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.

Captain's Game

On Sunday afternoon, we went into another must win game – a game against a struggling Sunderland side that was looking for an opportunity to bounce back. And what better team to do that against than Arsenal? Let’s face it. We have had the worst start to a season in more than 50 years. We are playing a particular brand of football where we typically score a goal, concede one or two as a result of very questionable defending, and finally lose or, if we are luck, draw. Yes, yes, the team is practically brand new, we are without some of our best players, the panic buys need time to settle in, etc etc. The painful truth is, however, that football is cold and cruel. If you don’t play well enough, you don’t get into the top four. As simple as that. All the excuses can be thrown straight into the garbage can. We had the summer to rectify the mistakes from last season and improve the squad. We didn’t. Once the season starts, we have to put that behind us and do whatever we can to stay up there with the big guys.

This was an important game – both in terms of confidence building, and getting points on the board. We fielded a starting eleven that was probably the best we possibly could. Jenkinson started at right back, and Rosicky replaced Ramsey in central midfield since the latter had slight muscle fatigue.

We got off to the best possible start, with van Persie, that Dutch wizard, put us in front with a great finish from Gervinho’s pass. With his right foot, too. The captain had justified his program notes, where he claimed to be completely committed to the club, and also made it clear that, despite media implications, he was indeed NOT living on the streets, and had a roof over his head. Thank goodness for that.

The first 20 minutes were all Arsenal, and one caught not only glimpses, but the entire image, in distinct colors, of the Arsenal we have all grown. We should probably have been 2 or 3-nill up during that period. Captain Vantastic (yes, that was terrible, but I wanted to use it!) was robbed of a goal by the football gods when he took Arteta’s pass exquisitely while turning on the edge of the box, and then attempted the most delightful of chip over the keeper, only for the ball to hit the inside of the post and out. It was as though the spirit of Bergkamp was throbbing inside Robin.

After that, we realized that we weren’t supposed to be this good. The passes started getting slower, less accurate, and Sunderland started to grow into the game. Of course, we were still controlling the game in terms of possession, but well, when do we not? The second goal that everyone could sense coming was not to come in the first half. In fact, Arteta gave away a free kick outside the box about 25-30 yards from goal. It was an improbable distance, but Larsson had other ideas. He unleashed a curler that bent into the top left corner. Szczesny could do nothing about it. Rosicky didn’t even bother to turn and look if it had gone in or not. It was top, top drawer and Becks himself would have been proud of it.

Of Chants, Voodoo, and Curses

Arsene Wenger, at some point in his career at Arsenal, made a deal with the devil. Maybe it was at the 2005 FA Cup Final, maybe the 2006 Champions League final. If it was the latter, however, it didn’t turn out well for us at all. We are so out of favor with the Fortune Gods, it is unbelievable. If losing the match on Sunday wasn’t bad enough, we lost Bacary Sagna for at least three months with a broken fibula. Of course, when our medical team say three months, they really mean he’ll be racing Wilshere for a come back. Ok, maybe not, but you get the point.

I feel happy for Wilshere though – he’s just had a baby, and at least will get time to spend with his little boy. All I hope is that he returns to doing what he does best – no, not unprotected sex – before Archie Wilshere joins the Arsenal academy.

Well, enough dilly dallying – straight to the game now. We were being written off before it even started, with Spurs the favorites to win for the first time in a long, long time. The other talked about point was how we would deal with Adebayor. By we, I mean both the players, and the fans. While the former did their best in keeping him relatively quiet on the pitch, the latter were, quite honestly, disgusting in their attempts to bring the man down. More on that later.

There are so many issues with the club and the team to be addressed that a small, concise summary of the game will have to suffice for the moment. We dominated possession early on and dictated play, although were unbelievably sloppy in possession at times, and made a habit of giving the ball away in dangerous areas. Our defense was stretched quite often (surprise, surprise), but we were saved more than once by the brilliance of Wojciech Szczesny. That guy has been massive for us throughout the disaster that is this season. However, he could do nothing against our defense, which was intent on conceding a goal.

They did. It was Adebayor’s flighted through ball that found Voo doo Vaart, who used his shoulder/arm to bring the ball down and then struck the ball sweetly across goal to finish. Of course, the handball wasn’t given. To be frank, it was difficult for the ref to spot, although it escapes me what the assistant was doing at this point. Maybe he was busy looking up the complicated FIFA rulebook, wondering whether he was within his rights to call the foul, and whether technically it was handball in the first place.

Voo doo Vaart then celebrated with the fans, something that would technically earn him a yellow. At this point he was on one already, and a second would have led to him being sent off. So the goal technically resulted from a handball, and Rafael technically should have been sent off. But whoever in the world cares about technicalities, right? Yes, I concede the rule about the celebration is a stupid one, but it is all the same a rule, and Spurs were very lucky not to be down to ten men.