Arsenal is one free kick away from beating Roma in the Champions League. How did they do it?
A) They Cheated
B) They're Lucky
C) Wenger is a Genius
D) It is Written
Obviously the answer is D, though there is certainly about 130 minutes worth of evidence for B. But who cares? We won!!! Sweet god we won! Jai Ho!
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!
That's is a Japanese phrase meaning: AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!
and also Arabic for: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
and means AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!! in French (though rarely used)
Indeed that is the universal sound of victory against all odds. Like watching that guy in the movies snip the right wire on the bomb, except he's doing it for like over two hours. That match just shaved another 5 years off my life which; thanks to the combined efforts of futbol, friends and life style choices, now leaves me about 3 months left to live.
But I lived long enough to see that victory!
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!
This day is called the Round of Sixteen.
He that went to Nevadas, and came safe home,
will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Second Leg.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say 'To-morrow is Champions League.'
Then will he don his kit and show his scarf,
and say 'This gear I wore on the Second Leg.'
Shit fans forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with some counseling,
What fear he felt that day. Then shall their names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Wenger the King, Walcott and Denilson,
Nasri, Persie, Diaby and Sagna,
Be in their pints freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the Gooner teach his son;
And a Round of Sixteen shall ne'er go by,
From this day forth to ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we freaked out few, we band of Gooners;
For he to-day that almost died with me
Shall be my Gooner; though he complain too much,
That day shall even make him love Bendtner;
And those Arse-Fans in day jobs, then a-work,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they did not quit;
And hold there their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks
That watched that shit at olde Nevada Smiths!
I just made that up (with some help). would have worked better if our King Henry wasn't reigning in Spain, but it scans perfectly and you'll notice that the mentioned gunners all made their PKs. Toure was omitted for a very obvious reason which happened around the 9th minute and Almunia isn't in there because no one at the Battle of Agincourt had a four syllables in their name. Tough luck. Lehmann would have made it.
But seriously, that was about as horrifying to watch as your parents doing the Kama Sutra. Yeah, you just thought about it. Sick. And I'm not talking about how badly we played, because I don't care. I'm referring to the shear terror that comes from being in a small, dark furiously packed cave watching grown men lose their minds over a bouncy ball that could very easily roll into the wrong net. But with great sacrifice comes great honor.
It's not a secret that futbol matches frighten me more than Zombies, Cylons or even Dick Cheney; but this one was the worst. I left with my hair looking like Don King from all the sweating and pulling I was doing to it. I actually dropped into a pitiful squat when I saw that Roma player go down in the box. Hidden in the forest of Nevada Smith legs, head in hands, I thought surely, in Italy, in Champions League, there was no way this was gonna go our way. After a brief flirtation with suicide (FYI: Devon gets my laptop, Jakes my books, and Nick can have Deanna) I arose to a world unlike any I had known. A place where linesmen and officials did not actively seek to knock Arsenal out of Europe. I was wary, but reborn.
Then it all just kept sucking. No one played particularly poorly as an individual, but the communal efforts were like watching eleven of my drunken friends trying to Riverdance. No wait, that'd be funny. This was not.
Did I mention I hadn't slept? Not a wink the night before as I was up carousing with my better(?) half. We do that. Alot. She begged me to stay and nap that afternoon, but I was compelled. Where would Hector have been had he stayed with Andromache and not fought Achilles? Where indeed? Probably still alive! And indeed I would have been too, because I would have just napped and then read 7-6 on the internet. Then I would have gone "aaahhh" and watched the PK replay, safe in the comforting blanket of retrospect. Rubbish.
I rose and heaved my exhausted corpse to Nevada's; an hour early to get a spot. Devo, after resolutely arguing such a precaution was not necessary, showed up later and predictably got sent to the basement. Jakes had to watch the game across the street, but came on as an impact substitute for the PKs. And a sub was needed. Working on no sleep, and having endured a match that look more like Golgotha than the beautiful game, I was waiting for Wenger to hold up the board with my number on it.
But he said "No Mark, you must have great spirit and maturity, and watch the PKs." This may have actually happened as I was hallucinating at the time. Each kick took a lifetime, each round was the high and the crash of super drug I've never known. But...
(with his eyes closed, Almunia may have been the last person in the world to know)
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
I was screaming and leaping. My exhaustion vanished like a little bouncy ball over a crossbar, and, in a mosh pit of ecstasy and sweaty gooners, I was giggling and singing with a smile I haven't worn since I first knew the pleasures of a woman.
And that is why nothing else matters. Because Munich won on a 12-1 aggregate, United thumped the Special One, Liverpool embarrassed the greatest club in the history kicking a ball, but none of their supporters felt as good as I did in that moment. And I hope they never do.
So rant and rave all you want about poor play, luck, Bendtner or whatever you want to, because none of it matters. Go enjoy yourselves! Stop with your angry blogging and commenting. Nothing is a given in champions league. All you can do is win, and we won a shootout in frackin Italy. We are in the quarterfinals. What's point of being a Gooner, of enduring the horrors of that game, if you can't enjoy these perfect moments? Wait, hold on-
AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!
It just keeps happening.
Go now Gooners in Exile. Live terror free lives until Saturday. Maybe some of you should get day jobs. Ok, that is crazy, but this victory seems to make anything possible. Leave Eboue be for a day. Call your Mother. Hug a stranger. Take up a new hobby. Drink a beer. Have a good cry. I did all these things and more. Because I am a true Gooner, because sometimes a win is all you need, and because.....
D) It is written
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