I'm a terrible big-game watcher. Mrs S was concerned I'd pop a major artery if I suffered the whole thing so we timed an exquisite gormet seafood nosh-up so as to miss the first half. The plan was to waddle down the road to a beachfront taverna to catch the conclusion.
Like all good Fever Pitch-style followers I had my mobile tuned to the BBC website. The updates slowed after Ronaldo scored, so SP's 'Ha ha' text - something that could only signify a Chelski equaliser - came way before the official confirmation of Lampard's finish to a bizarre pinball manoever that's unlikely to have seen action on either training ground.
During the interval I paid the bill, which amply reflected the establishments' pride of their undoubtedly excellent fare, and slid off to the aforementioned bar. Bizarrely the only other person remotely interested in the goings-on from Moscow was a middle-aged lady from . . . Russia. Patently a Chelski fan - she winced horribly as an avalanche of chances for the Blues went a-begging - I avoided eye contact as I shrank in my seat wondering when the all-conquering side from part one - as described by the Beebs' bloggers - would turn up for the second instalment.
Extra time arrived and I duly informed an ashen-faced wife that penalties were sure to follow. Thanks to a combination of dodgy camera work and the rabid Spanish television commentary I couldn't be sure as to why Drogba saw red. There may have been a girlie slap on Vidic (who seemed somewhat riled in the aftermath) but that seems a harsh decision in a game of such magnitude. I guess rules is rules but it only served to make the endgame even more fractious with both sides seeming to want to play out time.
We jumped in the car and set off for the hotel just before full time in extra time. Spanish radio on 1540 megahertz (on the medium waveband!) offered a cacophony of derranged screaming that made the TV presenter sound like Des Lynham on valium. It featuring comical pronounciations of 'Lampaaaard!' 'Carrrrrick!' and 'Harrrrrgreaves!' I knew there'd been no additon to the score as the obligatory 'Goooooooooaaaaaaaal!!!!' was missing.
And so to the hotel bar for the final countdown, the horror that is penalties. As the Boy Wonder stepped up I pulled my T-shirt up over my head and growled to Mrs S (still stoically by my side bemoaning her 'dreadful' record on (watching) penalties involving England/ English teams) that he would showboat and fluff it. Bless his cottons he didn't disappoint. And so it fell to England's Brave John Terry, the Hardest Man Since Vinnie Jones to step up and, by the width of a creaky upright, land in an ugly heap on his backside and keep the stress rising beyond acceptable levels. A hotel security guard who'd slipped into the back of the TV lounge pointed at my hunched, bug-eyed countenance and muttered 'He for Manchester, no?' The wife just smiled at him and kept softly stroking my throbbing temple.
Funny old game, Saint. When Terry missed I knew 'we' had it. Up 'till then I was convinced United neither deserved to nor were likely to win. Giggs was a giant, as had been Scholes for much of the game; I was pleased for those two above the rest. Carrick seemed (to me) to be outstanding throughout, calming team-mates before the shoot-out and taking a man's penalty, thumping his spot kick with fierce determination. Fate was at her most fickle, causing my well-stocked stomach to perform a worrying series of flips and twists. Still, it was great theatre. When Lampard offered his second salute of the night to the heavens I fervantly wished we could somehow be linked to events via a Nintendo Wii and bring about an instant and calamatous end to the the man, preferably featuring bloody decapitation. Is it me or is that just getting horribly old already Frank? Please go back to kissing your ring (ahem).
Final word goes to one man, a man who on a night when dignity and respect were in woefully short supply showed a great deal of one and commanded much of the other; Avram Grant. He's had a rubbish ride this season yet he's taken a disfunctional, disjointed bunch of self-important mega-stars to the edge of greatness in the league and a lick of paint away from the European Cup. I wish him all good things, whatever the future holds.
Football; bloody hell.
[SIZE="1"] "He is one of those unique players where I can one day tell my grandkids that I once played in the same team as Ryan Giggs."
Dean Saunders, Welsh International [/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
