Beef Bagel

Well bugger me blue with a fish fork. That, my friends, was a game of football.

I had to make the quickest of turnarounds at the Bakery after my interview; out of my suit and into my Tottenham best with the shock horror that I’m wearing my “lucky” away pants which I’d given up on a long time ago. With no time for superstitions and pangs in my belly, I slap some butter and good layer of Marmite onto some granary bread with an evil eye on the cold slices still poking out of toaster where I forgot by breakfast this morning. Come to think of it the fuckers are still there.

Five minutes till the WHL Express and I’m pegging it down the street, soft sandwich folded into my right hand, with my usual perfect timing. Running underneath the tracks I’m straining to listen out for the tell tale screech of the metal carriage wheels against the cold steel tracks but all I can hear is the wind at my ear drums as I dodge in and out of cars, pedestrians, roadworks and any other obstacles between The Bagel and his train.

The final flights to the platform are a killer at the end of the run; up hard, unforgiving concrete steps. My heart beat pounds through my head as I prop my body up against the perspex of the carriage inside the just arrived train. I’m loosening my woolen scarf grown itchy and hot in my flurry of effort. I look down at my sandwich. Light-headed and empty stomach growling, the slices of bread have turned into doughy brown ball, marbled with streaks of pale butter and swirls of brown yeast extract. I shrug and begin to chomp at it like an apple between gasps of air; my lungs fighting my guts, oxygen versus nutrients.

I grab my ticket off Oog waiting at the turnstiles and we disappear to our separate seats. The game has just literally kicked off as I hurry down my row to welcoming reception from the crew. “It’s got to be a big game if you’re late,” teases Little Man.

“Just for you,” I reply shaking his hand and giving a cheeky slap, “you need the exercise.”

It’s only as I drop to my plastic moulded seat that I finally take in the scene. The Lane looks beautiful. It’s as if someone’s turned up the colour on the TV. The grass is a shimmering emerald carpet, the sky the pitchest of blacks, the purest of Lilywhite shirts on our heroes backs, electric Chelsea blue on the suddenly real forms of the star-studded opposition now right in front of my eyes. The floodlights beam down onto our grand footballing stage and the audience sits divided, passionate, loud like a rabbling crowd at the Flavian Amphitheatre, visibly shaking with desire, fists in the air, calling for the blood of our rivals. Mid-table nothingness? Season over? No cares about the game? No sir. Tonight is a London derby.

Chelsea run about with a fever. Strong and commanding on the ball, unshaking and bullying when off it they break our attacks, they lean on our runners. Even Steve’s low centre of gravity is held up and pushed out by Ferreira; shoved out for throw-ins at the best and immediately possession is snatched up by the blues with every short ball and under-confident pass pounced upon like merciless predators of the savanna.

A set piece at the other end from Drogba is defended but a deep curling cross sends the ball back into a near empty back post where the big striker has remained. The ball arcs just out of reach of our man in white but perfectly for the Chelsea player to place it past a helpless Robbo. The Blues run back. Spurs stand shaking heads and look from one to the other. The packed out away stand rocks and Omar turns with his brow up and shoulders hunched.

“Normal service has resumed,” he says.

“Who are ya, who are ya, who are ya?” the Chelsea repeat, reaching back for their cup loss pride.

“2-1, we beat the scum 2-1,” we reply. You don’t get it that easy. But at the same time, there’s an unspoken worry at the Lane. Was the final just a fluke? Sure we beat them last year too but is this the same Chelsea? Is this the same Tottenham? Is there enough at stake for the players to get a result or was it just the pure adrenaline of the final that pushed us through; our desire burning brighter than Chelsea’s to take our first silverware for nine years by hook or by crook?

“It’s so quite, it’s so quiet, it’s so quiet at the Lane,” mock Chelsea as we doubt to our own We are Tottenham tune.

“It was quiet, it was quite, it was quiet at Wem-ber-ley,” we return, grinding down onto the salt already scattered on Chelsea’s open wounds.

“Come on you Spurs,” we rally, “Come on you Spurs,” as JJ lines up a free kick at the Park Lane end of the ground. Over-hit but he gets to try again a few minutes later as the hostile Chelsea defence batter our forwards back. Closer this; into the mixer but cleared sky-scraper high by the boot of John Terry. I imagine the kind of damage he could do to your head with that kind of welly, but back it comes again for free kick take three.

“Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs!”

The two best headers for Chelsea mark the two best for us with Drogba and Terry on Berbatov and Woodgate. Mike Riley blows his whistle and lines up with the four of them, shuffling and shoving and shouldering for position. The ball heads right for the four but the only one to rise high is Woody and with an almost perfect reminder of his cup final credentials he makes clean contact with the ball. I hear the deep thud of the hollow leather bladder in the silence of the crowd as our man finds it’s sweetest of spots with his forehead. 36,000 stand silent and stunned as Cudicini’s arm flaps high. We cannot believe our eyes. Even though we’re sure it’s beaten the Chelsea keeper there’s no so much as a pin drop until the net billows outwards as it’s hit by the ball. Only now do we erupt.

Jumping up and down. Screaming, shouting, hugging, fists punching the air, belief in our hearts again and Woody laps it up as he runs along the stands followed by his teammates but the defender wants the fans. His spindly legs dance about carrying his puffed out barrel chest until finally he’s mobbed in a Lilywhite mass.

“Who are ya, who are ya, who are ya,” we shout back to the now quiet corner, remembering our duty to our guests. All of a sudden the game is alive and once again we care.

As soon as play begins, though, the blues are up to their tricks. Drogba goes down towards our own penalty box. Ever the professional, he slows it all down just when the game is hot. He rolls about the floor, the biggest man on the pitch, letting the air out of our tyres, calming things down. And so it goes for the cheating Chelsea as they chip away with every trick up their sleeves.

Minutes later their plans come together. It’s easy to go to sleep when Chelsea turn on the grind, but for them it’s like build up play, a move, a plan to get the ball through you and just when you think they’re squeezing they put the most sublime passing football together that baffles our defenders wrong foot our keeper. Joe Cole’s excellent work puts Essien through and with a finish far too cool for a battling midfielder, he dink it over Robbo with the outside of his right and an age seems to pass in gawping disbelief until it bounces and to rest at the net. 2-1 and the Chelsea fans have their turn once more. The doubts return; our parity only brief.

The game niggles on with Chelsea stronger still. They roll, they kick, they muscle and frankly they out-play. The only moment of genuine injustice is just before the half as a flash of blue scythes Alan Hutton on the far side in a head on full-back clash. We’re all on our feet and the ref into action. It’s clear the tackle was high even from my side of the pitch. I stand silent while all around me bay for blood. Inside my bubble, all outside chants and voices are dulled, muffled against the calm reality of what I’ve seen in the ref. He’s fiddling with the wrong pocket. He doesn’t have the nerve, and it’s no surprise to The Bagel as the Spurs complain at the referee’s lowly caution.

“Riley, you’re a cunt, Riley, Riley, you’re a cunt,” echoes about the stand as his half time blast is seen but never heard.

I turn to see the friendly face of my mate Charlie (a Yiddo through and through) as we discuss our dirty opposition and our growing passions for this clash. I hardly share a word with Oog and the others and after what seems like a matter of seconds, we’re back to our seats in the stands, only this time I’m up higher with Charlie with an empty seat at his side.

If I’d known what was to happen. If I’d known what was to happen, perhaps I wouldn’t have nattered to Charlie as the second half began. I haven’t seem my friend in a while and sometimes, well, sometimes a catch up is even more important. We chatted about work a little and I was trying to tell him about my little slot in last week’s Observer but we kept attacking so well. With Big Bad Tom on the pitch our control, his delivery and distribution was just so smooth, so effortless, so perfect that it was criminal when Joe Cole broke to score Chelsea’s third.

“That’s unfortunate,” said my friend, “we were having a good little spell then,” and like that we both thought Chelsea had done enough to see of our fight. Their fans agreed as they mocked once again with their “quiet at the Lane” but perhaps just like the players, the home crowd showed resolve.

“It was quiet at Wembley,” we came back with a force unnatural for a team 3-1 down. Still we keep inside our knowledge of the Carling Cup win. Still we know that we bettered Chelsea and no two goal margin can take that away, not even a five goal thrashing could keep us down.

Still the Spurs fight on. Whatever I had to say to Charlie has disappeared from my head, wrapped up as it is in the pride with which we play. On we attack. On we push. Pressure leads to pressure. Corners bread corners until we’ve pulled one back as this time Berbatov is too much for Terry to handle and his inch perfect header so slowly, so unstoppably nestles in the corner. I punch the air like it’s a great uppercut to a giant Chelsea fan. It lands and feels just as sweet in my mind as Woody’s header was in life.

“Come on you Spurs,” we call, “Come on you Spurs!” Danny the Drum beats out his rhythms. “Tottenham!” we shout in one shattering, fear-striking voice. We roll from song to song in support of our team with every chorus louder than the last. Quiet at the Lane? The Chelsea fans visibly shrink. The Spurs grow bold and the stadium shakes with noise like only an old ground can. This is what football is all about.

Berbatov sends one through for Keano inside the corner of the box in front of the Paxton. In one movement - the kind only he can create with his strangest of physiques - he spins 180 and cracks it on the volley with his left only moments before it hits the grass and only an excellent save from Cudicini can stop another goal.

A chance for Chelsea at our end as Essien is set up by Cole once again. He taps the ball where no defender nor Robbo can possibly reach and we rise to our feet with hands at our mouths as we watch the ball roll helplessly by. But our hearts stings twang tight as the it bounces of the post and is cleared for Little Aaron half chance at back up the pitch with his cross deceiving all but the by-line.

The change comes on 70 minutes although we only know by the announcement as the Jumbotron clocks are shot. King Ledley makes way for Darren Bent as we brave 3-4-3 and in a perfect moment of managerial suicide, Avram Grant reacts by bringing on a defender in place of an attacker who was doing so well. Alex comes on and the bested Alan Hutton breathes a sigh of relief as Saloman Kalou makes way.

The giant frame of Huddlestone goes down on the edge of the box in an all too obvious dive but the yellow card reward is no hindrance for a player like him. His game is passing not tackling and soon enough we’re back to where he was, only this time with a set-piece in our favour. Tommy waits deep in the box as Little Aaron sends the ball in from the corner. It’s almost like the game hasn’t properly restarted when the second ball comes out off a head. There’s almost no movement as the visiting defenders wait for the next high ball in. But instead Huddlestone winds up in front of the East Lower stand and he swings his leg like a mighty oak, slowly, heavily and lethally at the ball. Directly behind it’s path, I watch as it ambushes the keeper. It nips behind legs from cover to cover as it moves silently, stealthily towards the goal and by the time Cudicini can see it, it’s all too late. He dives but the daisy cutter lands hard into the side netting - a beautiful Huddlestone goal.

3-3, the comeback is set and it’s time to sing one of the favourites:

“3-1 and you fucked it up,” we taunt to the tune of Go West.

Ten minutes to go but now Chelsea go wild as Joe Cole bags another. But there’s no doubting now. We know we’re playing better and we know we can score at will. 3-4.

We hammer balls in. The crowd are on their feet. We will, we pray that ball to land in the net just one more time for Spurs.

“Come on you Spurs, Come on you Spurs!”

Out of nowhere, a mistake for Chelsea finds the ball at someone’s feet. From 20 yards out, with a thought for nothing else he strikes. The ball flies high, struck from a Malbranque position but it’s not one of Steve’s; powerful like a Defoe bullet but he’s not ours any more; accurate like a Berbatov shot it shapes towards the corner but this is no Dimi strike and only, astonishingly, confoundingly, defiantly, unbelievably as it bends down perfectly to land with postage stamp accuracy right in the top corner, do we realise that there’s only one man that could have made a move like that. There’s only one Keano.

We go completely mental. Charlie and eye stand screaming and shaking fists at each other. Keano runs pumping his open, out-stretched arms to the fans as he makes for the corner and when we finally gather unity once more, we sing the one we’ve been waiting for all night:

“You’re going to win fuck all, you’re going to win fuck all, you’re going to win fuck all, FUCK ALL!” The best part is that hey know it’s true.

Three minutes of added time to play and Shevchenko is brought on in a moment of pure desperation but it’s Tottenham who have the last go as Dimi finds himself six yards out with the keeper to beat and suddenly we’re certain it’s ours. Only a fantastic save can salvage the point and some face for our guests and the whistle blows to leave it a draw. For a second we rue Berbatov’s miss but there’s no complaints after a game and a performance like then one we’ve just witnessed. “Game of the season” is the quote I hear on the airwaves and anyone but Chelsea would have to agree.

To be fair, they brought it to us and they played and whatever the outcome their fans were just as important as ours in what will live in my mind as a proper old game. Vintage times at the Lane with the icing on cake cheer as we hear that United have won and gone clear above the other scum at the top of the table. I love this game.

The Bagel.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 20th, 2008 at 8:53 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.