I awoke in a cozy house in a suburb of London feeling rather
stiff. Sleeping on a floor will have that effect on a person. This particular
floor belonged to the grandmother of one of the six classmates that were
accompanying me on this journey. We were a group of Americans studying in
France for the fall semester. We had taken advantage of our fall break to do
some traveling; spending a few nights in Dublin before catching a luxurious
Ryanair flight over to London Stansted (which really is London in name only). The
Grandmother’s house was only a temporary stop for us. Our real destination was
London itself, city of red buses and a million Premier League teams. As we left
the house I apologized one last time for breaking a very old looking
vase/trophy type of thing the night before when I accidentally knocked it off
its perch with my (stuffed to capacity) backpack. It was the sort of item that
you would only find in a British person’s home. It was old enough and stoic
enough that one might suspect it had at one time belonged to King Arthur or even
Elton John. The grandmother told me that
I mustn’t worry about it as she shooed me out the door. The last thing she
yelled to us as we were walking to the train station was “make sure you get the
fast train.” As if we knew how to do that.
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It was a crisp and comfortable autumn day. The sky was blue
and the clouds were white. A juxtaposition of two starkly different colors
battling for domination of the horizon. My jacket wasn’t really necessitated by
the temperature, but I needed it for another reason. My jacket was needed to
cover up the Chelsea shirt I was wearing. Such a shirt wouldn’t be welcomed
where I was going. It would make me a small cloud of blue in an intimidating sky
of white.
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Within an hour we were
rolling into St. Pancras station. I don’t know whether it was the fast train or
slow train that we rode in, but it got the job done. This was where I would
part ways from my traveling companions and head out on my own. I was headed to
White Hart Lane, the historic ground of Tottenham Hotspur. I would be going to
the Tottenham – Chelsea derby, the hottest ticket in town. This was not my
first London football match, but I was still nervous that the day may not go
completely smoothly for me. My only other match experience was at Stamford
Bridge, a stadium that is very easy to get to and one at which I support the
home team. This was going to be a completely different monster.
My journey from St.Pancras to White Hart Lane went awry
before it even got started. The Victoria line was closed in the direction I
needed to go. Having not considered this possibility, I didn’t have an
alternate route planned out. I was just starting to panic when I saw two tough-looking
guys in Tottenham shirts read the closed sign and start to head off in another
direction. I checked that my jacket was fully zipped and then started after
them. They agreed to let me go with them to the match, but they seemed far from
enthusiastic about having a clueless American tagging along. After a convoluted
series of underground and bus rides that I certainly wouldn’t have been able to
navigate on my own, we arrived at a buzzing White Hart Lane.
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The area was certainly a departure from most of what I had
seen in London. The neighborhood surrounding the stadium seemed to be a rough
one, but I didn’t mind. It only added to the character of the place. From the
outside the stadium was unremarkable yet at the same time elegant in its
simplicity and pragmatism.
As I wedged myself through the remarkably narrow turnstiles I was buzzing with excitement. Chelsea had put together a superb start to the campaign, winning six and drawing once in the first seven matches to sit comfortably atop the table. A win at a fierce rival’s stadium would put Chelsea in absolute prime position. Tottenham would not be slouches though. They too had started the season in impressive fashion and entered the match tied for 4th.
I took my seat in the third row of the Chelsea supporters
section and watched warm-ups as the stadium slowly filled. Just before kickoff
a murmur went through our section. Garreth Bale would be missing the match. His
wife had just gone into labor. I was of mixed emotions. On one hand Bale’s
absence boosted Chelsea’s chances of winning, but on the other hand I missed
out on a chance to see Tottenham’s best player and future 100 million dollar
man.
As the game began both sets of supporters were in full
voice. We hit them early and often with “We know what we are, we know what we
are, Champions of Europe, we know what we are.” We traded chants until Gary
Cahill hit a fantastic volley off of a corner that flew off the crossbar and
into the net. We went mental and the Spurs fans went silent. Chelsea held the
lead for the remainder of the first half and we basked in the glory.
Tottenham came out flying in the second half. A goal by William
Gallas of all people barely a minute into the half pulled Spurs level.
Tottenham continued to dominate and within five minutes they had gone up 2-1.
The noise level deafening. 35,000 screaming fans pointed at us and jeered at us
and reveled in our disappointment. It was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating
to be among the few outsiders in what had quickly become a cauldron of passion.
The slow, haunting “When the Spurs go marching in” rang out across the ground. It
really was an amazing thing to experience, but I’m glad it didn’t stay that
way.
Juan Mata brought our agony to an abrupt halt when maybe ten
minutes later he slotted a shot into the bottom corner. 2-2, game on. Hardly
three minutes later, Mata was played through by some fantastic passing
combinations. A lunging Brad Friedel never really had a chance at stopping the
shot, and it was suddenly 3-2 Chelsea. It was madness in the Chelsea section,
complete chaos. Screaming, jumping, and hugging strangers were the natural
reactions. Mata sprinted to our corner to celebrate with us, looking into the
crowd while pumping his fists and screaming. I swear we made eye contact.
The next 25 minutes were as tense as any sporting event I
have ever been to. We all wanted so badly for Chelsea to hold on to win. We
expressed our will by singing Chelsea mainstays like “Blue is the Color,” “Carefree,”
and the classic family-friendly “John Terry Has Won the Double.” There were a
few close calls, but we made it to stoppage time with the lead intact.
The Juan Mata Show decided that one more act was in order to
seal the deal. Mata stripped a helpless Kyle Walker of the ball deep in the
Spurs half before slipping a cross to Daniel Sturridge who tapped the ball into
a gaping net for the insurance marker. 4-2. Pure euphoria. The last few minutes
were a like a party in the Chelsea section. It was a dream win and a dream
start to the season. Chelsea topped the table by a wide margin. We felt
invincible, team and fans alike. The Spurs supporters had gone silent, and we
were sure to point it out: “It’s so quiet, it’s so quiet, it’s so quiet at the
Lane.”
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After the match I met back up with my soccer-ignorant
friends. “Was the game fun?” asked one of them. I started to think of how I
could explain to them what I had witnessed and been a part of, but I realized
it was a hopeless cause. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” I said.
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