A bold prediction, a bolder win
In the wake of an underwhelming draw against Colchester – a useful point to keep us within sight of the playoffs, but a little disappointing nonetheless – my mind of course went back to last Saturday’s still-unbelievable performance against Chelsea. I've thought about it many times in the course of this week, rewatching the goals countless times both for the thrill and to reassure myself it really happened. But it did. And I was there!
When I think back to last Saturday there’s one particular image that sticks in my mind. It isn’t Halliday’s wonderful goal that took us into the lead, or even Yeates’s stunning added-time clincher; it isn’t the sea of claret and amber jumping up and down in the stands (though this was both humbling and spine-tingling); it isn’t even Parkinson, standing with his arms raised in the middle of the pitch in front of ecstatic fans after the final whistle had blown, perhaps not truly believing himself what had just happened. It was this: as the Chelsea fans made a quick exit, shocked and bruised, and the crowds began to thin, some in the home stands remained, and you suddenly noticed they were fumbling in pockets for concealed City scarfs and unzipping fleeces to reveal City home strips. In amongst the sea of blue seats, all around the ground, were specks of claret and amber, City fans who had begged, bought and borrowed tickets so that they could be at this once-in-a-decade fixture. It felt for a moment like the final scene of Spartacus, as though each fan, from his hiding place, was now proudly proclaiming “I am City!” “I am City!”
Oh, how tortuous it must have been to stay quiet throughout those dazzling ninety minutes. From my own, safe seat amidst the vast crowd of 6000 Bantams, we had gone crazy from the very first corner (for this, back at the beginning of the match, had felt like an achievement) to the glorious sound of the final whistle. When the first goal went in we were overjoyed, for it was something we had thought we could only hope for: Chelsea were not going to do a Swansea on us; whatever happened next we could hold our heads high. Unlike many teams that have visited Stamford Bridge, we were not going to leave goal-less. Here we were, a League 1 side, giving, for a few minutes, at least, the Premiership leaders a bit of work to do. We bounced and sang and screamed and waved and looked forward to the TV highlights. And then the unexpected happened. This time, we went wild. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the stand had collapsed under our weight as we leapt up and down. Strangers hugged one another, and we laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. There was going to be a moment, however brief, when we could say we were drawing with Chelsea.
And then, the unimaginable happened. We took the lead. My heart raced so much it was hurting, and I momentarily worried I might have a heart attack. Suddenly we were beating Chelsea. I thought of the Arsenal match, but this was better – that had been a single goal, then an agonizing equaliser, a nailbiting period of extra time then penalties. But this was Chelsea; this was their home ground; and we were actually ahead. As the huge ground buzzed with increasingly frenetic chanting and ribbing of a now obviously fuming Mourinho (“Can we play you/can we play you/can we play you every week?”) I found myself doing something I’m pretty sure is a) futile and b) wrong, but I did it anyway – I prayed. Raised a Catholic, the line “Ask and it shall be given unto you” fleeted across my mind. Is that blasphemy, I wondered? Was it really a bad thing to just long for us to keep the lead?
The teams take to the pitch at the start of the game; we hope we can save face with at least one goal.
Real anguish spread through the away crowd when seven minutes of added time was announced. Surely they would equalise now? Surely this team, almost entirely unbeaten at home, would never let this happen? Surely a replay at Valley Parade was the best we could hope for? The chanting reached frenzied levels as we all desperately willed the time away, waiting for the magic whistle to seal a mind-boggling win too unexpected to be the stuff of dreams, but, in the end, it wasn’t the whistle that sealed it, but another goal. And then, finally, the whistle blew, and, for me at least, we had reached a new level beyond that even of Arsenal and Villa and that wonderful season that took us twice to Wembley. Here, in a ground I had never had a need to visit before, we had just beaten a team that Swansea, the team that beat us so emphatically in the League Cup, had fallen to a week earlier. For a moment, in statistical terms, we were elevated to a status alongside the likes of Barcelona. Behind me, an older gentleman in a flat cap who looked so delightfully Yorkshire hugged me. He had real tears streaming down his cheeks.
The 6000 fans and the many more scattered so movingly around the ground stayed for a good half hour afterwards as the players paid tribute to their astounding support. Later that evening, in my adopted hometown (I am a reluctant Londoner) I had the bizarre experience of being stopped several times in the street and on the tube to be embraced or have my hand shaken by complete strangers who wished to thank me for the fact we had just beaten the nemesis that is Chelsea. Arsenal and Tottenham fans and even a man of Polish origin who was just a casual onlooker wanted to talk to us about the game and buy us drinks.
I admit that in all the excitement I lost my sense of decorum somewhat: the day before I had been interviewed for the City website outside a deserted and freezing Stamford Bridge and, when asked for the score, I had said “Well, we beat Arsenal, so I’m going to say one-nil to us.” The interviewer can be heard sniggering slightly as he replies “A bold prediction there”, and at the time I thought "thank heavens I didn't say 3-2", which was the result that for some reason had popped into my head. In the small hours, falling into bed, I sent my last tweet of the night: “Is 4-2 bold enough for you? Suck on that!!!”
Once again, the amazing passion and dedication of the fans has been richly rewarded; once again we are giant killers; once again I am so incredibly proud of my hometown and my club. We are, now and always, the best team in the world: we are Bradford City.
Fans applaud the third goal in disbelief as City take the lead.
When I think back to last Saturday there’s one particular image that sticks in my mind. It isn’t Halliday’s wonderful goal that took us into the lead, or even Yeates’s stunning added-time clincher; it isn’t the sea of claret and amber jumping up and down in the stands (though this was both humbling and spine-tingling); it isn’t even Parkinson, standing with his arms raised in the middle of the pitch in front of ecstatic fans after the final whistle had blown, perhaps not truly believing himself what had just happened. It was this: as the Chelsea fans made a quick exit, shocked and bruised, and the crowds began to thin, some in the home stands remained, and you suddenly noticed they were fumbling in pockets for concealed City scarfs and unzipping fleeces to reveal City home strips. In amongst the sea of blue seats, all around the ground, were specks of claret and amber, City fans who had begged, bought and borrowed tickets so that they could be at this once-in-a-decade fixture. It felt for a moment like the final scene of Spartacus, as though each fan, from his hiding place, was now proudly proclaiming “I am City!” “I am City!”
Oh, how tortuous it must have been to stay quiet throughout those dazzling ninety minutes. From my own, safe seat amidst the vast crowd of 6000 Bantams, we had gone crazy from the very first corner (for this, back at the beginning of the match, had felt like an achievement) to the glorious sound of the final whistle. When the first goal went in we were overjoyed, for it was something we had thought we could only hope for: Chelsea were not going to do a Swansea on us; whatever happened next we could hold our heads high. Unlike many teams that have visited Stamford Bridge, we were not going to leave goal-less. Here we were, a League 1 side, giving, for a few minutes, at least, the Premiership leaders a bit of work to do. We bounced and sang and screamed and waved and looked forward to the TV highlights. And then the unexpected happened. This time, we went wild. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the stand had collapsed under our weight as we leapt up and down. Strangers hugged one another, and we laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. There was going to be a moment, however brief, when we could say we were drawing with Chelsea.
And then, the unimaginable happened. We took the lead. My heart raced so much it was hurting, and I momentarily worried I might have a heart attack. Suddenly we were beating Chelsea. I thought of the Arsenal match, but this was better – that had been a single goal, then an agonizing equaliser, a nailbiting period of extra time then penalties. But this was Chelsea; this was their home ground; and we were actually ahead. As the huge ground buzzed with increasingly frenetic chanting and ribbing of a now obviously fuming Mourinho (“Can we play you/can we play you/can we play you every week?”) I found myself doing something I’m pretty sure is a) futile and b) wrong, but I did it anyway – I prayed. Raised a Catholic, the line “Ask and it shall be given unto you” fleeted across my mind. Is that blasphemy, I wondered? Was it really a bad thing to just long for us to keep the lead?
Real anguish spread through the away crowd when seven minutes of added time was announced. Surely they would equalise now? Surely this team, almost entirely unbeaten at home, would never let this happen? Surely a replay at Valley Parade was the best we could hope for? The chanting reached frenzied levels as we all desperately willed the time away, waiting for the magic whistle to seal a mind-boggling win too unexpected to be the stuff of dreams, but, in the end, it wasn’t the whistle that sealed it, but another goal. And then, finally, the whistle blew, and, for me at least, we had reached a new level beyond that even of Arsenal and Villa and that wonderful season that took us twice to Wembley. Here, in a ground I had never had a need to visit before, we had just beaten a team that Swansea, the team that beat us so emphatically in the League Cup, had fallen to a week earlier. For a moment, in statistical terms, we were elevated to a status alongside the likes of Barcelona. Behind me, an older gentleman in a flat cap who looked so delightfully Yorkshire hugged me. He had real tears streaming down his cheeks.
The 6000 fans and the many more scattered so movingly around the ground stayed for a good half hour afterwards as the players paid tribute to their astounding support. Later that evening, in my adopted hometown (I am a reluctant Londoner) I had the bizarre experience of being stopped several times in the street and on the tube to be embraced or have my hand shaken by complete strangers who wished to thank me for the fact we had just beaten the nemesis that is Chelsea. Arsenal and Tottenham fans and even a man of Polish origin who was just a casual onlooker wanted to talk to us about the game and buy us drinks.
I admit that in all the excitement I lost my sense of decorum somewhat: the day before I had been interviewed for the City website outside a deserted and freezing Stamford Bridge and, when asked for the score, I had said “Well, we beat Arsenal, so I’m going to say one-nil to us.” The interviewer can be heard sniggering slightly as he replies “A bold prediction there”, and at the time I thought "thank heavens I didn't say 3-2", which was the result that for some reason had popped into my head. In the small hours, falling into bed, I sent my last tweet of the night: “Is 4-2 bold enough for you? Suck on that!!!”
Once again, the amazing passion and dedication of the fans has been richly rewarded; once again we are giant killers; once again I am so incredibly proud of my hometown and my club. We are, now and always, the best team in the world: we are Bradford City.
Fans applaud the third goal in disbelief as City take the lead.
Labels: Bradford City, football
posted by RLS at 3:22 pm
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