Last Wednesday, May 17th, I was fortunate to watch the Champions League Final between Arsenal and Barcelona.
I had been pretty wound up that Monday and Tuesday in anticipation of Wednesday’s match. I was preparing myself for the worst, but was hoping for a minor miracle: a young Arsenal team defeating a mighty Barcelona.
On the day of the game, I planned my time out carefully. I was to meet a new student at 4pm, then I would give a class at Casa Americana until 8pm, and finally I’d scramble over to Finnegan’s to get a good spot for watching the match on TV.
My nephew had been sent home from school with fever on Tuesday, but he was fine on Wednesday morning, so he went on back to school. However, my sister phoned me around 1.30 or so saying he had fever again, and could I please go get him from school while she finished her preparations for some clients who were arriving that afternoon.
I had intended for a bit of quiet time around the house to calm my nerves. Sure, I’d already gone to the gym, but then was dancing around to some Erasure (Two Ring Circus, if you must know) and trying to decide what to eat for lunch. I hadn’t even showered yet, so with Lynne’s sudden call, my schedule was thrown off.
I rolled the stroller over to Daniel’s school, picked him up and brought him back home. Then I realized that I was running out of time. I only had time to shower before catching the metro. Thus, lunch would have to wait.
This may not seem like all that big of a deal (skipping lunch, that is), but I had a full schedule until match time, and Finnegan’s doesn’t serve food in the evening. Once again, I was faced with a dinner of pints. On one hand, it was probably for the better, as my nerves were already shot, and it was rather unlikely that I’d be able to hold anything down. On the other, as fun as it is, drinking pints on an empty stomach can do evil things.
Lynne arrived home to take Daniel to the doctor, and I was able to catch the metro. Thirty minutes later, I was walking down the street looking for my student´s address when I ran into Paloma. We exchanged quick greetings, then I continued looking for the building number.
As it was a warm day, I’d packed a two litre bottle of water in my backpack. I also was loaded down with several English textbooks and my Arsenal jersey. I was a bit anxious about this new student Monica. Though I’d met her briefly once before, I wasn’t altogether sure what she wanted to study, and furthermore, her mother had told me to be at the house by 4pm. The student’s mother told me some other things, too, but I didn’t quite understand her at the time; I figured I would just clarify in person that afternoon.
Around 10 minutes til 4, I found the building where Monica lives, so had a few minutes to relax and prepare myself. I took the opportunity to have a few pregame smokes, then a few sips of water, then was about to ring the bell when Monica walked out of the building. It seems that I would be teaching her brother for half an hour before she and I began. Oh.
The mother greeted me upstairs at their flat, then promptly introduced me to her 19 year old son. He was going to have an exam the following day and needed me to help him review conditionals. “Oh fucking hell,” I thought. “I need to review conditionals, myself.” This guy, like most Spanish teenagers studying English, doesn’t speak much English. Thus he proceeded to tell me in Spanish what he needed help with, and I was lost. Finally, I grasped what he wanted, and decided to consult some of the books I’d brought with me.
I immediately discovered a problem when I opened my backpack. Somehow, I’d failed to close the top on my water bottle securely, and now a litre and a half of water was washing around in my bag. My books were saturated, and my jersey was a sopping mess. “Oh fuck,” I said to no one in particular, but my student seemed to understand as he looked at my ruined books.
Suddenly I was babbling, trying to think of what to do. The backpack fortunately is somewhat waterproof and had actually contained the water inside the bag. I lay my jersey on my leg and tried to continue with our lesson.
45 minutes later, the guy felt pretty comfortable with things. I wished him luck on his test, and then his sister came in. After a quick check to gauge her level of English, we worked on translating an abridged version of Braveheart into Spanish; it was a homework assignment from her school. I tried not to get all weepy (as I’m a pretty big fan of this film), and almost let out a “Freedom!”
All in all, I felt things went reasonably well. At a quarter to six, I indicated that we needed to wrap things up, as I needed to be across town by 6.30.
I collected my things as the mother paid me, and then I looked down at my jeans to see that after sitting for an hour and a half with a wet soccer jersey in my lap, I looked like I’d pissed myself.
“See you next week,” I said casually, trying to act as if nothing appeared unusual. At the door, I turned to give a final hasta luego, and was horrified to notice a small puddle left in the chair I’d been sitting in.
“Well that went well,” I laughed as I raced down the street to the metro to get to Casa Americana, pausing only once to throw out an empty water bottle.
I sweat through my next class, literally. I was a drippy bastard by 5 minutes to 8, but no matter. It was time to kit up, don the wet jersey, and put the t-shirt into the bottom of my backpack to try and absorb some of the water. I’d worry about the true extent of the damage later.
8.10pm Finnegan’s. 35 minutes from kick-off. I saw a couple of folks I knew, and had a brief word. I was a bit irked, because the place was already filling up, and I wasn’t able to get my usual stool in the smoking lounge. Thus, I’d have to stand in the main bar area, where the TV, though bigger, doesn’t have quite the same picture quality as the plasma TV in the other lounge of the bar. I was cursing myself for not cancelling the 6.30 class that evening when I looked over and saw another colleague from Casa Americana. He’s a regular at Finnegan’s, and is known as Michigan Dave.
Dave has been around Casa Americana since the days my sister worked there. I’d met him once in February but he hadn’t been the most chatty of guys. I decided to break the ice. “Are you here for the match?” I asked, knowing that as a regular, he was just as likely to be there for pints.
“Indeed,” came the response. Now came the trick – “And the team?”
“Uh, I’m supporting Barca,” he said, looking at my Arsenal badge, “but it doesn’t really matter,” which ultimately gave me the opportunity to slide into the empty stool next to him.
We got to talking, and after he was reminded where I come from, he went into a great rant about how ridiculous unicards are. We agreed on the matter, and then I suddenly realized that he was likely to go on and on unless I found a way to change the subject. I could appreciate the fact that he was from Michigan, where no such item exists, and I pointed out that many of us in Dallas couldn’t quite comprehend the concept of unicards, either. That said, there was really no need to have a 30 minute conversation about them.
My intercambio friend Paola showed up, which was a welcome surprise. “Sorry, about the only Spanish you’re going to hear from me during the game is a couple of mierdas and maybe a joder or two,” I joked.
There’s always a little buzz of excitement in pubs when they turn the music down and turn up the volume of the game on TV. Showtime.
As the ref blew the whistle to start the match, I checked the level of my beer and decided I’d better refill. Dinner was hours away…
Arsenal started brightly (he writes in his best Soccernet style) and the game had a pretty good vibe in the opening minutes. Meanwhile, my heart was in my throat, and pounding. Oh please let us win this one…
Twenty minutes into the game, our keeper took out the Barca striker just outside the box and got himself red-carded. Oh fuck.
I actually almost left: maybe I could study some Spanish at home, or walk around the city, or get bitten by a dog, or get mugged or something. There wasn’t much hope for a 10 man Arsenal against a full squad of Barcelona.
Of course I stayed, and am very glad. A few minutes after the keeper was sent off, Arsenal scored off a corner kick, Sol Campbell no less, and the score was 1-0 to the Arsenal. “Holy shit, we could do this,” I thought, right about the time the muse on my shoulder was saying, “there’s no way they’ll win.”
At half time, I popped outside for a few smokes. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” I breathed. The second half is going to be so much more tough.
There were a fair amount of Arsenal supporters in the bar – both English and non. Many Spaniards who supported clubs other than Barca were still electing to support a Spanish team in the final. After all, Sevilla had just thumped Boro in the UEFA Cup, and two Euro wins would bode well for Spanish football. True, but I was proud of my team, and appreciated those few Spaniards that were supporting Arsenal.
The second half arrived with a full Barca attack, and ohlordyloo, it was game on. Arsenal, with 10 men, were playing out of their heads. They were defending well, and even getting forward a few times. Midway through the half, I had a sensation that we could win.
Alas, Barca is Barca, and they equalized in a controversial goal in around the 70th minute. “It’s over,” I thought, “We’ll never be able to get through extra time, and God forbid it goes to penalties,” remembering last years FA Cup, last years Champs League Final, and the FA Cup from a week ago.
Arsenal’s second keeper, a Spaniard, was having a fantastic game, but I didn’t think his luck would hold out. Sure enough, Barca scored a go ahead goal off an incredible angle to take the lead nine minutes from time.
We’re fucked.
As a fan, I stayed until the end, and that final whistle, I felt relief – it’s over.
I knew a guy who supported another English team, and recall how he’d say how “gutted” he felt when his team lost a big match. (It was Palace, of course, so how many “big” matches are we talking about, eh?)
Likewise, I lived with Tim during a time where we saw the Pirates, Penguins, Steelers, and Knicks all lose heartbreakers, and I’ll never forget his emotion.
Emotional? Yes. Sad? Yes. Gutted? No.
Arsenal played their hearts out, and though Barca was arguably the better team of the season (and possibly on the night, though with 11 players), I was proud. We hung in the game and almost made it happen. Contrary to negative commentary by the press in past articles about Arsenal´s lack of enthusiasm, Arsenal did play with a passion, a passion that I’d never seen. I was happy to be an Arsenal fan (one who recently saw Highbury for the first and last time), and believed our team could walk off the pitch with their heads held high.
Don’t go thinking I was smiling and shit, I simply was trying to look on the bright side. (This IS the life of Bryan don’t you know). On the way out of the bar to a taxi stand, I consoled a fellow Arsenal fan (Spanish, no less) who was still standing in front of the television in shock. “It’s going to be ok,” I said.
As I sat in the back of the cab on the way home, my mind rode the emotional roller coaster. Meanwhile, my stomach was doing the “fuck you, we have no food and are drowning in beer” dance, which I’ll point out has the ability to alarm a certain taxi driver. I called my sister and asked that she order a pizza for me so it would be there when I arrived home.
A few minutes later, I snarfed a pizza, then collapsed into bed.
I’m certainly not glad that we lost the game, but I’m glad that I made peace with myself before the opening kick. Barcelona are a good team, and they deserve the title of European champions. Sure, I had hoped to contact Arsenal FC and plead for season tickets or something on the grounds that it took me moving to Spain before Arsenal could win Europe. Oh well…
The rest of the week was a bit foggy, and I knew I would be feeling a little down for a few days. But, the World Cup is imminent, so there’s plenty of football going on. On top of that, Thierry Henry announced his decision to remain at Arsenal. We’ve got one of the best players in the world, and he’s vowing to finish his football career as a Gunner. Qué bien.
By the weekend, I was still feeling emotional, but starting to come round. I had pints with a friend on Saturday night, and by the first of the week, I felt back to normal, or as normal as I can feel as a guy trying to settle into a new life.
I have great days, and I have not so great days, but I can still honestly say that without doubt, I made the right move in coming for a new experience. At least I’m not having shitty days; I find something to enjoy about being here each day.
Take this afternoon, for example. I meekly arrived at my student’s house (recall the water spillage incident from a week ago) only to find that the student wasn’t there, and she would CALL me when she wanted another class.
OK, kind of embarrassing that I’d showed up expecting to give a class (I didn’t take any water this time), only to be reminded of my inability to understand Spanish. But, while I was laughing at myself at the metro, I ran into a cute little student that I sort of know from Casa American, and we had a nice chat on the ride to city. It was nice to see a friendly face on the subway.
Yesterday, I listened to Prince for the first time in probably a decade…and loved it. Sure, I was a big fan during the 1999 era (the album, not the year), but by the early 90s, really had changed musical tastes. I did find it to be the perfect thing to get the Erasure sound out of my ears…I’ve been singing “Hideaway,” for days.
Back to Prince. He went from solo, to the revolution, to the new generation, to a squiggle.
I kind of feel like a squiggle right now, but it just keeps getting better and better.
keep the faith
bryan
24/5/06
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