http://cravencottagenewsround.wordpress.com/2010/05/14/when-i-close-my-eyes-i-see-motorway-atletico-2-1-fulham-aet/When I close my eyes I see motorway: Atletico 2-1 Fulham (AET)Filed under: General,Match info — weltmeisterclaude @ 4:47 pm
117 minutes to beat us. Astonishing effort.
Hamburg is vibrant. Red and white striped shirts scurry around in threes and fours. Are there any white shirts in town?
They are all in the city’s Reeperbahn area. The “The Sinful Mile”. The English flock there and stay all afternoon. It could have been the lack of the sleep, but the air around the Reeperbahn seems hazy, somehow diluted, like a heatwave without the heat. It feels like stepping into one of those films celebrating the sixties, celebrating freedom, happiness, and maybe even love.
Narrow streets housing bar upon bar open up into what we might call a square, and here is all the fun, loud. A central statue with a half-naked Englishman on top. “Fulham till 1 die” says his blue away shirt, whirling around his head like a lassoo. From his perch our man leads and directs the singing. Beneath him broken beer bottles accumulate, people dance around, delighted to be there. How many Fulham songs are there anyway? You can make them last all afternoon.
In the side-streets the Atletico fans dance amongst themselves. Theirs was a different approach: while an Englishman preparing to sing will spread his arms, furrow his brow and build what he hopes will be a convincing stare, a Spaniard will smile, bemused, maybe bang something with his hand to make noise, before joyfully beginning his performance. Sometimes worlds collide: several Fulham fans try some variation of “We love Real Madrid” by means of a good natured (if unimaginative) taunt, the Atletico fans grin it off and respond from left field. Like watching Steve from payroll attempting to heckle a professional comedian on a work night out.
But the numbers. Thousands of people in one area. Thousands of people in surrounding streets, out of view. The bars are rammed, the tucked-away (but not very) brothels must wonder what on earth is going on just yards from their front doors. Commuters look horrified. Visiting football fans are in heaven. And all the time the police let it be, content to supervise minor disturbances in exchange for a good, happy atmosphere. ith different teams in the final the city could have gone wrong, but red and white and white mingle all day, and as the beers go down the happiness goes up. There is no sign of trouble.
Reeperbahn underground station. Again it’s all red and white, deafening sounds of thousands of people in a confined space singing together. The group slowly pours itself into the hall, then down the stairs, then to the train platform. The trains come, the trains go. They are full, and getting fuller. On the train for 20 minutes. Nobody knows where to get off. The stations go by and then – was it Iserbrook? – someone makes a move. Slowly everyone else follows, and yep, here are the police, waiting. A short walk to a bus stop, a short trip in a bus, and here it is: the Nordbank arena.
Set amongst trees, vast, glassy. We wander in. A small loaf of bread with cheese on top, somehow infused with Chilli. €3. Lovely. A souvenir scarf. €20. A programme. €8. The burgers look nice, but are sold out quickly. A substitution is made: Schnitzel. What is Schniztel? Some kind of chicken burger. Nice. Up steps, steps, steps. Down to seats. We are in a corner, exactly where we have been in the last two trips to the (much smaller) White Hart Lane. It feels like we are about to play Spurs.
The crowd gathers and the noise starts to get impressive. On the field, a beautiful supernatural krypton green, there is enough to keep attention, but not so much that you feel that this is anything other than an important football match. This is no Superbowl, it is all about the football. The announcers are the single concession to cheese, two bland UEFA bods appear on the screens discussing how amazing they expect everything to be. But soon they are gone and Diddy Hamilton is being craned up into the sky, and the Black Eyed Peas are on the PA system singing “I(‘ve?) got a feelin(g?)”. Diddy reads out the team news and Zamora is in it. The crowd are pleased.
There is smoke on the field now. Who knows why, but big occasions need smoke. The music gets all heavy, full of meaning and even menace. Darth Vader would have liked it. The big screens show the players shuffling around in the tunnel, shaking limbs, nervous. On the field a giant flag is unfurled. What does it mean? The music keeps playing, the stadium is in a collective frenzy, the players appear, the game kicks off.
We look nervous. Hangeland slices a ball up into the air. Atletico have done their homework and are filling in spaces, pressing our midfielders, making it hard. Murphy gives it away, Aguero frees Forlan, Forlan strikes the post. It looked like a good chance, but on reflection the last defender (Hughes?) did well, Schwarzer was well positioned, and Forlan didn’t have that much to aim at. It’s a warning though: we look fine until we give the ball away.
Which is how they score: Konchesky mislays the ball, and here come Atletico again, Aguero mishits, Forlan, alert as can be, nudges the ball past Schwarzer. He races off, shirtless (is that a yellow card offence?), overjoyed. It had been coming. They are bossing us around.
But Fulham react well. Simon Davies equalises, the ball spends time in the Atletico area, Konchesky, Zamora, Duff, then Gera dinks it to the far post, a defender shades it on, and Davies volleys emphatically home, low and unstoppable.
The half is over. It feels like we’ve been playing for 5 minutes, not 45. We sit down and think about what we have seen. Atletico have had much of the attacking play, Fulham have Fulhamed along quite well, but there is a sense that we are not attacking as a team, that the full-backs are not involved enough, that Zamora is isolated (and about 30% fit), that the admirable Gera is neither fish nor fowl between his two (difficult) jobs. Not criticisms: worries. This is a worrying game, simply because it is a final. We are in a major Europan final.
Sit back and wait for the players.
The second half is much better. The team passes beautifully, quick, accurate. At last we feel like the better team. Then Zamora – inevitably – departs, and even though he had not been playing well (by his own standards), we lose momentum. Atletico are in charge again.
The game hurtles through to full-time. Now Nevland is on, his last effort in a Fulham shirt. But no chances are coming.
Extra time flies by too. In the first period Aguero misses from about a foot out, stretching in vain as the ball trickles across him, his poke diverting the ball goalwards but not goalwards enough. That was the big chance.
The second period. Penalties now. It has to be penalties. But Forlan strikes again, great work on the left, a cross, Forlan’s a darting run across Hangeland, he gets the ball first and again nudges past Schwarzer, and it’s over. 117 minutes. It’s over.
