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.
Showing posts with label Cup Football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cup Football. Show all posts
Sunday, April 27, 2008
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.
Cup Season! Part 1: When Blind Enthousiasm Clouds Proper Judgement
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.
The barhand-turned-bouncer and his mother had braced themselves for the scuffles that regularly accompanied the climax of the Dutch cup, the final in Rotterdam. Their bar lay near ‘de Kuip’, the impressive Feyenoord stadium in which the final of the Dutch cup is held every year, in an attempt to mirror the tradition of the English FA Cup. From behind their reinforced bar, ready for whatever the visiting fans would, possibly quite literally, throw at them, they had looked on curiously as fans of the teams who had made the final made their way to the stadium without any of the hostilities they had gotten so used to over the past years. When they saw a modified cycle, which five SC Heerenveen fans had driven to Rotterdam all the way from Friesland, pass, the perplexed bar owner ordered her massive son to open the door and see what the hell was going on.
When he did, I darted in past him – a feat in itself – and was followed by Roda JC and SC Heerenveen fans alike. When I returned from the bathroom, I saw the bar owner explain to my parents that this was not exactly what they had expected would happen.
“We open up every year on the day of the final and we wait to see which team’s fans are the first to arrive. And then he makes sure fans from the other team don’t get in”. She nodded at her offspring. He liked that fans of both teams appreciated him for this annual position of authority, and felt a sense of responsibility for the gentle proceedings of this particular afternoon. To him, the only possible explanation of this state of fan pacification was his bulky presence. To some extent, he may have been right. However, the fact that Roda JC and Heerenveen fans can be compared to the warmongering equivalent of Iceland and Switzerland, respectively, might also have been the cause of this mutual state of benevolence.
As his mother told us this in her heavy Rotterdam accent that her son was such a sweet, stand-up type of guy, I urged my parents to leave for the stadium. I was about to see my first cup final and I didn’t want to miss a single minute of it.
The barhand-turned-bouncer and his mother had braced themselves for the scuffles that regularly accompanied the climax of the Dutch cup, the final in Rotterdam. Their bar lay near ‘de Kuip’, the impressive Feyenoord stadium in which the final of the Dutch cup is held every year, in an attempt to mirror the tradition of the English FA Cup. From behind their reinforced bar, ready for whatever the visiting fans would, possibly quite literally, throw at them, they had looked on curiously as fans of the teams who had made the final made their way to the stadium without any of the hostilities they had gotten so used to over the past years. When they saw a modified cycle, which five SC Heerenveen fans had driven to Rotterdam all the way from Friesland, pass, the perplexed bar owner ordered her massive son to open the door and see what the hell was going on.
When he did, I darted in past him – a feat in itself – and was followed by Roda JC and SC Heerenveen fans alike. When I returned from the bathroom, I saw the bar owner explain to my parents that this was not exactly what they had expected would happen.
“We open up every year on the day of the final and we wait to see which team’s fans are the first to arrive. And then he makes sure fans from the other team don’t get in”. She nodded at her offspring. He liked that fans of both teams appreciated him for this annual position of authority, and felt a sense of responsibility for the gentle proceedings of this particular afternoon. To him, the only possible explanation of this state of fan pacification was his bulky presence. To some extent, he may have been right. However, the fact that Roda JC and Heerenveen fans can be compared to the warmongering equivalent of Iceland and Switzerland, respectively, might also have been the cause of this mutual state of benevolence.
As his mother told us this in her heavy Rotterdam accent that her son was such a sweet, stand-up type of guy, I urged my parents to leave for the stadium. I was about to see my first cup final and I didn’t want to miss a single minute of it.
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