Set Pieces - Quantum Leap
Author: P.O.S. / Date: Monday 13 July 2009
In a quantum leap,P.O.S saves the delights of Munich for later and gets his clacker-sticks out to deafen Athletico Madrid.
Few times in the past have I gone to the Reebok looking for the Wanderers to give me a break from goings-on in my life quite like this. I’ve never really thought of going to the football in that way before. I’ve read all sorts of articles by “experts” describing how the young male goes to watch football to give him a short, priceless release from the stresses of work and the wife and that it is his chance to be whoever he wants to be for ninety minutes, to cuss and shout and get everything off his chest, among like minded males, in a way that he never could anywhere else. To be honest though I attend a modern, sanitised all-seater stadium surrounded by women and children and where it’s forbidden to stand up for longer than a few seconds, where you can only drink alcohol downstairs, where smoking is totally outlawed and where attempts at prolonged chanting are met with tuts and sighs from behind; I’ve rarely seen going to the match as my “release”.
Tonight though I’ve never been so relieved to walk out of the stairwell and head to my seat, with my phone switched off and safe in the knowledge that for a couple of hours I can think about something else. It’s a freezing cold night but the crowd is brilliant, building the type of atmosphere that’s been missing for years now, helped albeit by thousands of inflatable plastic tubes that have been given out in pairs so when they are hit together they make a loud smacking sound; a good portion of the home crowd has them and all over the place the white sausage shaped objects are being frantically waved about and slammed against eachother. The whole stadium is awash with noise and chanting, sections of lads in the East and North stands bouncing about trying to get “We’re the one and only Wanderers” going but finding themselves almost drowned out by the hollow metallic droning rising from the countless plastic tubes. I’m stood next to Tom with my arms out wide and head pointed skywards, eyes closed, screaming “Wanderers, Wanderers…” as the teams pose for photographs at the touchline, quite a few of us doing the same as me in our area, but I doubt there’s many around me feeling so much bottled up tension being released as I am, I feel like with every shout of my beloved team’s name I’m blasting away one more day of anguish that I’ve put myself through in the last couple of weeks, that tonight marks the start of a new me, no more messing about.
The sight of Atletico’s players fanning out onto our pitch brings home to me how big a game this is, many of their line-up are the types of players you see taking World Cups by storm or grabbing headlines in the brilliant Spanish League yet here they are at Middlebrook in the rain with Diouffy and Kevin Davies staring them out in the centre circle waiting to kick off. Still the noise crackles out of the stands; I’m absolutely jumping inside, nervous and excited, desperate to be able to go out to Madrid next week with something still left to play for. I needn’t have worried, straight from kick off we go for them, people still haven’t sat down when we have our first shot in the opening seconds and although it’s not a major threat to their goal a massive “oooh!” rumbles out from the crowd then screams of encouragement from the masses, then more chanting, every last person in the stadium is right up for this one tonight.
Atletico just can’t deal with us, we’re all over them, another shot goes in from Taylor and their goalkeeper decides to smash the ball out of play with his fists rather than catch it and we’re on his back already trying to unsettle him, there’s nothing better than being treated to an opposition team fielding a dodgy keeper and watching him make a right tit of himself all game, we sense a calamity in the making. Still many of us haven’t sat down yet; Tom grabs me and excitedly tells me we’re going to do them, starts screaming out some crazy garbled sentence towards the action on the pitch about going to Madrid and drinking all their beer and ripping up their stadium, and that we won’t stop until we get to the Final in Manchester. I let out a massive laugh and wrap an arm around his back and we start jumping up and down together starting another chant, and all around us we’re joined by people following our lead, at the top of our voices, telling all and sundry that we are by far the greatest team the world has ever seen.
Matt Taylor suddenly begins to look like the signing of the season, absolutely running the show, shooting from all over the place like he used to do at Portsmouth. Still their goalkeeper, Abbiati, is using his forearms and fists like a baseball bat, slogging our efforts absolutely anywhere other than in the net and every time he denies us there’s laughs and shouts from the crowd expecting a mistake, we are loving this. At the other end Jaaskelainen pulls off an unbelievable save to deny United reject Forlan, stretching right into the top corner to stop a certain goal and more cheers cascade from the crowd, I’ve not seen continuous encouragement like this for ages, actual shivers rush up my back every time another wave of noise begins.
The first half is so exciting that half-time arrives in a flash; the Whites go off to a standing ovation and more batterings of the plastic “Banger Stix”. Me and Tom look at eachother and puff our cheeks in mock exhaustion, still smiling and with every passing minute the excitement about Madrid grows, barring something ridiculous in the second half we will be able to go to Spain and still have a chance of going through. Tony throws an arm each over our shoulders and is laughing his head off,
“Absolutely murdering them out there! I might even grab a couple of these numpty balloons and join in with the kids!” he shouts, he’s not been this excited since he thought one of the cheerleaders winked at him at half time last season. I still maintain she was looking at me, Tony’s closing in on his seventies. Resisting the urge to switch my phone on and see if I’ve got any other horrific text messages from Flick, or god-forbid, Amy, telling me she had actually lied about going to the clinic and that she hopes I’m proud of myself, I read the match programme with Tom and marvel at Atletico’s impressive squad, telling him that we’re done for if they bring Sergio Aguero on because he’s another “New Maradona” and Andy O’Brien will never catch him. Tom tells me to give it a rest.
“Please welcome out for the second half, Bolton Wanderers…” The announcer goes, and a blast of noise greets them again just as it did an hour previously, I close my eyes for a couple of seconds and hope we can see it through. A couple more shots test Abbiati but it seems we are slightly less frenetic than the first half, perhaps even in danger of slipping into a lull which is when we usually get caught out. Perhaps most of the kids have knackered themselves out too because there’s not half of the noise coming from the “Banger Stix” that there was previously, and the nerves begin to surface, remembering we’re actually playing a top quality European team. Then they put on Aguero who I had hyped up at half time and now I’ve gone totally quiet, sat bunched up in my seat watching the game balance out and seeing Atletico beginning to get some control of the game.
Time is getting on when play stops down the other side of the pitch and a bit of a melee starts between the players, the crowd on that side standing up and pointing at something, the sound of their outraged cries reaching us a half-second later. Then all of a sudden a red card is raised and Wanderers fans’ arms go up too, its Aguero, sent off! I shake my head at Tom’s frown, not a clue what had happened, but with that event our belief is reinstalled just like it was in Munich when Bayern took off Podolski then Ribery who had been ripping us to pieces all night.
“Come on Whites we can do these!” I bellow out towards the pitch, shaking my fist furiously, and we get play started again before Atletico can sort themselves out, Stelios finds some space out wide to put a cross in, me and Tom are still stood up, and others behind us follow suit to get a better view of the outcome, the ball loops into the area, Taylor tries to head on goal but it hits an Atletico defender and there’s a bit of a groan from the crowd, but the ball drops dead to the ground, and in swoops Diouf. A quick flash of yellow and purple coloured football disappears behind flailing legs. Abbiati sees it late, then there’s that clichéd but very real momentary silence in the crowd, as the ball appears, wide of Abbiati’s left hand, and into the bottom corner. In!
Utter pandemonium ensues, my face contorts as I let out an unearthly scream, leaping as high as I can muster, eyes maddened and wide, all I can see is a mass of arms flying about all over the stands, unbelievable noise, a mighty and almost desperate sounding communal scream of delight. Diouf has raced off joyously towards the dugout chased by white shirts, Tom leaps onto my back shouting into my ear so happy that it almost sounds like his voice is cracking with emotion, in front of me there are groups of people hugging tightly, people thrusting fists skyward and for a split second I catch sight of Anthony hanging over the gates at the front, must have legged it out of his seat and gone for the barriers, his arms aloft also.
Finally Tom releases me and we hug for a moment, and then I shout in delight again as the scorer’s name is announced, the Reebok Stadium is absolutely buzzing, not a single person is sat down in their seat and for a few seconds there’s three different songs emanating from the stands overlapping eachother until they’re unintelligible, just a prickling haze of sound, I can safely say it hasn’t been like this here for about four years. Gradually the celebrations tail off, long after the game has restarted and the goal has refreshed everyone’s spirits so the songs have begun again and any plastic sticks that survived the seismic reaction to Diouf’s goal are now back in use.
The goal went in with fifteen minutes left, and we spend the rest of the game flitting between should have scored moments, and should have conceded moments. Atletico finish up looking more dangerous than us so come stoppage time, with everyone out of their seats again and desperately calling for the final whistle, I can barely watch – but at last, as the referee blows up for full time and the cheers rise from the home crowd, elation flows through me, not just because of the result but because tonight, surely, is the dawn of a much more positive future for me.
Nothing can be as bad as the last couple of weeks.
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