War.

War has changed. Once, local boys fought other local lads in front of local fans, participating in a sort of tribal warfare on muddy and unkempt pitches. Now, overly paid mercenaries take to a meticulously groomed pitch and are watched by millions all over the world. Advertisements are splayed on everything from jerseys to signs and are played at half-time. But not everything has dissolved in to a Kojima-esque dystopian nightmare where things are all regulated. The spirit and energy has not been drawn out from this clash, and on Saturday afternoon 11 will be pitted against 11, and the surroundings will get a glimpse back into the past as Arsenal FC face Tottenham Hotspur. I’ll be there for the 12:45 kick-off, sitting in the Clock End ready to get my first glimpse of North London Warfare.

Both armies are licking their wounds. That lot from the Lane have lost two on the trot and their new boy in charge is in hot waters that Redknapp sailed smoothly for as long as he could. They seem unable to grasp the fact that they are not entitled to Champions League football and any suggestion that they might not be good enough just yet and need to show patience is met with blithering stupidity that you could only really expect… from Tottenham.

As for us? What can you say? I’ve highlighted what happened at Old Trafford. Since then we’ve thrown away 2-0 leads twice and are floundering with a manager looking more and more lost for words in the face of his worst start to a season in history. While our defense was looking decent we couldn’t create anything, and then when we start banging in goals, our defense falls apart. This team are a frustrating conundrum.

You can throw all that out the window on Saturday.

At 12:45 we will march into the Emirates, and we need to let our army know that we are unequivocally behind them and so very completely against those in the lily white. We need to put aside our anger at the board, our frustration at the manager, our desire to club Andre Santos like the cute baby seal that he is. All of it needs to go into the sub-cockles of our inner thoughts in favor of one singular feeling. Love for Arsenal coinciding with hatred for Tottenham. If we create that energy in the ground, our lads will feel it and their mingy bastards will as well.

I can’t speak on this match as well as, say, Goonerholic or arseblog can. I have only just begun hating them with true vitriol and I cannot possibly hope to match the understanding of Gooners that have lived over here in London all their lives, experiencing these wars throughout the years. But I know that on Saturday I will be alongside my team in red and white, facing that deplorable batch of miscreants, and I will be ready for fucking war.

Let’s do this. Bring on Saturday. I would have sold my soul to get to this match and there I’ll be. I’ve already warmed up the vocal chords. Our team need us more than ever and I aim to do my part. As much as war changes, no matter what mercenaries step onto the scene and no matter how many non-locals like myself become a part of the battle, nothing will ever take away the team’s need for its supporters.

Come on Arsenal.

High and Low Pt. 2

Sports give us great moments like that cold Tuesday night in Reading, and they also unfortunately have a habit of giving us what they gave me in Manchester that Saturday.

Excitement built all week as I imagined what the match would be like. We were underdogs, heavy ones. And rightly so. But we’d been underdogs against United before, and I felt like we could get a result. The idea of celebrating a late winner against those vile, deplorable packs of excrement kept me up at night. Asking that Dutch piece of shit what the score was? Unthinkable. The week pressed on.

Having missed Halloween, I decided to dress up as Arsene Wenger for my trip up there. That night I turned down going out and getting hammered because I knew I’d need to get up ferociously early. I woke up and  got breakfast, then suited up.

It was fucking show time.

I boarded my train at Euston, and was surrounded by Man United fans. It was disgusting to see so many of them, but I can’t really complain about football fans making pilgrimages to see their club, now can I? The train ride there wasn’t as quick as I’d have liked. I really wanted to get to the ground and enjoy pre-match festivities with the rest of the Gooners at the ground, but there was a delay. More time for me to get anxious.

Upon arrival at Manchester Piccadilly it became apparent that I had no plan for getting to Old Trafford. When I’d gone to City before, Eastlands was only a half hour walk from the station and I managed to hop on a bus that took me straight there. Old Trafford was a different matter. I began to ask around, and after getting some confusing advice, I just decided to walk around until I found some more traveling Gooners.

It didn’t take long. I ran into a few heading away from some pub, and just asked if they were headed to Old Trafford. Yes was their answer. It was a father, his son, and his son’s friend. Their only question was “Are you a United fan?” My response, “fuck no!”

Between the four of us we didn’t have much of an idea of a quick way to the ground, so we hailed a cab and were on our way. I have to keep saying that the reception from pretty much everyone over here has been fantastic as far as me being an American Arsenal fan. I had figured from day one I’d have to earn people’s respect because they probably see American “fans” quite a bit who are fake and don’t really know anything about the club because they haven’t put the time in to learn. Not the case at all. I told them I was dressed up as Arsene Wenger for Halloween and we started singing “There’s two Arsene Wengers! Two Arsene Wengers!” in the cab. I asked them questions about their favorite moments and told them about all the matches I’d been to and how I’d saved up money for two years to get over to watch the Gunners. I don’t expect people to be impressed by my determination, but it feels nice to have it acknowledged. We sang songs together in the back of the cab until we were dropped off a short way from the ground. The march began.

On the way toward the stadium, the two younger ones had the balls to start up “Can you hear United sing? NO. NO. Can you hear United sing? I can’t hear a FUCKING THING!” and I got my nuts together and joined them. We were surrounded by the enemy though. My suit hid my true allegiance but my voice could not. We got told to shut up, got called wankers. It was exhilarating. Once we got to the ground, we were separated (I was in one section of the away support and they in the other). We vowed to meet after the match, but sadly I never saw them again and probably never will. Shame.

We’d only just arrived about ten minutes before kick-off and despite my desire for some alcohol I rushed to my seat, which was right next to the United fans. The ground filled up, and in short order we started singing. Most of it was about our former Captain, now waiting poised in the wings to haunt us. The ghost of over a hundred goals, floating across the pitch in ugly checkered red drapery. It was well and truly on.

Out they came, and we were in full voice in support of our lads and so completely against them, and him. I have never before heard such vehement hatred for an opposing player and I have never before FELT it. I’ve hated a lot of players in my time as a sports fan, but never have I hated one as much as I hate Robin Van Persie. That lying, disrespectful piece of dog shit deserves everything he gets even if I can’t bring myself to sing about a false rape accusation. One thing’s for sure though. Oooooh Robin, you are a CUNT.

So with the biggest match of the season having just begun and having been hammered 8-2 on this ground last year, a little defensive solidity for the first 20 minutes would have been an excellent plus, especially considering the attacking talents of aforementioned traitorous cunt. So of course in true Arsenal fashion we did the exact opposite.

To the surprise of exactly zero people on the entire planet, Andre Santos was left completely exposed (being fair, the flick on was brilliant) down the left, and the ball into the box wasn’t dealt with well. Vermaelen mis-kicked it and it bounced once. I shouted “No!” as it floated perfectly in the air for who else? Van Persie’s affectionately dubbed chocolate right leg smacked the ball. It wasn’t the cleanest hit we’ve seen from him, but it did enough to bundle it past Vito’s outstretched hand. Not two minutes in and we’d conceded to our former Captain, who had the gall to not celebrate scoring against us as if that display of good will would ingratiate him to us. No, now I wanted Jack to break his fucking legs even more.

Wilshere quickly picked up a yellow card for being a complete bulldog. We all chanted ‘Super Jack’ but I shouted ‘Jack, save that for Van Persie, fuck’s sake.’ It was a sign of things to come for Jack, and the goal was a sign of things to come for Arsenal.

We couldn’t create anything and United just came at us wave after wave, mostly down the left. I cannot figure out why nothing was done to either aid Andre Santos or swap him positions, but he clearly couldn’t cope with what United were doing. This had been obvious in several of the previous matches, and that Arsene couldn’t see what was bloody obvious to everyone in the stands is a little worrying.

The first have pressed on and we created fuck all. The United fans were well and truly awful. If we’d been winning 1-0 at home against a team we hated, the place would be buzzing. I know the Grove had been deathly quiet against Schalke, but we had played like shit and lost. United were WINNING and playing quite well and still there was no noise from the ‘Cockney Boys’. We goaded them with questions about their famous atmosphere. We told them it was so quiet, and then shouted that we’d race them back to London. We couldn’t even get a peep out of them sans the few wind up merchants sitting right near us. Pathetic.

At the end of the first half, they won a penalty because of a Santi Cazorla handball. Van Persie declined taking it, in what I suspect was another show of good will toward Arsenal, or perhaps he wanted Wayne Rooney to feel a little bit better about himself since his relegation to second best striker at United. Regardless, Wayne missed the penalty in hilarious fashion and that should’ve been the platform we took into the second half to build off of.

Instead it was more of the same. Frustrating lack of penetration and movement. Waves of United attacks, mostly down the left. They hit the post and should’ve scored. Giroud missed a decent chance. Wenger brought on Walcott but it didn’t change too much. United were offside several times, wasting glorious chances to put us out of our misery and finally they did it. Evra headed home a cross to put them 2-0 up, and as if that hadn’t made things feel hopeless enough, Wilshere was sent off for a second yellow soon later. It was well and truly over.

I guess the most frustrating thing about the match aside from letting that cunt score two minutes in, was that despite being completely outplayed from whistle to whistle, we could’ve still gotten something from it. If we had been more clinical in front of goal and less toothless in possession, this is a match we could’ve gotten a draw out of, at least.

From the dark clouds over our club that day though, rising above the cries fouling the name of Ivan Gazidis and through the massive amounts of discontent, one bit of joy emerged. With fifteen minutes remaining, some of us began. Just as our Gooners in arms had done all last year in the face of a loss at Old Trafford, we sang it loud and proud. “We love you Arsenal, we do.” Was the sound that the final 15 minutes of the match were played out to. We got our very deserved consolation in the form of a nice goal from Cazorla.

I sat and reflected after the match, taking some pictures of the Theatre of Nightmares for novelty’s sake. Some of the other Gooners screamed obscenities at the United fans, who just laughed. They don’t care. They really don’t care nearly as much as we do. What an existence totally devoid of any fun, for them. For them, winning as as much of a novelty as my pictures of the stadium. They can in no way appreciate glory the same way we could.

And that’s where my point about the overall effects of being a sports fan comes in. The teams that I’ve supported over the years feature some dominant champions as well as some complete and utter stinkers. My Yankees are probably the most historically dominant sports franchise in the Western Hemisphere. They are Real Madrid in Baseball form. However, I have followed two teams that have endured decades of futility. The St. Louis Rams, my NFL team, are in the midst of futility right now. And my hockey team, the Pittsburgh Penguins, were so bad at one point that they were very nearly moved out of Pittsburgh for greener pastures. I endured with the Penguins and watched them when they were finishing last in the league. I wore the cap, the colours, I supported them as they were battered over and over.

And then, from the ashes they built a core of fantastic young players. Two of the best, Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin formed a tandem not much unlike Thierry Henry and Dennis Bergkamp. That team rose up and defied expectations and gave me the greatest moment I’ve ever had as a sports fan. After losing the Stanley Cup Finals in 2008 to the Detroit Red Wings (while I was living an hour outside of Detroit, surrounded by Wings fans), they fought and clawed their way back to the Finals in 2009. We had lost one of our best players from the previous year, Marian Hossa, and he had signed malevolently enough with the Red Wings who were facing us down in the Finals once again. The Red Wings defeated us in the first 2 games of the best of 7 series, just as they had in 2008. Things looked bleak. But showing heart and character that I struggle to describe, the 2009 Penguins battled back. We won Games 3 and 4 to level the series.

We were then blown out of the water in Game 5, because their star player Pavel Datsyuk returned and led a masterclass performance to put us on the brink of defeat. Game 6 was a tight, gritty affair and we quite literally clung on til the very last second for a 2-1 victory, setting up a decisive Game 7. I have waxed poetic about this game so many times. That brisk June night, I watched by myself as I’d had a cold. The Penguins came into that game as firm underdogs, as they’d been all series against the mighty Red Wings, but on this night each player had received a text from Team Owner and former Penguin legend Mario Lemeiux (the second greatest player of all time) telling them he’d be seeing them at center ice later on. They took it to heart and played one of the most amazing games of hockey I’d ever seen.

With six seconds to go, this happened. It’s probably tough to understand if you don’t know hockey, but I know any Gooner can recognize the joy on the faces of those Penguin players, and I matched it completely. I went mental. I ran around my house screaming that we’d won the Cup. I went outside and shrieked it at the people at the convenience store across from me. I ran back upstairs and then collapsed in a heap of tears on my floor, completely unable to believe what I’d just seen and totally drained of energy. My joy could only be expressed with tears.

Would I have gotten that moment? Would I have been able to enjoy that fucking brilliant moment of bliss that was better than anything else thus far in my entire life if I hadn’t stuck with the Penguins when they were in the doldrums of the league? Would I have been able to properly grasp how great that feeling was if I hadn’t been stung through the heart by our loss to the Red Wings in the previous year? Absolutely not.

So when I see the disillusioned Gooners talking about going on strike, talking about giving up on the team for good, I just can’t fathom it. We were all disappointed at Wembley when Birmingham beat us. We were all gutted when Bendtner missed that chance in the Nou Camp. We all were ‘nearly there’ with the team as they just about turned around 4-0 against Milan. Just as we were all torn apart to watch our club outclassed once again at Old Trafford by a team clearly several leagues our better.

But giving up? Are you fucking joking with me?

Yes, criticize the manager and the board. They aren’t infallible, but if you give up you are going to miss out on moments like Reading. You are going to miss out on nights like 2-1 against Barcelona, or days like5-2. In order to fully appreciate those moments you need to go through the tough parts. You need to sit through beatings at Old Trafford, you need to grit your teeth and bear through the pain of letting a trophy slip through our fingers in the dying seconds. You cannot give up and leave your fellow Gooners in the trenches because when we all come out, we want you to be with us, singing “We love you Arsenal, we do.”

So please realize that in sports, there are highs and lows. In order to enjoy the wonders of the highs, you have to be strong through the lows and sing that fucking song whether we win or lose. Come on You Gunners.

High and Low Pt. 1

It occurs to me that though I’ve only been alive for just 24 years, I am swiftly approaching 20 years as a sports fan. I know to most people this isn’t a remarkable milestone, especially as these days I am meeting fellow Arsenal fans who have been dug in the red and white trenches for twice as long as I’ve even been alive, but I’d like to think that my time as a fan of many teams has led to me growing very wise and understanding more and more what sport can bring us.

Of course, it’s well documented the pure unbridled joy we can get from sports. When our team wins, we’re elated. The pure unadulterated bliss one can take from their team winning a title is hard to measure. But are there certain levels even to that?

And before going too far into that, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the other side. The feeling of hopelessness or despair when our team loses. Whether it be to a close rival or anyone, really. Watching some other team celebrate at the expense of your own is disparaging beyond reason, and that goes to different levels as well. But is it necessary? Let’s examine in a moment.

First, I want to tell you about my week. As is usually the case for Arsenal fans, there is never a dull moment. Last Tuesday I set out for Reading for our match in the Capital One Cup. We were going to be playing our second team and I wasn’t sure what to expect but I was ready for a fun night out. There were delays with the train from Paddington, but because I was wise and booked myself so much time in advance I got to Reading really early. I also made it to the ground really early and had plenty of time to try and sneak into the Madejski Hotel bar, which was not allowed.

So I had to wait out in the cold for them to open the ground up for us. This wasn’t a problem as I’d covered myself in four layers, having sat out at the Emirates on Saturday freezing off all of my extremities because I hadn’t dressed appropriately. Eventually they opened up the ground and I got in to have beer and watch the Season Review from 2011/2012. It was a lot of fun watching and talking about the matches with fellow Gooners. Commiserating over losses and cheering wins. Good fun. One highlight was when they showed Thierry’s return goal against Leeds, the whole lot of us broke out into ‘Thierry Henry, Thierry Henry, Thierry Henry, Thierry Henry.’

Ominous though, was the figure of Robin Van Persie, collecting goal after goal each seeming to become better than the next. I pushed his looming shadow out of my mind to focus on the task at hand. Drinking and watching football.

Once I was warmed up enough I went outside to my seat. The place was buzzing, excitement permeated the ground. None of us could have predicted what was coming, but you could just feel a certain electricity about the place. At least I could.

The match began and we were loud and proud. I’d read in a stadium preview that the away fans were able to generate phenomenal noise there and we did our part, going back and forth with the Reading supporters through the first ten minutes. It didn’t take much longer for the wind to be knocked out of our sails completely.

Boom. One goal. Boom, an own goal. 2-0 down to Reading. I couldn’t fucking believe it. But oh, it was going to get worse. Boom, a third that deflected in off our hapless goalkeeper. I turned to Tone, who has been sort of apprenticing me into a full fledged Arsenal fan. Hearing his war-stories about dreadful away days and glorious victories had made me appreciate what it means to be a true supporter. Unfortunately this was shaping to be one of the more dreadful away days, that fact driven home as their fourth goal bounced in off the post from a header. 4-0 in 37 minutes. “We want our Arsenal back.” Cried some amongst us. “Ivan Gazidis, you’re killing our club.” Cried others. The rest said nothing, but voiced their displeasure with their feet. They made their way to the bar area, and some indeed out of the ground (though not as many as those pile-on cunts in the media would have you believe).

The Reading fans gave it to us in full. “He’s laughing at this, he’s laughing at THIS. Robin Van Persie, he’s laughing at this.” “You’re gettin’ fucked on the telly! Fucked on the TELLY! You’re gettin’ fucked on the telly!” and “FOUR NIL on your big day out, FOUR NIL on your big day out.” were the main ones I can remember. It was well and truly brutality.

In added time, we got a consolation goal. It was, actually a pretty brilliant goal. Arshavin’s through pass was incisive and Walcott’s goal was a wonderful chip. 4-1 at half time. I turned to Tone and I said “We can get back into this.” He sort of laughed and said “Alright” but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. I went off to the bar and drank as many beers as I could during half time. When I came back out, the first thing I saw was Reading come close to netting their 5th. That would’ve been it.

‘We love you Arsenal, we do.’ Began emanating from all around us. I never expected that we’d have to be defiantly staring down the barrel of a hammering against Reading, but these are the things football can throw at you.

Anyway, we huffed, we puffed, we got control of the game and made some substitutions (finally). Giroud and Eisfeld came on and immediately there was a difference. Walcott’s corner went in from a brilliant Giroud header and it was 4-2. I was going nuts, beginning to believe my own words. We could indeed get back into this.

Time slipped away though. The Gooners around me were brilliant, we refused to give up and refused to let our team give up. I’d like to think that they drew on us a bit. If we helped them even the tiniest of a percentage then I am truly glad. The Reading fans were shitting bricks until the last 10 minutes or so with the score still stamped at 4-2. They were starting to feel safe, and who can blame them? In the 88th minute we finally got our 3rd through a Koscielny header from a corner. I went nuts even though some around me thought it might have been a little too late. I must have shouted “COME ON! LET’S FUCKING GO! LET’S FUCKING GO!” about a half a dozen times.

Time ticked on though, with the ball stuffed down in our own end. It was looking hopeless. I had my phone out, matching the time on it with the amount of time the fourth official had added on. We weren’t going to have enough time. “He’s going to blow it.” I said. I was certain he would. We all were. We were in added time upon added time due to a Reading substitution, and then it happened. We lumped the ball forward into the box for what was surely the last chance. Chamakh rose highest and headed it into Theo’s path. He took it down wonderfully and struck it with venom across the keeper. Federici got his hand to it but not enough, and despite some cunt’s best efforts it crossed the line (and if it didn’t Jenko smashed it in to remove all doubt). Cue delirium.

I hugged Tone. I hugged the old guy next to me. I went absolutely fucking bonkers. We all did. There was some kid up behind me running around with his shirt off twirling it above his head. I jumped around. I screamed. I lost my voice. It was pure fucking madness. To come back from 4-0 down away from home is just something you don’t see. Hell, coming back from 4-0 down AT ALL is just something you don’t see. I could never have pictured in my mind what I had just seen. Never could I have imagined we would do something like that in this game. I didn’t believe it myself when I said we could do it at 4-1, but the team believed and they willed themselves back into it.

And there was still more (contrary to what Giroud and Coquelin believed).

Extra Time provided more insanity. Chamakh scored our 5th to give us our first lead of the night and we well and truly gave the Reading fans back everything they’d been hitting us with in the first half. “He’s laughing at you, he’s laughing at YOOOU. Robin Van Persie, he’s laughing at you.” and our own rendition of them getting fucked on the telly. My favorite was “You should’ve scored more, you should’ve score MOOOORE. Four against Arsenal, you should’ve scored more.” It was just total bedlam, with us singing about going to Wembley and jumping up if you’re 5-4 up.

Things weren’t finished. Arsenal can’t ever do anything the easy way, and with the second half of extra time winding down we conceded a 5th goal. I was despondent, but not totally against the idea of seeing penalties live. I’m one of the few football fans who can stomach them.

Nervously we watched as Arshavin broke down the left with pace drawn from some sort of otherworldly vortex. He drove all the way into their box, and when it seemed easier to cut back, he shot across goal. He did beat the keeper, but some cunt got back to block it just in time. Unfortunately for the cunt, he blocked it right into the path of Theodore Walcott, who wasted no time smashing in his third, and our sixth. Cue more delirium. Cue me going up into the row behind me to celebrate with the fans up there. Hugging random people, joining in the trenches with supporters who’d never given up even at 4-0 down and reaping the benefits. This game was well and truly a microcosm of everything it means to support a football club.

With time ticking away once again, they pressed for a 6th of their own, and were caught out by a defensive mistake. Chamakh raced in on the keeper and lobbed him from 30 yards out, scoring his second long distance goal of the match. More delirium, I ran past Tone and nearly dragged poor Goonerholic down on top of me as I hugged him. It was fucking mental. I couldn’t believe it.

The match ended at last, and the consensus from every single one of the Red Army around me was that they’d never seen anything like that. These are Gooners who have been doing it for so long, and they’d never seen anything like it. This was only my 11th live match, and I got to see something that was so rare and so special that these guys had NEVER seen something like it. I am the luckiest person on the face of the Earth.

The commitment to this club rewarded me on a cold Tuesday night in Reading. As classmates of mine spent their mid-semester break flying all over Europe, seeing Italy, seeing Barcelona, Prauge, etc, I can saw that without a shadow of a doubt there is no place in the WORLD I’d have rather been than at the Madejski Stadium to support my Arsenal. Ooh to be a Gooner, indeed.

 

To Be Continued.