So funny.
I'd flown in the night before and stayed in a Yotel capsule at T3 for 6 hours before setting off to meet my mate. Bag dropped at his his, we took off, the car in a cloud of doom and pessimism other than me. I was, at that point, jet-lagged and sleep-deprived (i did not get any rest in the Yotel, just lay there watching the telly)...I not only felt SURE we would do it, I had a debate with one of my mates about how important Crouch might be and how I wanted him to play.
I was supremely confident in the ground, a few beers, singing loudly (we always get a good sing-song at City both old and new ground) and it felt like a very, very special night. For 70-odd minutes I was supremely confident Then JD just missed that ball across, as did Crouch, sliding in, goal gaping. I turned to my mates and said 'that was the moment wasn't it? fudge!' to which one of them said 'don't lose faith now, there's one more golden one coming'...we were just to the right of the goal about 7 -8 rows from the front when Crouchy scored, and I we went fudging mental. But those last 10 mins or so? Ha! I was nervous. I remember singing up just to spend the energy. There was one moment right near the end when BAE allowed the ball to go out for our throw (as I remember) and THAT was when I felt it again. When that whistle went, oh well...fudge...
On the way home (via a boozy interlude at the Knutsford services) someone started debating how far we'd go in the CL. I said we were made for that competition (still believe we are right now!) but that we shouldn't look forwards too much but just enjoy the night, the moment, and the triumph. I never took it for granted.
Thank fudge!
There are hundreds, maybe thousands of stories like yours. But they never, ever get boring. Each one encapsulates that night in a new and unexpected way.
For one summer after that night, we were unstoppable, and the future looked limitless. Under swashbuckling, 'ave a go 'Arry, we would sweep all aside with the raw energy of Gareth Bale, the artistry of Modric, and the little n' large duo of Crouchie and Defoe. Anything was possible, and the CL looked like becoming a regular fixture for this club, for the first time in....well, our history.
How the optimism of that summer unravelled over the next couple of seasons is heartbreaking in itself, because it was so gradual, and imperceptible. But it also emphasises just how special that night was. For one day, one week, one summer, we were kings.
And stories like yours always bring me back to that night, jumping madly around the bar, hugging random strangers, buying rounds for everyone and then moving on to the next pub to dispense more of my largesse, singing about Spurs going to Wembley at 5 in the morning in some neighbourhood I had stumbled into, in some part of town I had never been to.
I spent close to five hundred dollars that night. If my buddy hadn't partly subsidized me, I would have spent a lot more. As it was, I was broke and smelled like a pickled herring when I woke up the next morning. I didn't care. Still don't.
For our sakes, let's hope AVB can bring back some of that joie de vivre. We definitely miss it.