I knew fans who had attended more qualifying matches than me but not been allocated a single ticket to the finals, so it was with little hope that I had logged into the Englandfans site. I navigated my way to the right page, entered my personal fan number and password. A page loaded..
One voucher for the FIFA World Cup Semi Final, redeemable should England qualify.
It was like I’d been zapped from inside the screen, I was stunned. A hysterical whinnying noise emanated from my mouth, a ridiculous smile stretched itself across my face. Colleagues began looking over in my direction, intrigued. HOW good could that be? I envisaged my seat in the stadium, probably at Munich rather than Dortmund – presuming we’d top our group. Surely we could make a semi final this time round? We had the players. We ALWAYS had the players.
***
An opposing defender attempts a hard, time-wasting punt deep into the crowd with seconds of the game remaining. He’s playing for extra-time and fearing an England side on the front foot who sense they can end the game now. Not only do I coolly kill the ball stone dead with a twisting chest trap, unfazed by the force behind the clearance, I then deliver a neatly cushioned volley back into the arms of an urgently onrushing Gary Neville. He’s so stunned to receive the ball back so quickly, accurately and stylishly, that he needs me to shout him awake and alert him to the long throw for Wayne Rooney, who is bursting between two defenders on the edge of the box. Neville’s throw is textbook, as is Rooney’s finish. But in truth I’d already done the hard work and the opposition defence were wilting. The referee blows for full-time as the players celebrate. No need for extra time or penalties. England are in the World Cup Final. Rooney, Neville, and the rest of the team run over to me, ecstatic, and acclaim my assist. The fans cheer me too, I become a demi-legend and acquire a small five minutes of celebrity which wins me a ticket to the final.
***
Not that I’d thought about it too much.
I alighted the Deutsche Bahn at the small West German city of Bochum, on a normal day only 20 minutes from the city of Gelsenkirchen, where the England-Portugal quarter final was being played. I found my hosts’ flat and politely chatted to them for half an hour. We had been connected via a fans internet portal designed just for that purpose, complete strangers to each other: trust bred through emails. The situation couldn’t ever be without awkwardness but they seemed nice enough, if a little spaced out, possibly lightly stoned. They understood my desire to get going after half an hour chatting. I dropped my bag there and left for Bochum town, a brief wander, bar lunch, then onto Gelsenkirchen.
The tram filled with white and red clad fans, I spoke to a few: a man and his two young sons who only found two days ago that they had been allocated tickets. They had only travelled out today and would return home tomorrow.
A short walk from the tram stop was a blisteringly hot, unshaded Fan Fest park. Beautiful blonde young German girls in Portugal tops, the fickle bints, American boys in England tops, the berks. Easy to adopt a nationality for a day here, which I found difficult in Berlin. They all laughed and joked and drank, as if this wasn’t an extremely serious business. Perhaps they didn’t have a semi final ticket riding on it. I experimented with areas of the field less blazingly hot, but still with decent views of a large screen, glanced around me for possible people to chat with. None were forthcoming. Engagement with the match was more pressing.
Ricardo Carvalho exaggerated, Wayne Rooney saw red and the Fan Fest, four-fifths England, shuddered. Cristiano Ronaldo winked, the Fan Fest seethed and spat.Not JUST high balls up to Crouch, lads. Come on!
No, Becks. Off injured.
Still hope though, something, please?
Sven?!
My Semi Final Voucher..
Our ten men defended well and hope remained, however threadbare it grew over the course of 120 minutes, even when we kept missing, YES Owen Hargreaves, you beautiful girly-haired man!
N.. no, oh no, maybe..?
And still, right up until Ronaldo impudently smacked home that final penalty and a dagger plunged.
My earlier disappointment not to fall in with any fans – be they English, Portuguese, German or even American – turned to relief at 130 minutes. Relief that I could turn sharply away, leaving a small plume of dust, without goodbye or apology. One of the first to cut and weave back across the field to the main gate, I tried not to look up and register the swathes of human debris wearing white and red. George Cross flags wilting, bare beery bellies and bloodshot eyes: angry, sunburnt and drunk. They stood dumbstruck, despairingly glued the big screens: simmering, resentful, heartbroken. A minority handful, darker skinned – therefore not masquerading – and wearing dark green and claret bounced together in small circles, joyous: “Puertugal alles!” they shrieked. A few scattered neutral and nervous natives.
I exited the gate and turned in the direction I thought was town but didn’t much care if it wasn’t.
No.
That’s it then.
Out.
Penalties. Again.
No Semi Final. No ticket.
Idiot to even dream it could be different.
That day you’d been hoping for all year won’t happen. I swallowed hard, breathed deep, forced my eyes to open wider and absorb. Another disappointment like everything else in your shitty pathetic little life… And wider. Like it would matter if I cried or not. Still, I didn’t. I wanted to get back to Bochum as soon as possible so I could watch the other game and get drunk. Alone. Did I? Was that what I wanted? Didn’t know. I struggled to cope with it – sneering inside at England fans I saw laughing after the game. Laughing?! How could they?
English yobs on the tram back into Gelsenkirchen took exception to a pair of young Germans singing for Germany a short way down the carriage. It was slightly insensitive and rather stupid given the contingent of desperately disappointed England fans on the carriage. I badly needed to pee. It was getting painful. A wiry tatooed English lad sitting next to me asked the Germans to be quiet, “You shat the FACK up you bunch of German CANTS! Or we’ll facking batter ya!” He told me it would kick off in Cologne tonight, “we’ll smack some Portuguese cants about to make ourselves feel better or summink.” I pointed out a nervous looking pregnant lady near the vocal Germans, told him to be careful if it kicked off here, on the tram. She wore no colours but her and her partner were clearly local. As if to show he was a nice boy really, he went over to ask her if she was all right, chatted to her and her partner, asked when the baby was due. “Aw it’s appy days for you then, innit?” After a minute or two he sat back down next to me. One of the Germans had idiotically begun singing again. “Fucksake,” he shook his head at me. I tossed my eyebrows, really badly wanting to pee. “Will you shat the fack up, you fackin German cant!!…” What?! What you looking at?” He half stood and glared towards them. “You wont sam do ya?” They shut up. My bladder was on the point of caving so I got off at the next stop.
I got lost or missed a tram or took a wrong one. Either way, it was a ridiculous three hours before I reached Bochum. I spoke to a couple more sober English lads on another tram back, and to a sweet old German lady who hadn’t known what the score was. “England go home then, yes?” she asked, sounding quite pleased.
Going back to my hosts meant I’d miss most of the second half of Brazil-France, so instead I went straight to a bar for a drink and some food. A large soulless chain pub in a shopping development in the centre of Bochum, a cheap beer and average burger, a big screen showing the majestic Zinedine Zidane weaving patterns, leading Brazilian defenders a merry dance.At full-time I wanted only to sleep quickly and deeply. I was so tired and craved that numb oblivion, emotionally drained.
But still heartbroken whenever it seared back. Don’t just lump it up to Crouch, play football. C’mon Sven! Do something! Walcott? Why not? Why did you bring him then? For me and my ticket! I felt it a personal slight, symbolic of my innate lucklessness, a reflection of cruelty I'm always dealt: to have built something up, being offered something potentially fantastic, having it snatched away.
Mug.
On returning to my host’s modest flat I found Esther had made up a small bed in the main room and left me a long, elegantly handwritten letter. It commiserated me and said they had gone out to watch the Brazil-France match, asked me to join them, leaving directions to the bar and the appropriate tram numbers. Sweet of her, but it was the last thing I wanted to do. I showered, washed off the dust and grime of a horrible day, and crumpled into the thin, coarse-sheeted bed.
Wish I’d never been allocated the damn ticket, never have come over here and spent so much money just to 'enjoy the atmosphere.'
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