Dreams

It all started with a dream I suppose. Well, not exactly. To paint the entire picture, we must go back to Thursday night. That night, the night leading up to Friday, I did not sleep. One of the many side effects of procrastination is that one often ends up with an intimidating workload to be completed in a very short period of time – but I managed. I was in the groove and by the time the sun was rising, I was done with everything.

After I was finished with classes, my assignments all duly handed in by mid afternoon, I had two options – either to go to sleep, or stay awake. I decided to stick it up and finally sleep only at night so I could wake up in time for the match. For the record, I’m studying in the US, and since this was an early afternoon kick off, for me it meant waking up at 6.45 AM on a Saturday morning.

I was determined to make it, and somehow I managed to stay awake through the day. Then, I don’t know what happened. Somehow I just couldn’t go to sleep. It was terrible. Maybe there is a point before which you must go to sleep, and once you’re past it there is no hope for you. So it was that I went to sleep, like a typical college boy, at 3 AM.

And that was when I had the dream. The only thing I remember was Drogba scoring a few goals for Chelsea and continuing to haunt all Arsenal supporters. It was terrible. For some weird reason, my alarm went off right at the whistle and we had lost. When I took stock of where I was and the fact that the match hadn’t begun at all, I felt slightly relieved. Then came the realization that the Drog was not going to play, and I was even more relieved.

In this state of semi consciousness, I gathered enough strength to reach for my phone and see what was going on. I vaguely recall reading something that implied that Szczesny was making his customary miracle saves, and that our defense was all over the place. So for the next 45 minutes or so, I kept drifting in and out, periodically waking up from some terrible nightmare where we lost 4-3, 3-2, scraped by 2-2, and won 2-1, in what order I can’t remember.

I finally woke up as Walcott scored, courtesy of my recently recruited Gooner roommate. It was a beauty. The way he got himself up and weaved through two defenders, while leaving Cashley in his wake was magnificent. I haven’t quite been his biggest supporter, but if he continues to put them away like that, I’m fine with it.

Judging by the comments on Twitter and the commentary, I gathered that the defense on both sides had been dismal and the attack, ridiculous. I can’t recall when Chelsea had last been 3-2 down with half an hour to go.

Like most people, I could see that this was not over. We were defending with heart, although technically we seemed pretty poor at the back. At the time, however, all I cared about was Chelsea not getting another goal. Somewhere around the 75^th minute I was involuntarily shivering, and no, it was not due to the cold (at least not entirely).

Let me make this clear. I was expecting nothing from this game. I was mentally prepared for us going down at the Bridge, but now that we were leading, the finish line almost visible on the horizon, I had genuine hope of winning it. Typical Arsenal, isn’t it? At that moment, I would have liked nothing more than for someone to turn the TV off, but I sat glued to it. There is something about football that turns us into obsessive people – where we have no control over ourselves. I was screaming at every decision given against us (the ref was as poor as some of the defending), and praying for another goal to make it a two goal lead.

It was only when I was assured of the result and watched and re-watched the highlights that I appreciated the technical details of our play – the swift, slick passing, playing almost on the counter, exploiting Chelsea’s high line, etc etc (much like we did against Barcelona at home). All that didn’t matter then. To be honest, little else in life mattered at that point, apart from eleven players winning a football match. The comforting thought was that I was not alone at all in bordering on the unstable when Arsenal played. There were thousands of people who cared as much, if not more. Somehow that gives it all a special meaning, as though it matters, as though an Arsenal win would make the world a better place.

The goal did come, but it was Chelsea who scored. Of course. And it was Juan Mata who had hit a screamer right into the top left corner. I had my head in my hands, saying to anyone who would listen (and I have a feeling even our neighbours did) that we had bottled it.

Five minutes later though, an incredible tumble from John Terry let van Persie through, who was never going to miss given the kind of form he is in. He Cech-mated the goalkeeper (not the best play on words, I know), and slid the ball into an empty net.

Chelsea were now committing everyone to attack. I had my heart in my mouth when the ball fell almost perfectly for Juan Mata to volley in twice, once with nobody in goal. Two excellent blocks ensured that we survived. Koscielny, who is fast developing into a great defender, was having a brilliant game once more.

Deep into injury time, we scored again while on the counter attack, and throughout the move I was screaming at the team to slow the game down and play keep ball. But when van Persie blasted a left footed shot past Cech to complete his hat-trick, I was screaming once more, rejoicing in the fact that we were almost assured of the three points.

So that was that. We had won, and what a win this was. I won’t say I never dreamed of the result, for I did, quite literally. This, however, felt like another one. A 3-5 result at Stamford Bridge never happens, right?

van Persie had been phenomenal, and Ramsey and Koscielny had played some of the best football they ever had in an Arsenal shirt. What made it more special was that we deserved the victory. There was that feeling of finally having proved ourselves to the world, to all the doubters out there. If a 3-5 win at Chelsea isn’t proof that we’re back, I don’t know what is.

Above all though, it reminded me of how much I love the club. It was clear that every player on that pitch in the red and white loved the club. They knew what the victory meant; they knew what it meant to play for Arsenal Football Club. The players going to the away supporters and saluting them after the game was over proved that.

This is why we do it everyday, isn’t it? This is why we are willing to go through those final 20 minutes of intense nail biting and shivering and praying. It is matches like this one, like the one against Barcelona, when we see the glory of this great club on full display.

It was a magical match that finished in our favor, and for a little while at least, the world is indeed the better for it.