Beef Bagel

Apologies for my absence but it’s been all systems go at the Bakery for a little while. There’ve been buns flying out the door, flour dust quite literally all over the shop, the ovens have only just started to cool and, as seems to be the way at the mo, I’m k-nackered.

I’ve promised myself that I wont write a full match report on Saturday’s gut-cruncher of a fixture but I’ve a feeling that my fingers will get the better of me as I continue.

It was a relief to be at the Lane on Saturday; a nice gentle 3 o’clocker against Man U. After the stresses of the last game we saw it was something of a massage for the soul to meet the crew with all the talk of Wembley and just where we grabbed our seats in the booking frenzy that was. I was even late to the game didn’t make much difference. You see, United at home is one of the best games of the year. You get that rare experience watching a fantastic team close up without really bothering if you lose to them. A solid and plucky display resulting in an ultimate defeat is usually the order of the day and one which ends in the warm knowledge that we can send Fergie and his men off with another three points towards the cause of stopping arsenal and Chelsea winning stuff. Everyone’s a winner. But not today.

Damn it, I knew this was going to happen.

6.30am and a very tired-looking and strangely apologetic LB opens the front door to her Bagel. She has an amazing way of looking particularly hot when she’ disheveled; long tousled lengths of blondey/brown hair hanging over her cheeks and lips, baby blue toweling bed shirt hanging off her shoulder and oh-so deliciously undone at her bust and so very warm against me as I come in from the freezing cold. But enough of the porno of my girlfriend. That’s another work altogether.

She’s back into bed before trying to keep hidden from herself that she’s just got up and hold on to that sleeping feeling. Any of that which she’d managed to clutch onto soon disappears as I clatter about in the darkness disturbing my love in every way that I had intended not to. Sans glasses or contact lenses I stumble from wall to wall taking the odd loose piece of cutlery or crockery with me or anything in fact that’ll make a good a sharp noise as it hits the tiled floor. Finally, mostly naked - I’ll spare you the description - having wrestled with my jeans, I’m ready to find the bedroom. But without my 20-20 vision the dark of LB’s flat at night is the kind of dense black fog that pirates speak of when the describe terrible tales that probably never happened and what’s more all my struggles have spun me blind like contestant prepped for a round of pin the tail on the donkey.

By the time I’ve knocked and bashed every door frame and bed post on my way under the covers LB is stopped kidding herself. My ice cold feet against her toasty warms are the final straw and wide awake we chat the long missed chat of a time-crossed couple. Anyone who’s worked nights will know what I mean.

As the lights come up, my go out; the rising sun my witching hour, daytime is my night.

I don’t even stir as LB leaves to go and take part in some come of torturous gymnasium exercise class; lycra clad drill sergeants whipping rows of blubbering cyclists struggling to keep up on their terrific, stationary Tours de France. I’m only vaguely aware of a half conversation in the other room as she talks to her friend on the phone. Funnily enough my girlfriend is not as keen to spend most of the weekend in bed, well not with The Bagel asleep anyway. I’m woken at 1.45pm in the gentlest of fashions - the old piece-making cup of tea. It’s a good routine. The gesture that says, “time to get up” the warmest possible way. Come to think of it, I wonder if anyone’s ever invented an alarm clock the wanks you off in the morning? Now, there’s the gift for the man who has everything.

I’m still tired but this isn’t a difficult day to face and there’s plenty of time to get to the Lane, or at least there is until the one thing that can mess up even the best laid plan enters the fray - the horn. It’s been a while since LB and I have had any time together and we go from a quick cuddle to knickers off and at in seconds. Again, I’ll spare you the details although there is a bizarre moment when the thought of Wayne Rooney enters my head. The poor chap feels rather awkward having walked in on this private moment and disappears fairly quickly doing embarrassed little keepie-uppies as he goes.

Suddenly it’s 2.20pm - nothing to do with my sexual prowess, I just like a good shower - but really it was to be expected. “It’s Man U,” said my sub-conscious when I first entertained the idea of sex, “who cares if you’re a little late.” Thank God, that probably explains Rooney’s appearance.

So, then there I am, ’scuse me, sorrying, and cheers mating my way down the row as those too far from my seat to know but near enough to get annoyed at this latest in my season round interruptions of their match-day experience.

The first thing that hits me, apart from the usual sight of the Man U kit that sort of slaps you round the face and makes you realise that the Champions are town, are the Spurs new signings. I’d forgotten about them and we look, well, we actually look different. It’s hard getting used to the sight of some players in the Lillywhite shirt. Woodgate’s going to take few games to get used to. Danny Murphy took a long time when he moved from his characteristic red and as for the sight of a Tottenham Edgar Davids, well that was just bizarre for the first month, but the one who really stands out today is new boy Alan Hutton. He just looks so…white. He’s like veal, it’s as if he’s been kept out of the light all his life, with his pure brilliant white coat of skin, topped off with a slightly unhealthy bluish hue. This, of course matched by the white of his shirt and this years special 125th year white shorts, makes him look like a ghost. In fact, with his short shaved receding hair, there’s barely a spec of colour on him.

More than anything, though, it’s the way he moves. When you spend a lot of time watching the same players up close and personal, you really get a sense of how differently each one moves, the weight of every gesture and footfall, the speed of their feet, the way they balance. Once you’ve got that, you can spot them on the ball from miles away. Hutton does not move like any Tottenham player I’ve ever seen. It’s his wiry physique. “He looks Scottish, don’t he?” says Omar in his wide-mouthed Cockney. I’m not sure what that means to my neighbour but for me it’s the hard-looking figure he cuts. He’s not big, in fact he’s quite skinny but every bit of his body is tight with muscle, as if the hard highland weather has bitten away every piece of his body fat until there’s one ferocious knot of tissue left, and somehow, without that extra weight, he can peg it up and down the wing all day without even breaking a sweat. It’s like he has to do it just to keep warm.

Woody on the other hand is a totally different kettle of bananas. There’s nothing so much surprising in his gait or body type but what the way he moves I would describe as comfortably, which is quite some feat given the history of all his aching bones. He’s not smooth like Ledley but he’s professional; nothing phases him. He’s defended against the best and come off better more times than he came off worse. He’s sure about what he does. He knows where to go, what to do and he does it when he gets there and it’s suddenly do obvious against Safety First Michael Dawson who runs on a fuel of pure heart to get him through every minute of every 90. He charges about and each move is full commitment desperation. Nothing is ever easily dealt with. It’s always a battle. God help any team if we ever get Woodgate and King Ledley together; more explosive than when the Gate Keeper met the Key Master.

Nobody was really watching the game; not me, the lads in front or Omar and his crew. We chatted. We talked of Wembley and we sang with the rest of the crowd in echoes of the great game gone by.

“Que sera sera, what ever will be will be. We’re going to Wem-ber-ley, que sera sera”

And a smile broadened my lips as I realised that we get to sing this and know that it’s true all the way through February. What a fantastic month this will be.

It was only after 20 minutes that I began to take notice of the game and then only out of curiosity. I’m chatting away to Omar about what an incredible game we missed and suddenly everyone’s off their seats and blocking my view.

“Oi, what do you think this is,” I wonder to myself. So, I stand to and the most curious thing is happening. The Tottenham forwards led first by Jenas and then Little Aaron are slicing through a team in the same colours as Manchester United like they’re not really there. Oh look, Lennon’s put in one of those short sharp crosses that Juande has got him doing so well. Jolly good, and look, Berbatov’s just scored. What? Hang on, and all I can do is stand there for a second until My Old Mate George of the Lads in Front spins around with his arms out wide and grabs hold of The Bagel and before I know it I’m jumping around with him, my body celebrating, and my face still wearing a look of bemusement. That’s nice.

But still I feel like I’m at some sort of school fate or pic-nic event, after all, United will equalise in a minute. That’s what they do and that’s ok. I’m prepared for that. I’m not going to like it when the away fans cheer it but I’ll cope, because after all, this is Manchester United. But what The Bagel hasn’t noticed is they’re playing a bit shit or more to the point, we’re making them do it.

JR stated his changes would be slow at our club but now, 100 days into his reign - yes it has been that long - now, we look different. The only players who are looking the same are Steeeeeve and the strikers. We have a new way of going forward and a new way to defend. Going forward we faster, fitter and far more direct from the midfield but going back, it’s almost as if we have a second line of defence - well, a first one in fact. We have learnt to contain teams quite happily before we even have to call on our usually over-worked back four. Our midfield can defend and our defenders are confident enough to play high enough up the pitch to keep to stop the shots raining in. If we retreat, we retreat together in unbending formation and the more another team compresses us the harder we push back, like we’re made of thick, heavy rubber. And when United push that little bit too hard and too recklessly they lose control and we spring out at them with all the force they put onto us.

By half time, I’m still trying to get a grip on what I’m watching. “A wind of change” is how Red Faced Fergie had described the climate at our club. For the first time since MJ took over I feel like I’m watching a different Spurs. I remember seeing Graham’s and I remember the look of Hoddle’s. Finally we’ve reached Juandeland.

Up at the Bagelwagon (not my car) Oog, Dave, My mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and though) and his family (of equal Yiddoid status) are all chatting the similar kind of vibes. It’s just a pleasant day out. We talk Wembley, we talk of arsenal some more and it’s only as the Ledley King injury speculation conversation comes out that I decide it’s time to return to my seat.

United bring on Michael Carrick to a fair smattering of boos about the ground, much to my distaste. The guy never made any parting shots at us. I don’t think I’ve seen him live since then. So I watch him for a while. He moves his head so much more than any player on the field, almost twice as much. He’s like a bird, twitching it around keeping every player and their movements mapped in his head for snap tactical decisions and precision passes the minute he receives the ball. But despite the intricate player’s presence on the field, United are continuing to niggle and argue and push and squeeze and penny pinch every which way the game turns just to get it back into their favour. They hassle the ref and they act hard done by in that famous Big Four way. Other teams don’t up and act like twats, why do these top performers consider it acceptable? Do their fans think that this is how every team play, to quote Charlie at half-time?

It disgusts me to subsequently read Fergie’s comments that the ref was biased against them based on the fact that they received seven yellow cards. They were lucky to get away with no reds and why on earth was Owen Hargreaves given just a good talking to from Clattenburg after a last man hand-ball. If he’s not going to card him, then why call him over? And what happened to our penalty shouts; hand balls in the area and the strangling of Huddlestone when he was jumping for a header?

And with every dive, every foul, every piece of bullshit that these Champions bring to a good game of football, I begin to hate them more and more and I’m not alone. Our team may not be complaining but we are. When United players make a noise, so do we. We stand and we shout and we make sure that a story is heard from both sides. There are times when I haven’t a clue what has happened but I’m standing and swearing and gesturing like a wronged Italian.

It’s only when Keano is put through what is surely to be our second that we really get the idea that we are the better team to have turned up today. It shows when the Chewing Gum Machine opts for his desperation blitz attack with all of his forwards on the field at once. Every game is like a cup final when you’re playing for the league. Cristiano Ronaldo and his omit coloured boots are joined by Nani and Anderson who themselves try to turn the screw. Ronaldo is the only outlet to be gaining any real purchase for the away side and even then his passes are blocked by Woodgate and Chimbonda - playing out of position on the left - and his runs inward are checked if not thwarted by new boy Hutton.

The best United can do is take pot shots from outside the area which almost all of their players have the ability to do but each kick is wide or met by a solid Tottenham leg or chest. The gameplan becomes pump it up to Ronaldo as we enter the last ten minutes and we’re suddenly feeling that victory is a reality for us. Imagine that, that’s quite a few ducks in a relatively short space of time: beat Chelsea in the league, destroy arsenal, get to a final and now beat United.

“U-nite-ed! U-nite-ed!” begin the away fans in the quietest tones I’ve ever heard from the loudest travelers in the league.

“U-nite-ed!”

“SHIT!” we slip in full stadium fercoity.

“U-nite-ed!”

“SHIT!”

“U-nite-ed!”

“SHIT!” and very quickly their support peters out.

87 minutes on the clock and finally the reds get what they were waiting for as Ronaldo goes down to an ankle tap outside the area. We all know what this toss pot can do. We all watched MOTD. We know the guy can kick it.

“Just keep this out,” I’m praying, “just keep this out and we can win.”

He plays is across to and the shot is blocked and now I’m really believing. We’re going to do this. We’re going to do this. We’re all on our feet for the three minutes of time added on and despite the barrage of attacks we’re holding just like we have been all game. Just one corner to defend now and we’ll take the points and this greatest of honours. I feel so privileged, all of a sudden, to be here at this time watching this momentous rebirth of a once powerful team in such dramatic style.

The huge Van der Saar comes up for the corner and I pray. I hold my hands together and pray. The ball is whipped in from the far side. I lose it in the crowd and then out it pops, in that way so familiar at the start of the season. The United fans go nuts and the players celebrate like they’ve won the match.

None of us can believe it. So nearly another piece of history has been snatched away when it was right at our fingertips.

I’m still standing there alone, looking out onto a mostly empty field, my arms crossed, my eyes transfixed on nothing in particular, my mind stopped cold and stomach draining blood.

It was days until I could feel good about this game. It’s only been the praise of the press and the positive words of Ramos, the kind of coach who can make his players feel like a winner, that brought me back but my I’ve been on a knife edge since I read about the uncertainty of King Ledley and moth-balling of Bale until next season.

It’s 9.43am, way past my bedtime. I’m sure I said I wasn’t going to do that.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 5th, 2008 at 10:57 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.