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The Beating of Barca Wednesday
Had been waiting for this day for a LONG TIME! Celtic playing at the Nou Camp and I was going, barely believable but I was extremely excited. Even a midday text from Mickey McDaid asking if I fancied Lunch at the Placa Catalunya, knowing I was stuck at my desk for another 5 hours and the lucky bugger was already there couldn’t even dampen my spirits.
4.30 I was breaking my neck to get out the door, I met Tom at Paddington and we jumped on the Heathrow Express. On entering the airport there were enough Green and White jerseys knocking about to indicate it may not be on a “Seville Scale” but there would be plenty of traveling support. We went through security and walked past the bar where the majority of the Hooped support had gathered, naturally. At the edge of the seating area there were eight fellas lounging in sofas sipping cervezas and blasting Celtic Songs from the portable stereo planted in the middle of the table between them – CLASS. Charlie and The Bhoys doing an impromptu gig (albeit not live but by cassette) in West London. Airplane was full and rowdy to begin with, 15 minutes into the flight they were snoring their heads off and the Spanish businessmen, that probably use these planes week in week out, didn’t look particularly impressed..hahaha
On arrival at Barcelona airport we joined the long green and white queue for taxis to the city centre. Walked into the “New” McDaid Hotel, Jesus that business is taking Spain by storm, and when asked for my name was presented with two very precious tickets to the game! I could have kissed the man behind reception but he looked nothing like Henrik and would have probably have got the wrong idea as he was perplexed enough at the stupid grins on mine and Tom’s faces as it was.
So bags in the room and straight to the pub to meet Mickey and Declan. These boys had been out on the beer, and generally annoying Frank Rijkaard, since earlier in the day so were pretty well oiled. The Michael Collins was packed and as far as Irish Bars abroad go pretty good, there were a few Spaniards in there and we were singing songs back and forward – the general craic very good. After about an hour of trying to get Mickey to sing a particular Barca song he’d heard earlier in the day Declan gave up and went asleep with his head on the table. Mickey guided him outside and back to the hotel, dutiful brotherly behaviour. Tom and I headed back to the hotel about 3am, needed to get a decent kip for the following day. Thursday
Up and about at the respectable hour of 1pm. Bite to eat and straight down to the Placa where Flaherty’s is. The McDaids, their friends, Tom McCloskey and Sean were pitched up in a Spanish bar just around the corner from the stealing bugger that is the Flaherty family Public Houses and Bars. The square was packed! Bhoys carrying crates of beer, kids kicking green, white and gold beach balls about and the sun was shining! Tom McCloskey and Sean were still waiting on their tickets. It was 2.30 and the “Catalunian” as he came to be known wasn’t ringing until 4. Sean pointed out that his 4 means at least quarter to five, Tom was acting cool but everyone knew that he was fretting inside – 4.05 he was offering Sean his phone “here y’are give him a bell” calm as you like, I don’t think! When the call came through that not only had he got a ticket but he’d got a ticket for nothing he came running back to the bar, shoved his head through the open window and screaming that he too was going to the Nou Camp. At that point we went in different directions with a plan to meet at Michael Collins after the game. Tom and I headed off for food leaving the rest of them now in the square with their carry-outs and McCloskey with a HUGE grin still on his face.
Tried to relax for the next couple of hours before heading up to the Nou Camp, just wasn’t happening was so goddamn nervous. I’d been to the stadium before and knew how big and intimidating it was, I tried to explain the stadiums size to Tom and he wouldn’t believe me. I described it as roughly twice the size of Paradise only to be greeted with an incredulous “Oh Shut Up!”. 7.30 came around and we decide it was time to leave, naturally because of the earlier rain (Jesus they were some hail stones – omen maybe hail hail?!?!?!) taxis were at a premium at 8pm we were still sitting in the lobby of the hotel and I was starting to get anxious. We went outside and luckily flagged one down, then we hit traffic and I really started panicking. It was 8.45 and we were stationary in traffic and couldn’t see very many people on the pavements so knew we were still a fair way from the ground. Time to bail the taxi and get walking!! Half-walking half-jogging we followed some tanned fella with a blue and dark red scarf and fortunately he led us to the ground. We looked up at the door number we were walking towards, it said 19. We, however, needed Door 54 – 8.57pm, that’s when the half-jog half-sprint came into action. As the machine scanned the bar code on the ticket and gave me a green light to enter (an another omen maybe?!?!), there was a huge roar from inside and Tom and I leapt the stairs to our seats. We missed the huddle which I was gutted about but nothing could be done, should have left at bloody 6.30. Anyway as we were running up the steps the whistle blew and the butterflies in my stomach went haywire. The Game
Martin had the bhoys as organised as an SAS military operation, even though we were pretty much on the back foot for the whole 90 minutes it was only up until the last 10 that they really looked that threatening. Whilst Bobo was getting his picture taken in the stands with John Sweeney, Mr. Kennedy was excelling in the defense in his place. To be honest I think it’s impossible to choose a Man of The Match for that game, thought that Marshall, Kennedy, Varga, Didier and Jackie were all superb. Marshall I suppose would win it by a nose, for me, because of those two saves in the second half. At such a young age also he has to get that little extra piece of credit because he was playing at the Nou Camp for Christ sake!!
As the game progressed the bhoys were under more and more pressure but they held their nerve. We didn’t have anything going in the last third of the pitch, I’m sure it would have been different if Chris Sutton had have been fit but as it was (and given the result – WHO CARES!!) you could probably count the number of chances we had on their goal on one hand. We were playing good football, controlled, precise passing and some of the tackles made were superb, the effort was nothing less than 110%. Rijkaard put on Overmars to try to cause a load of trouble down the wing but Mr Didier Agathe was more than up for the task. Overmars did nothing, don’t think he got round him once. Our seats made us fortunate enough to watch this little tęte a tęte 50 feet directly in front of us. Was a little nervous about our seats at first knowing how close they were to their “Jungle” but it was very tame really. Thought they’d get a rise out of us with a couple of Union Jacks and when that didn’t work they looked a bit lost. There was a group of about 200 Celtic fans sat in and around us and every time the Catalans started singing, so did we. Don’t think they knew what hit them, ours was a knee-jerk reaction to them opening their mouths. Soon as they started, we started and they shut up.
About 10 minutes before the end was when they really started piling on the pressure and my stomach had by this time bypassed my chest and was sitting at the base of my throat. I was sooooo nervous, after Seville I was praying “no extra time please” and told Tom that I was going to cry if Barcelona scored. But we held out, that free kick they were given at the end had me sitting own with my head in my hands waiting for a huge roar to erupt from the Catalans, but it never came. When the final whistle went Tom and I went absolutely mental, jumping, screaming and shouting like nutters! I’ve never felt so happy in my life, I suppose after the disappointment of Seville I was half expecting another long walk back to the hotel with only Mickey McDaids backside to look at. Instead it was off to Michael Collins to get PLASTERED!! We met the McDaids and crew as well as Tom and Sean back at the pub and we were there until at least 3am but can’t remember. Have a vague recollection of being up on a chair with e green a white scarf over my head yelling not singing, yelling the words to the You’ll Never Walk Alone or Hail Hail The Celt Are Here – it’s all quite blurry. One of the most fantastic experiences ever. And Barcelona is a lovely city full of lovely people. Some of the architecture is breathtaking but of course ALL of this takes second precedence to the fact that we beat the mighty Barcelona. They may not have the strongest team in their history but they still have unbelievable European pedigree and one of the best midfielders in the world and we BEAT THEM!
And surely the Celts have got to have the BEST reputation as far as football fans go, that’s the way you’re meant to support your club. Everyone will want us in the next round, next year even. They spend extortionate amounts of money on drink and all totally amiable.
BRING ON VILLARREAL!! The Genius that is Martin O’Neill will have another winning strategy for those buggers |
