one small stop.

“Eight salt beef bagels,” announces Charlie as we troop into a local branch of The Bagel Factory. It’s a fitting last supper as we stand munching our tucker, the only reserves will have to get us through the game.

“Tottenham fans eating bagels,” quips one Chelsea fan quietly to his mate as the two electric blue shirts walk their ways by. “Chelsea fans being racist,” I mutter back not loud enough for them to hear.

Bagels wolfed we make for the tube giving another wide birth to the ugly Globe but it’s not just the pub that’s riddled with Chelsea fans. As we rush for down the platform to catch the waiting tube, Charlie, on point, jumps from carriage to carriage looking for some friendly faces. There are few and far between and we make do for the nearest before the door closing warning pips can start. Just on after us come a gang of middle aged Chelsea men, cans in hand. They waste no time in making the carriage their own.

“Yiddo! Yiddo, Yiddo!” they shout at some Spurs as the door closes in front of them. The Yiddos United look at each other in confusion. But that’s ours, and not only that, it’s a compliment; the highest in fact. It doesn’t come across as an insult from the Chelsea fans but it’s just wrong. Any confusion as to quite what they meant is soon cleared up as their singing begins.

“We’ll be running round Wembley with our willies hangin’ out,

We’ll be running round Wembley with our willies hangin’ out,

We’ll be running round Wembley,

Running round Wembley

Running round Wembley with our willies hangin’ out,” to She’ll be coming round the mountain.

Singin’ I’ve got a foreskin, haven’t you? (Have you fuck!)

Singin’ I’ve got a foreskin, haven’t you? (Have you fuck!)

Singin’ I’ve got a foreskin,

I’ve got a foreskin,

I’ve got a foreskin, haven’t you? (Have you fuck!)“

I don’t have a foreskin. I wonder how they’d take to:

“Singin’ you’ve got a cheesier nob than me (You bunch of cunts!)“?

But any remnants of humour on the matter very quickly vanish as their next song starts up.

“Spurs are on their way to Auschwitz,” they sing to the tune of our own glorious song.

“Hitler’s going to gas them again.” You can feel the carriage wincing save this mob and their compatriots a few metres away. All the Spurs are quiet and many of the better Chelsea fans too but the group, led by ugly little badger of a man in his late 30s or early 40s, sing on with not a care for the horror of their words and evil of their attitudes. One of them, like Nazi prison guard with his shaved head, sharp pale cheeks and nose that thinks it sniff out Jews, seems to sneer with every consonant in the song and delight in each vowel sings from the black pit of his heart. I don’t like the minority of Tottenham fans with their new “funny” Adebayor song, about the African players father washing elephants. It is racist. A handful of these Spurs probably realise but I’d say a portion don’t. They probably just thinks it’s funny and they’re very much mistaken. Perhaps it’s because I am Spurs fan, perhaps it’s because I’m Jewish and not black but I suspect that reason I find this much, much worse is the fact that I suspect these Chelsea fan mean it. These Spurs fans may see black people all too stereotypically but there’s nothing in their chants that wants these people dead.

The badger starts up again, the soloist in this demonic choir - both in it’s drunken, droning sound and its abhorrent message.

“SSSZzigger Ssszzagger, szigger szagger,” he slurs over his half drunk lager, with a gap between his yellowing molars appearing at his cheek a metre away from me.

“Oi, Oi, Oi” comes the reply from his stormtroopers.

“SSSZzigger Ssszzagger, szigger szagger!” he calls back with a cream dripping down the enamel of his teeth of day old deposits of beer, tobacco and no water to rinse the mess away. I can imagine his hot, spittled, foul smelling breath beating against the neck of a nearby passenger, not part of the terrible gang, doing everything they can to ignore him.

“Oi, Oi, Oi” sing the blue-shirted blackshirts.

“SSSZzigger Ssszzagger, szigger szagger,” he thunders back to his army, the whole carriage fighting hard to stay in their own private happy places.

“Oi, Oi, Oi!” I’m looking away out of the window of the train Wembley’s great arch coming into view in the distance, but the badger’s call brings me back.

“SsZigger!”

“Oi!”

“SssZagger!”

“Oi!”

“SSSZzigger Ssszzagger, szigger szagger!”

“Oi, Oi, Oi!”

We have to win. Tottenham are far from perfect. I’ve wondered at the back of my mind if our bad record against arsenal have been some sort of karmic influence, a cosmic curse for our abuse of Wenger as a paedophile. But this is worse. It’s uglier, it’s meaner, it’s far, far more sinister and if this god of karma does exist, it has to act today.

The train arrives at the platform and let the gang go first as they join their friends and sing their way up the steps of the station shouting “Yiddo” as they go. Their calls are mixed with the genuine cries of the Spurs as both sets of fans move along the corridors with patches of dominance in numbers between Lilywhite and Chelsea Blue. One Man Went to Mow mixes with Tottenham, Tottenham, Tottenham, to We are Tottenham behind us and We are the Famous CFC beyond. It’s edgy, tense; both fans together, hatred rife and only the smallest of shoves from outright war.

We breathe again as we come through the station gates and Wembley Way opens up in front of us. Wembley, at last. I’ve waited a long time to do this. From the top of the station steps a fall of blue and white shirts spill down onto a full flowing river below. Waves of Lilywhite and Chelsea blue pour down long straight valley. Team coloured hats and scarves and shirts and jackets and flags and mascots bob up and down as the fans flood, all framed by the giant arch, square on where our stream meets the horizon. We look across at one another, the Yiddos United, and take our first steps toward destiny.

Hopefuls stand a the underpass at the foot of the steps. They wait with nervous looks and white and blue t-shirts that do all the taking, “Need a ticket,” they read. Touts stand edgily waiting nearby. “Buy any tickets?” they dare under their breath, just out of earshot of the police. Nobody approaches them.

The Wembley experience is nothing if well organised and spaces amongst the crowd along with its partisan nature never quite make for a throng of chorus. The walk is more one of apprehension for both sides as heads turn left and right for glimpses of interviews on camera, an original piece of fan-wear or just the sight of the mighty stadium itself. Finally, before reach the ramp up towards Bobby Moore a the splitting of the fans, it’s the Spurs who pipe up with the most appropriate song of the day,

“Spurs are on their way to Wembley,” yes we are, and here it is.

Every step up the ramp is another we cannot retake and each move forward feels like the end of our journey, the end of the dream. From here on in all joy is now lost. The build up, the month we’ve had to sing and shout and crow about are final is coming to a very fast end. There’s only a 100 metres of it left. I want to run back to Wembley Park Station and do it all over again. I don’t want it to be lost, but I could not fight the crowd even if I wanted to. This river flows one way only and we’re headed into the cave. There’s time to wish Jim good luck as he makes for his seat in the middle Club Wembley tier and we got of to ours, 17 rows up and right behind the goal.

It’s 2.15pm. We’re here. There’s thousands of Spurs all over the inside of this ground, within its walls between queues for the toilets, the bars, the snacks and still there’s just too much space, the ceilings are too high and despite our best efforts and the coming and going of “When the Spurs go marching in” and “Juande Ramos’s Blue and White Army” the choir just never kicks off. This stadium’s impossibly large and I can’t helping wishing they’d never got rid of the old one.

We sink another beer but it seems to make little difference. The alcohol intoxication is nothing compared to my own personal chemical factory knocking out drugs inside my body to any and every organ and cell that comes looking. “Want any endorphins mate? Got some lovely adrenaline?”

It’s no use avoiding it any more. It’s to get out to the seats. As I step out into the window light hits me in the way that it doesn’t at the Lane anymore; the thrill so practiced and familiar. The frame colour and sound opens up before me like vast Roman amphitheatre, steep walled and impossible to escape. The turf looks twice the size of Tottenham’s, the fringes of the freshest of green grass like a thick carpet decadently far reaching a good five metres beyond the markings of the pitch. The shimmering red walls of England colour seats tower miles above, bowling all around as if the earth has opened up into some incredible dimension only talked of in legends and at last I know that it’s true. The only clue to the outside world is the hole in the roof with giant clouds passing by across an epic skyscape so very far away. This must be where old footballers go when it’s finally time to die.

We arrive at our seats in line with the left-hand post and at the perfect height for a both a view of the game and proximity to the action. Good work Oog. Each station is fitted with a flag and we unfurl our Tottenham treats with glee and practice our waves. It’s a beautiful site, thousands upon thousands of football fans over 100m above us each flying flags for our glorious club.

“Come on you Spurs,” peels the pre-match call around our half of the ground, “Come on you Spurs!”

Fifteen minutes to go. I’m shitting it. I don’t want the game to start. The Chelsea faithful fly their dirty Chelsea flags at the far end of the ground. I try to imagine the site of all of them standing up at once and their 30,000 Wembley cheers as the ball dribbles in at my feet, and in some way, I want it to happen. I want to know how impressive that looks. You can never tell what these things look like while you’re in them. You feel passionate as part of the crowd, elated but never objective enough to be blown away by the scale.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” comes the crystal clear voice over the tannoy, “the line ups for the 2008 Carling Cup final are as follows…” the pageantry begins.

Giant white and blue flags are marched out onto the pitch by wannabe dancing girls as the teams are read position at a time. Every Tottenham player we cheer, every Chelsea one we boo as the pantomime demands. The silly affair is unwanted by both crowds; a reminder of the encroaching pomp and corporate rich path that we pray our game will follow no further than it has already gone.

Soon enough the sham is over and it’s our turn to have the flags in the air once again as the teams come down the tunnel. Flame-leap into life all around the touch line, the heat of them warming my cheeks from over 30 metres away.
The all-Lilywhite strip looks beautiful against the colours in the ground. Pure white against pure green; pure white against plastic blue, Tottenham in the cup final.

Before I know it the whistle has blown but it’s largely drowned in the noise. From the off we’ve control of the ball with the Lilywhites charging down the pitch and off towards the Chelsea in the very first attack of the game. We’re showing them we’re not afraid. We’re showing them we’re here for business. There’s a roar from the Spurs in the top tier, those with the most clear view of the movement of the game and the excitement spreads across the Club Wembley middle section and quickly down to us. We know that sound, it’s the sound of a chance. Keano’s on the ball at the far end of the pitch, my body tenses as he winds up for shot and we oooh and clap as his shot is deflected wide for our first corner.

Even now my hands are clasped together where they remain unless they are clapping. Little Aaron seems to walk miles out to the corner flag and I can’t even tell how he’s ever going to be able to kick the ball that far, let alone put it on someone’s head, but just that he does and my heart leaps with Pascal Chimbonda as the header arcs across the face of Petr Cech’s goal and hangs painfully unclear and impossible to tell just how close it is goal until we see it bounce up and over the crossbar to the visible relief of the Chelsea fans and the audible wince of the Spurs.

Still we press, which is all the more difficult with the action at the far end of the pitch. It’s like listening to the radio. Sure, you can see pictures but none of them help. You stand there relying on the reaction of the players, the noise of the fans at the other end, someone else who can actually see what’s going on to give you a clue and it makes it all the more unbearable; so close but so agonisingly far. The white shirts go forward again, this time with a short cross in from Keano on the left. He got a taste for Chelsea full-backs ever since making a monkey of Boulahrouz and it makes no difference if you push Keano out to the wing. Most strikers will suffer if their out in the cold beyond the channels but not Keano. Both our front men are creators as much as poachers and you cannot keep them down. I can see him stop and shimmy on the outside of Belletti until; all the time Keano waiting, never looking to get past as the full-back expects but waiting for the option; not psyching him out with eye contact but looking for a Lillywhite reflection in his pupils, a better option, this time a cross. As Keano digs one out, we all breath in from 100 yards away watching who’ll jump first, where the ball is going. Is it mistake or the perfect plan? We wait as it sails across the keeper, beyond one defender and then up leaps the tall white shirt of Dimitar Berbaov for as close a thing to a free header as you get against a Terry/Carvalho defence. He makes contact and although we cannot judge the depth, we know straight away that he’s missed with the perfect view on the width of the pitch. Dimi! How could you? But you’re perfect! For most players you’d shrug it off but you know he’ll be judging himself by far higher standards.

“Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov, Dimitar Berbatov!” sing the Wembley branch of the White Hart Choir in this ground of such strange acoustics. Neither end ever quite seem to sing as one. It’s like it’s impossible. Whether it’s the shape of the bowl, the Club Wembley gap or the sheer scale of it all is hard tell but the songs either overlap such that their unison timing is out or instead the song twists and changes, seemingly on the wind into another Tottenham anthem. It’s like a constantly flowing medley from Berbatov’s name to We are Tottenham, Spurs are on their way to Wembley and even There’s only one Paul Gascoigne. But there is one chant that does work; one that is so simple, so passionate, so piercing across the sky and like bells it peels out into this great chasm:

“Come on you Spurs! Come on you Spurs!” it sends shivers down my spine every time I hear it. There’s something different about it’s sound today. We sing Come on you Spurs for corners free-kicks or any close set piece at the Lane but there are times even in our yard when you can feel that it’s loaded with far more than ‘let’s score a goal from this.’ Come on you Spurs is sung at such a high register that it is laden with feeling; it simply cannot help it. It pours out as a plea. It’s our most natural chant and we need it to keep us from death. So much passion in our hearts and they’d explode without the release of Come on You Spurs. Today is not a Come on You Spurs to score a goal and it’s not even a Come on You Spurs to finally break a hoo-doo from our rivals. This is a Cup Final Come on You Spurs, a nine-year Come on You Spurs; a demand that today, we write the history; a call to victory; our turn to win.

“Come on You Spurs,” I scream with every ounce of strength and every vocal chord I own, “Come on You Spurs!”

The team seem to respond and still we push on. My imagination runs riot as a ball flies high up into the air and towards a group of blue shirts and just one in white jockeying for position. The looping ball causes a palpitation, a near stroke and a good murmur or two in The Bagel’s body in the time it takes to come down. It disappears from view, there’s a scurry and the crab-like figure of Steed Malbranque appears as he winds up shot through the crowd only to be tipped around the post by the best Chelsea player, Petr Cech.

Now, it’s Chelsea turn and suddenly my pleas to see the action in clear detail are coming true. The Blues traffic the ball through their tight midfield. They’ve stifled any space we’ve had until they were on top of our every pass and possession became theirs, simply by their movement. They lean on our more slight middle rank, while their strikers take up positions; Drogba in front of the centre-halves, Anelka in the channel just beyond Woodgate and Hutton. He stands just offside to worry the full-back and close enough to him to draw him in from the flank and think it his responsibility. Hutton inches back as does Woodgate with half an eye on Drogba and half on protecting his full-back. It’s fed through to Anelka and who’s measured and marshaled by the impeccable Tottenham defence, a hallmark of what it to come for the rest of the game. Woodgate blocks the striker’s path and kicks it off the Chelsea player’s shins and out for Robbo to kick. Perfect defence football.

But the Chelsea machine has far more parts than the strikers. This is a team of midfield goalscorers as strong as any in the league and even the passes about the rim of our area are enough for my hands to shake like I’ve just seen a ghost. White-knuckled, ashen-faced I spout any words of feeling to help my team:

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh, get it out,” is about as good as I can do with “Go to ‘em” perhaps my one useful comment. This is the least enjoyable game I’ve football I’ve ever watched. I panic when we’ve got the ball and I panic when we haven’t and that’s when I realise what the very first line of my match report will be.

With little success inside our area, the bal rolls out to Lampard in what is perhaps my calmest moment of the game. He never scores with his first. Sure enough the ball flies high but I know that’s only No.1. How many more will he get?

His second comes later as Drogba draws a dubious foul yards from the Tottenham box, well what seems like yards from my angle. Something catches my eye to my left and I turn to see the furiously shaking shaved head of Steely Dave - the man with the least telling exterior in the world. “He’s got his wall wrong, he’s got his wall wrong. Look, it’s too square”

It is. There are gaps at either end of the Robbo’s defence line where you could easily score a goal. What the hell is he doing? Are eyes widen in terror as we realise he’d about to hit it low, hard and under the jumping legs, if not around them and we sigh a relief as we realise Fat Frank hasn’t seen the gaps and arcs his effort slightly closer than the last. That’s two.

Drogba wins another decision on the almost the same spot and again Steely Dave and I sweat buckets as Drogba this time has a go at Robbo’s misplaced mock-masonry and isn’t too far away. But it’s take three in the very same spot that finally uncovers our keeper’s mistake. The ball trundles in from the poxyist of looking strikers with Robbo utterly wrong-footed and the Chelsea fans utterly elated.

I hear the sound of half of Wembley erupting. I see the thousands rise to their feet. I’d rather not have. The flag wave high again. The dirty Chelsea emblem taunts us as it dances gleefully over the east side of Wembley and I get that horrible Chelsea feeling; the knowledge of their mean defence, their asphyxiating midfield and their cup final experience. The half time whistle blows. I stop for a quick look at the faces of my worried friends, no-one daring to say what we all fear and I disappear off to the toilet to relieve my bladder and myself of the trouble of dancing around an issue.

Despite its 2,618 toilets, it still takes 15 minutes to take a leak at Wembley and toy with the idea of using the disabled loos but then release there’s actually disabled people here today. I imagine picking one up and pushing him into the stall with me. He sits there helpless and outraged while ignore him, pop our the old chap and drain the lizard; utterly cruel but somehow I’ve a feeling it’s the kind of think Chevy Chase would get away with. I can’t see the American comedian queuing up with the rowdy and a little fractious Spurs, who begin to grate on one another has some people force their way ahead in the line.

The players return as I find my seat once more, wowed for a second time by my Wembley entrance. As the game kicks off again I stand worried at the way Chelsea set about to do as little with the game as possible. They allow us to bring the ball forward but cut down our moves in defence. Where normally we could pass round a team attempting this kind of play, the likes of Essien are just to quick. The strong Ghanaian seems to hunt down the ball wherever he goes and passes that would normally find their destination are cut our by his calf, his ankle another Chelsea toe such that we just lose enough moment and Chelsea again find the ball at the feet of one of their players.

I look around at the players. Who’s going to win this for us? Who’s going to make a difference. I look hard and I just can’t figure out which one is irresistible and then it hits me. We do have one man who is going to outclass his opposite number, one man far superior in skill, intelligence, tactics - Juande.

The boards go up in 60 minutes, very orthodox for our manager until the change itself is announced. It’s Big Bad Tom on for Chimbonda, who is not very happy at all; almost as unhappy as we are when he strolls off the pitch like a time wasting player, his side with the advantage. Keano has to push him off before boo him and before he runs the clock down any further. The fucking idiot.

I don’t even bother to try to work out the new formation while voices all around me start playing formation mathematics. Sometimes I think Ramos does it to confuse the other manager on purpose, perhaps to get them to make an change to their line-up that is already working perfectly well?

As soon as Huddlestone is on the pitch you can tell it was a good move. “Juande always rewards his players’ hard work,” is a quote I’d heard some time before the game and certainly no player has worked harder on his physical condition than Big Tommy H. The first time I saw Huddlestone I felt he was gifted player but I haven’t thought that for a long time - not until today. Yes, he can pass the ball beautifully, second only to Michael Carrick in the last few years, but it’s his style. There’s a grace and beauty to what he does and I’m mesmerised when Little Aaron crosses him the ball to the corner of the Chelsea box right in front of my eyes. I’m enchanted as he takes it down onto his knee like it was caught on a velvet cushion. He looks like Berbatov on the ball; effortless laconic skill, not the genius but a very similar control. He teases the ball up off the end of his foot, almost presenting it to his marker, Wayne Bridge, who stops it with his…..hands…..hands! wait a minute he had both hands on it!

For a second Mark Halsey points to the spot and the Spurs go ape-shit while you can see the Chelsea end visibly shrink. There’s an awful wait while the referee consults his assistant until he turns back, looks up and points firmly to the spot again; Terry and Lampard and Co. crowding and complaining as usual.

Now, I’m worried. Berbatov stands over the ball in front of me. Cech stands favouring one side of the goal, aiming to fake him out. There’s no one I’d rather trust than Dimi but I can taste the sight of him missing his first pen for Tottenham I can smell blood in my nose like I’ve just been whacked, the anticipation of what an awful blow it would be. We wait, fists clenched, breath held, finger nails digging in. Cech dances. Dimi stares at the ground. He looks to the ref and the whistle blows. Time slows as Berbatov begins to move. I reach out with my hands as he approaches the ball I can see them tremble in front of my eyes, and even before Berbatov reaches the ball Cech dives left. Nothing has been kicked. His weight drags him helpless to the ground and Dimi trickles it in.

Everything is quiet. I’m climbing high into the air. My mouth is wide open. My feet are far from the ground, my fist punching the air. All about me, the world moves in silent slow motion for a split second. Charlie stares across at me, both fists aloft. People face’s twist from terror to delight, my ears open, my lungs fire up and the world explodes into sound and motion. We’re dancing about like loons and when we finally get a grip the game has already begun again and my whole body is shaking.

The Tottenham flags are flying high but I unable to do a thing. My legs have turned to jelly. I can’t speak anymore and from here on in I have absolutely no tactical knowledge of the game. I am a pair of eyes to watch with and pair of hands to wring or clap depending upon which is more appropriate.

The next thing I can remember is Keano knocking the ball over the top for one Zokora to run onto, and oh my God, he’s through. And as he bares down on goal, one-on-one with Cech the whole crowd thinks one thought - not him. Even Didier Zee is saying it himself. On the edge of the box with the keeper advancing, he looks in panic from left to right, needing support. His desire to pass it etched on his face. “Not me,” he’s thinking, “anyone but me.” For a split second I’m convinced this is it, his first goal for Tottenham Hotspur, what a time, what style….what a miss, and I turn to Oog with pain in my eyes.

“That was it,” I said, “that was the story.”

“No, no it wasn’t,” he bounces back. “Maybe the story is for him to score at the second time of asking?” It’s just about enough to hang onto. Didier lies face down on the ground, distraught at his fluffed chance; his time to be the hero; his time to finally score but we wing for him all the same; our new Stefan Freund.

“Do-do-do Didier Zokora,” to the theme of the Conga.

The whistle blows for full time and the players take to the turf while coaches shake legs, Juande and Gus advise and most ominously of all, Robbo practices saves. I couldn’t take a penalty shoot out, I just couldn’t. I have heart attack if they were at our end and I’d wouldn’t be able to cope if they were at the other. My mind stands to wander over the potential penalty takers and Oog interrupts.

“I think extra time favours them. They’re fitter,” he says in reference to our European mid-week games. But then I remember.

“No, this favours us. We’re fitter. Think of all those changes that Ramos and Alvarez have made. We’re more prepared for this.”

Robbo walks over to us to take his place. He turns to the crowd lifts both arms up at us in motion for our support.

“Come on you Spurs!” we answer as the top notes float across the tiers, “Come on you Spurs.”

Within the first minutes we get win a free kick at the far end of the pitch. It’s hard to tell once again. JJ floats it in. Woodgate jumps up with Cech. He….he….looks like he’s maybe celebrating, but it’s only as the cheers filter down from the very top rows and we see the whole XI chasing after our new defender that we realise it’s a goal. I don’t move. Stunned, I stand with my arms out in front of me, palms up and it’s not until a kid behind me jumps on my back that I suddenly understand that this is real. This is the League Cup Final, I’m watching Spurs, we’ve just taken the lead against Chelsea, there’s 25 minutes to play and there’s every reason why we could win this. I’m petrified. I have the makers of Wembley stadium to thank for my survival. If it were not for the clock having a seconds display, I never would have made it.

The next 25 minutes were the most painful of my life. The waves of attack were hard enough to take at our end when you could see Ledley and Woody doing their dogged and confident work with Robbo to back them up when needed but when it was at the other end of the field it was simply unbearable. Every time the ball reaches the feet of a Chelsea player I’m convinced they’ve got a shooting chance. Maybe they had.

With each passing minute I grow weaker. All I can do is shake and whimper. No Tottenham clearance could be high enough or far enough up the field. No spell of possession was long enough. The unseen work in the distance were clearly master strokes but to me everything is last ditch.

“Oh, oh my God,” says Oog turning his head round and shaking about, “I know what’s going to happen now, I know how Chelsea are going to win this.” I have no idea how to deal with this comment even if I could a) process it or b) do anything apart from dribble.

“No shut up,” he says to himself, “don’t listen to me, I’m just gabbing. I’m a gabber,” and back he goes into his coping strategy.

JJ brings the ball into the corner up by us with just 3 minutes on he clock. He fights, he tussles, he winds down the seconds. He’s played like the true master he’s becoming. He’s rangy athleticism has been outstripping them all for pace today. He’s made Lampard look like the part time England midfielder.

There are 30,00o kettles boiling as all that can whistle in the West end of Wembley and suddenly, quietly, magically Halsey puts it to his lips and the game is won. I’m a mess. We all are. We dive, we hug, we bundle; the crowd swoons and sways with uncontrollable delight. It’s every dream we’ve ever had. There’s expressions I’ve never seen on the faces of my friends I’ve known for years. Something new, something unbelievable has happened. We cling onto each other, we need to, before the first chorus if praise springs up and the shock isn’t just mine when we realise that we haven’t just beaten Chelsea, we haven’t just won the League Cup but we’re all going on a European Tour. Who cares about the league now?

By the time we’ve gathered ourselves, the opposite end of the stadium has drained. Good. I don’t want that lot here anyway. Wembley has officially opened; Spurs have won a cup final.

We stand on our seats and wave our flags dancing about as best we can.

“You’ve just won the League Cup,” says Oog pointing right into my chest.

“You know what,” I reply, “you’ve just won it too.”

It wasn’t the final whistle that got me, it wasn’t the beating of Chelsea. It was the moment that I saw Ledley King walk up the 107 steps to the Royal Box, turn to us and lift that trophy with its Lilywhite ribbons flowing in the breeze. Ledley King back from injury, Ledley King runner-up in 2002, Ledley King the man who stuck with us when he could of played for any one, Ledley King a Yiddo through and through, Ledley King my captain - and when he lifted the cup I wept. I wept for his hard work, for our faith and for everything that we all pour into this team that we love so much. It still makes me cry.

Fireworks burst out into the night from the Wembley roof as that cup was held high. We cheered each time a player raised with special ones for Keano, Dimi and the man of the hour, Juande Ramos himself. Glory Glory Tottenham Hotspur played two or three times over while we waved our flags and while the players paraded the cup and soaked their boss in champagne.

Now my eyes have seen the glory of the cups at White Hart Lane, and they are glorious. After 30 minutes or so, we begrudgingly made our way out of the ground, shattered, hoarse and elated. Jim was bouncing off the walls when we met him outside the ground and we all enjoyed the slow walk back down Wembley Way, packed in with the Spurs while we sang for as long as our bodies could take.

It’s was champagne that we drank first after the game, of course. We toasted to Tottenham, to Ledley, to Ramos, to Gazza and to us. Champagne turned to lager and lager to whiskey until the pub kicked us out at 11.45pm. Perhaps I could have gone on. I’m sure we could have found somewhere. But I have a worried girlfriend with nasty Monday ahead of her and she needs me to be there.

I turn up drunk and victorious on LB’s doorstep who smiles as she lets me in and I do my very best to listen to her worries having to have a camera shoved down her throat in the morning and her weekend away, but I just can’t. I try to listen, I really do but her words just disappear into my internal monologue, “We are the champions, we are the champions, we are the champions!” until I finally fall asleep.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 25th, 2008 at 4:03 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.