Tomorrow night, at about midnight, I expect to drive past the Stade de France on my way to Madrid. Two Decembers ago, I’ve visited the stadium on the last day of my stay in Paris. Given the choice between the Musee Rodin and the UFO-like structure I had seen on my way into Paris, I opted for the latter. Rodin will wait, and I will be damned if the second stadium Barcelona ever won a Champions League final in will be torn down before I get to see it, much like the first was. I know, and knew then, that such a demolition isn’t in any way impending, but I figured to be better safe than sorry.
Saint-Denis, where the stadium is actually located, is rather dreary, which is as much of an understatement as is calling Paris quite nice. I arrived early, meaning I had to wait on the concrete and rain-soaked tundra’s around the stadium for about an hour, while a couple of local youths, which sounds incredibly more idyllic than it actually was, walked around menacingly without shirt. Because why wouldn’t they? Uneasily, I stepped into the one store that was open, which I remember being an enormous building filled with all sorts of gardening equipment.
After finally being allowed into the stadium I was confronted with the disappointment of encountering a stadium which did not remotely resemble a football stadium. I was welcomed by a kind French girl, dressed in an enormous purple-white cow’s outfit, to Milka’s “Dream of Snow”, an event whose attendance record did not seem to equal this girl’s enthusiasm.
But in spite of this initial disappointment, I did experience one particular moment which I would like to share with you. This December was the one in 2006, or as it is probably known in France: the year Zinedine Zidane retired. When my group was guided into the dressing rooms and we were asked if anybody had any questions, every single French person in my group, which was everyone but me, wanted to know the exact same thing; where did Zidane used to sit?
I hope this is the story I remember when I pass by the stadium tomorrow, and not the fact that this stadium is yet another example of the exodus clubs have undertaken in the past ten years to leave the neighbourhoods that made them great for more accessible but identity less slabs of concrete.
- it may or may not be clear to you after this post, but tomorrow I’m leaving on a rather ill-advised roadtrip to Madrid and back. This will take me a couple of days. I don’t know if I’ll have the time to post anything, but if I don’t, at least check back next week for a post on why I and my friends will be the undoing of Atletico Madrid.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
It takes two, baby
A couple of weeks ago, after the certainly thrilling match at Anfield between Arsenal and Liverpool, a Dutch pundit may have gotten a little carried away. When he proclaimed this match had been “quite possibly the best game ever to be played”, I decided it must have been getting late and I must have misunderstood because Liverpool – Arsenal, while obviously thrilling, hadn’t struck me as a particularly well-played game. It had its moments, most notably that wonderful rush by Theo Walcott and a rather spectacular final third, but the overall quality of the game hardly boggled the mind.
When I got up, I decided to watch the early afternoon replay of the show, only to see the same pundit look into the camera and utter the exact same line which had sent me to bed the night before. Quite possibly, the best game ever to be played. I was, however, pleasantly surprised by the reaction of one of the regular guests, a Dutch football writer who cried out in shock and called the game a defeat for the game of football. For the past few years, Liverpool has played a brand of football that first and foremost, prevents the other team from playing and only goes from there.
I have nothing against Liverpool as a club. They have a wonderful tradition and a beautiful stadium. But put me down on the list of people who find their current approach to the game rather cynical, effective as it may be.
That evening, I was slightly miffed to find the usually so beautifully playing Mancunians opt for something that eerily resembled this approach for their match against Barcelona, which is why I am writing this right now, a few hours before these two teams will meet again. I’m not saying Barcelona is the bastion of free-flowing attacking football it was a few years ago; besides lining up eleven players, they take a good dose of fear out on the pitch with them, it seems. Barcelona, and more specifically their coach had to get a result and United had come out boldly. Such a gathering of circumstances promised an outstanding game, but after a short while, United too, seemed to settle and became bent on, first of all, not losing, rather than winning. This made both perfectly good sense and a slightly dull football game.
Tonight, it will be decided if the final will be held between two teams out of Liverpool, Chelsea and now United, who have proven to be willing (and incredibly capable) to kill a game off if they believe it to be for their own good, or between one of the former two teams and a team which may fear losing more than anything else, but will at least run relentlessly head first into the brick wall that might spell their defeat. Unless Manchester shows why it has the reputation of what is slowly and sadly becoming the other, romantic but possibly futile style of English football, I hope it’s the latter.
When I got up, I decided to watch the early afternoon replay of the show, only to see the same pundit look into the camera and utter the exact same line which had sent me to bed the night before. Quite possibly, the best game ever to be played. I was, however, pleasantly surprised by the reaction of one of the regular guests, a Dutch football writer who cried out in shock and called the game a defeat for the game of football. For the past few years, Liverpool has played a brand of football that first and foremost, prevents the other team from playing and only goes from there.
I have nothing against Liverpool as a club. They have a wonderful tradition and a beautiful stadium. But put me down on the list of people who find their current approach to the game rather cynical, effective as it may be.
That evening, I was slightly miffed to find the usually so beautifully playing Mancunians opt for something that eerily resembled this approach for their match against Barcelona, which is why I am writing this right now, a few hours before these two teams will meet again. I’m not saying Barcelona is the bastion of free-flowing attacking football it was a few years ago; besides lining up eleven players, they take a good dose of fear out on the pitch with them, it seems. Barcelona, and more specifically their coach had to get a result and United had come out boldly. Such a gathering of circumstances promised an outstanding game, but after a short while, United too, seemed to settle and became bent on, first of all, not losing, rather than winning. This made both perfectly good sense and a slightly dull football game.
Tonight, it will be decided if the final will be held between two teams out of Liverpool, Chelsea and now United, who have proven to be willing (and incredibly capable) to kill a game off if they believe it to be for their own good, or between one of the former two teams and a team which may fear losing more than anything else, but will at least run relentlessly head first into the brick wall that might spell their defeat. Unless Manchester shows why it has the reputation of what is slowly and sadly becoming the other, romantic but possibly futile style of English football, I hope it’s the latter.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Dance. Dance. Dance.
It’s been a while since I last sang out loud in a football stadium, by which I mean sang and really meant it. It was a lot of fun to drone along with the 80’s synthesizer beats of Milan, sempre per te last November. My Spanish and Catalan really don't reach beyond Atleti Atleti and the first verse of the Barcelona Hymne, respectively and quite frankly, they don't have to for me to have a great time. I’m not a singer. I hardly ever clap and I am too damn awkward to do anything that even remotely resembles dancing in the stands.
I have never done any of this, or not overly exuberant in any case, because the last time I did I was kindly asked to knock it off. I was in Waalwijk, watching a Roda away game, when I mustered all the courage my seven year old body could muster and I started questioning, in song, the whereabouts of the stadium in which the game was taking place. After two lines, I was politely, yet urgently asked to sit down by an RKC fan. I did, and I haven't gotten up ever since.
Today I clapped. I sang. I jumped. I even extended my arms heavenwards and clenched my fists occasionally. After Roda went down 2-0, at times I was the only one in my section singing along with those in the crowd to whom singing louder than the opposing fans seems as important, if not more important, than the result itself. My throat is sore. I am typing this without the use of the ring finger on my right hand, which I injured earlier this week and which I’ve completely numbed down today by clapping. I’ve travelled 600 kilometres in the past two days to see my team lose. But when I look at the balance over the whole weekend, I may have lost a cup final and possibly the permanent use of my now slightly off-coloured finger, but I feel a little closer to a club which sometimes seems like half the world away.
And if that’s too damn sappy for you, then here are some match reports which bring you the cold, inescapable reality.
I have never done any of this, or not overly exuberant in any case, because the last time I did I was kindly asked to knock it off. I was in Waalwijk, watching a Roda away game, when I mustered all the courage my seven year old body could muster and I started questioning, in song, the whereabouts of the stadium in which the game was taking place. After two lines, I was politely, yet urgently asked to sit down by an RKC fan. I did, and I haven't gotten up ever since.
Today I clapped. I sang. I jumped. I even extended my arms heavenwards and clenched my fists occasionally. After Roda went down 2-0, at times I was the only one in my section singing along with those in the crowd to whom singing louder than the opposing fans seems as important, if not more important, than the result itself. My throat is sore. I am typing this without the use of the ring finger on my right hand, which I injured earlier this week and which I’ve completely numbed down today by clapping. I’ve travelled 600 kilometres in the past two days to see my team lose. But when I look at the balance over the whole weekend, I may have lost a cup final and possibly the permanent use of my now slightly off-coloured finger, but I feel a little closer to a club which sometimes seems like half the world away.
And if that’s too damn sappy for you, then here are some match reports which bring you the cold, inescapable reality.
The silence before the battle
- This is the worst part, the calm before the battle
- Oh, and then the battle's not so bad?
- Oh, right. I forgot about the battle
- Futurama, War is the H-Word
I am a child of the Nineties, so I’ve been gradually desensitized starting the day I first turned on a Nintendo. This means I can no longer really by moved by anything the 6 or 8 o’clock news throws at me. I have to resort to far more drastic measures to get my emotional fix, because anything that is merely real, or actual, just does not cut it for me anymore. There is but one medium left which penetrates deep down to my core, and that is film. More specifically, I am talking about the moment in any given film where the music slowly fades out and one character, preferably played by Al Pacino, let’s us all know what’s what.
WAAAAARGH!!!
I’m off to the Cup Final
- Oh, and then the battle's not so bad?
- Oh, right. I forgot about the battle
- Futurama, War is the H-Word
I am a child of the Nineties, so I’ve been gradually desensitized starting the day I first turned on a Nintendo. This means I can no longer really by moved by anything the 6 or 8 o’clock news throws at me. I have to resort to far more drastic measures to get my emotional fix, because anything that is merely real, or actual, just does not cut it for me anymore. There is but one medium left which penetrates deep down to my core, and that is film. More specifically, I am talking about the moment in any given film where the music slowly fades out and one character, preferably played by Al Pacino, let’s us all know what’s what.
WAAAAARGH!!!
I’m off to the Cup Final
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Cup Fever!
Catch it! Or, you know, don't. Whatever.
Only 28 more hours to go to the kick off of the final, and I'm scared shitless. This video was made at the 1997 Cup final which I've described in earlier posts, and still reduces me to tears a little.
Only 28 more hours to go to the kick off of the final, and I'm scared shitless. This video was made at the 1997 Cup final which I've described in earlier posts, and still reduces me to tears a little.
I would walk 500 Miles - just to see the Dutch Cup Final
It’s been just under a year since my last posts on this blog, and I cannot say much has changed in the world of Dutch football. Another ho-hum season, made only very slightly exciting by another too-little-too-late effort by Ajax, which was never a particularly formidable threat to PSV’s fourth straight championship.
Despite of the replica of last season sans the actual final-day excitement, there has been plenty to write about. I could give you tons of reasons why I haven’t, none of them particularly false or true, but let us not dwell on past mistakes or year-long absences. Fact is, a few people have encouraged me to pick this blog up again, for which I should probably thank them as well as hit them over the head with a blunt object, because I intend this blog to start taking up a considerable amount of my precious time once more, as it did when I first started it.
Their personal encouragements alone, however, would possibly not have been enough to make me to go through the embarrassing ritual of restarting a blog and falling down on my knees and beg you to start reading a blog written by someone who apparently can just take off for a year. It is the enormous contrast between the last two posts I’ve written and the one I could write today that brings me to actually write it.
In the previous two posts, you’ll find an account of my first Dutch cup experience. This Sunday, I’m about to visit my third Dutch cup final, as my team, Roda JC, have weaselled themselves through the backdoor into the apotheosis of Dutch Cup football. I could write about how miraculous it actually is that my team has even made the final; I could write about the explosion of joy and disorientation I felt when our goalkeeper scored in the dying seconds of an early-rounder to send it to extra time. I could write about the entire feel-good story which has led my team to the cup final. But I’m not going to.
For this is the first Dutch cup final that I will attend in which Roda plays the occupant of the stadium in which the game is annually contested, Feyenoord. In an effort to mimic the English tradition of hosting the Cup final in the same stadium every year, the Dutch Football association apparently considered the fact that Wembley-stadium is not home to one club in particular to be but a minor detail. There is, however, no national stadium in the Netherlands, so the site for the Dutch cup final was set in what is, without a single doubt, the prettiest stadium in all of Holland; de Kuip, in Rotterdam.
Effectively, this means that whenever Feyenoord reaches the Cup final, they play a home game. This simple formula is not acknowledged by everyone. Many will point out that a far greater number of fans from the other team is granted access to the stadium than during actual regular season home games. This much is true. The ticket allocation is even, with an even number of tickets going to the fans of both teams. The fact that the third part of the tickets, which does not go to the fans but is sold to Sponsors and such, will inevitably find their way to Feyenoord fans as well, is seldom mentioned. Theoretically, there is equal opportunity for fans of both teams to attain those tickets. Fans of the team which Feyenoord face, would, however, be seated in a section filled almost to the brim with Feyenoord fans. Sadly, this is still not a safe option in this country, a situation which, by the way, is not exclusive to Rotterdam.
So theoretically, this is not an away game for my team. I would, however, like to ask all of you to consider the number of times in which you could only get a ticket for your club’s home game, if you also bought the mandatory transportation ticket. Thousands of Roda fans have only been able to secure a ticket if they bought the so-called combi-ticket; this includes a ticket for the final and a ticket for the bus or train, which leaves from the south of Limburg to Rotterdam and returns there when the game is finished. This trip, which is completely escorted by police, is mandatory. If a fan wants to make this trip by himself, say, by car, he will not be able to get a ticket to the game.
This irks me in particular, because I don’t actually live anywhere near the city in which my club plays. In fact; I live about 150 kilometers closer to the site of the final, meaning I have to travel to Limburg, then by mandatory train to the final in Rotterdam and back to Limburg, and then back home again, which is positively the furthest and most elaborate I have ever travelled to see a game which is supposedly not an away game. Meanwhile, Feyenoord fans can go however they damn well please.
All of this, obviously, is a far cry from the previous Dutch cup finals I visited. Yet all I can and will do is rant about this right here and travel over 800 KM to see a game that takes place less than 45 minutes away from my house. Not an away game, indeed.
- So there it is: my first post in just under a year. Check back Sunday morning (this Sunday that is, not the one a year from now) for an extensive account of my pre-game nervous breakdown and Sunday evening for my post-game reflection. In the meanwhile, you’re welcome to discuss the current Cup hosting situation, over here or wherever really, in the comments section.
Despite of the replica of last season sans the actual final-day excitement, there has been plenty to write about. I could give you tons of reasons why I haven’t, none of them particularly false or true, but let us not dwell on past mistakes or year-long absences. Fact is, a few people have encouraged me to pick this blog up again, for which I should probably thank them as well as hit them over the head with a blunt object, because I intend this blog to start taking up a considerable amount of my precious time once more, as it did when I first started it.
Their personal encouragements alone, however, would possibly not have been enough to make me to go through the embarrassing ritual of restarting a blog and falling down on my knees and beg you to start reading a blog written by someone who apparently can just take off for a year. It is the enormous contrast between the last two posts I’ve written and the one I could write today that brings me to actually write it.
In the previous two posts, you’ll find an account of my first Dutch cup experience. This Sunday, I’m about to visit my third Dutch cup final, as my team, Roda JC, have weaselled themselves through the backdoor into the apotheosis of Dutch Cup football. I could write about how miraculous it actually is that my team has even made the final; I could write about the explosion of joy and disorientation I felt when our goalkeeper scored in the dying seconds of an early-rounder to send it to extra time. I could write about the entire feel-good story which has led my team to the cup final. But I’m not going to.
For this is the first Dutch cup final that I will attend in which Roda plays the occupant of the stadium in which the game is annually contested, Feyenoord. In an effort to mimic the English tradition of hosting the Cup final in the same stadium every year, the Dutch Football association apparently considered the fact that Wembley-stadium is not home to one club in particular to be but a minor detail. There is, however, no national stadium in the Netherlands, so the site for the Dutch cup final was set in what is, without a single doubt, the prettiest stadium in all of Holland; de Kuip, in Rotterdam.
Effectively, this means that whenever Feyenoord reaches the Cup final, they play a home game. This simple formula is not acknowledged by everyone. Many will point out that a far greater number of fans from the other team is granted access to the stadium than during actual regular season home games. This much is true. The ticket allocation is even, with an even number of tickets going to the fans of both teams. The fact that the third part of the tickets, which does not go to the fans but is sold to Sponsors and such, will inevitably find their way to Feyenoord fans as well, is seldom mentioned. Theoretically, there is equal opportunity for fans of both teams to attain those tickets. Fans of the team which Feyenoord face, would, however, be seated in a section filled almost to the brim with Feyenoord fans. Sadly, this is still not a safe option in this country, a situation which, by the way, is not exclusive to Rotterdam.
So theoretically, this is not an away game for my team. I would, however, like to ask all of you to consider the number of times in which you could only get a ticket for your club’s home game, if you also bought the mandatory transportation ticket. Thousands of Roda fans have only been able to secure a ticket if they bought the so-called combi-ticket; this includes a ticket for the final and a ticket for the bus or train, which leaves from the south of Limburg to Rotterdam and returns there when the game is finished. This trip, which is completely escorted by police, is mandatory. If a fan wants to make this trip by himself, say, by car, he will not be able to get a ticket to the game.
This irks me in particular, because I don’t actually live anywhere near the city in which my club plays. In fact; I live about 150 kilometers closer to the site of the final, meaning I have to travel to Limburg, then by mandatory train to the final in Rotterdam and back to Limburg, and then back home again, which is positively the furthest and most elaborate I have ever travelled to see a game which is supposedly not an away game. Meanwhile, Feyenoord fans can go however they damn well please.
All of this, obviously, is a far cry from the previous Dutch cup finals I visited. Yet all I can and will do is rant about this right here and travel over 800 KM to see a game that takes place less than 45 minutes away from my house. Not an away game, indeed.
- So there it is: my first post in just under a year. Check back Sunday morning (this Sunday that is, not the one a year from now) for an extensive account of my pre-game nervous breakdown and Sunday evening for my post-game reflection. In the meanwhile, you’re welcome to discuss the current Cup hosting situation, over here or wherever really, in the comments section.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Cup Season! Part 2: Five Stages of Unjustified Anticipatory Grief
Because today is the day of the Dutch Cup Final, I would like to share with you, in two parts, the story of my first Cup Final, Roda JC - Heerenveen in 1997.
I missed the first four minutes as it turned out I could not see when I covered my eyes in an attempt to pretend I was somewhere entirely different. Somewhere where my team had not come so desperately close to the finish line only to surely fall tragically short. I was not familiar with, nor did I expect, any type of success. This is what went through me in the moments before kick-off:
- No way are winning this. We’ve never won a thing. Second place doesn’t count. We’ve played this Cup Final, what, like three times before. Did we ever win? Didn’t think so. We can’t win this. They’ve got Igor Korneev. Igor Korneev! That guy came from FC Barcelona, we’re never going to win against a team who has a player from FC Barcelona.
- Goddamnit , this is so like Roda. They’ve come this far and now they’re going to tragically fall short. Man, I wished we hadn’t even come this far, at least then I wouldn’t have to be so fucking disappointed in a while. Typical. Bloody typical. Why do I still even support this club? How dare they lose when I’m in the stadium. When I came all the way to see my first Final.
- Well let’s hope they’ll at least put up a fight. That’s the least I can ask for, right? There’s some honour in going down swinging, I guess. Just, please, make it a game. I know you’re not going to win, but at least don’t embarrass me. Yourselves! Don’t embarrass yourselves, of course. Just, - god I hate saying this – go out there and give it your best shot. Make me proud?
- Oh my god there he is. Igor fucking Korneev. That’s it. Jesus Christ I wish I hadn’t gone to this stupid game. Why do this to myself? Disappointment tastes bad enough through a tv-screen, but this is going to be a whole other level.
- Ah well. At least we made the final, that’s pretty nice. At least we’re still in there and not making total idiots out of ourselves. At least we’re…we’re up? We’re up 1-0?
I don’t remember a whole lot of the game itself. I remember singing the anthem, waiving the cheap plastic flags that were deposited on each seat, I remember most goals being scored on the other side of the pitch, but I don’t recall the actual goals themselves. And I remember, after my first Cup Final, walking out of de Kuip victorious.
I missed the first four minutes as it turned out I could not see when I covered my eyes in an attempt to pretend I was somewhere entirely different. Somewhere where my team had not come so desperately close to the finish line only to surely fall tragically short. I was not familiar with, nor did I expect, any type of success. This is what went through me in the moments before kick-off:
- No way are winning this. We’ve never won a thing. Second place doesn’t count. We’ve played this Cup Final, what, like three times before. Did we ever win? Didn’t think so. We can’t win this. They’ve got Igor Korneev. Igor Korneev! That guy came from FC Barcelona, we’re never going to win against a team who has a player from FC Barcelona.
- Goddamnit , this is so like Roda. They’ve come this far and now they’re going to tragically fall short. Man, I wished we hadn’t even come this far, at least then I wouldn’t have to be so fucking disappointed in a while. Typical. Bloody typical. Why do I still even support this club? How dare they lose when I’m in the stadium. When I came all the way to see my first Final.
- Well let’s hope they’ll at least put up a fight. That’s the least I can ask for, right? There’s some honour in going down swinging, I guess. Just, please, make it a game. I know you’re not going to win, but at least don’t embarrass me. Yourselves! Don’t embarrass yourselves, of course. Just, - god I hate saying this – go out there and give it your best shot. Make me proud?
- Oh my god there he is. Igor fucking Korneev. That’s it. Jesus Christ I wish I hadn’t gone to this stupid game. Why do this to myself? Disappointment tastes bad enough through a tv-screen, but this is going to be a whole other level.
- Ah well. At least we made the final, that’s pretty nice. At least we’re still in there and not making total idiots out of ourselves. At least we’re…we’re up? We’re up 1-0?
I don’t remember a whole lot of the game itself. I remember singing the anthem, waiving the cheap plastic flags that were deposited on each seat, I remember most goals being scored on the other side of the pitch, but I don’t recall the actual goals themselves. And I remember, after my first Cup Final, walking out of de Kuip victorious.
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