WE WON THE LEAGUE AT OLD TRAFFORD
BY TIM STILLMAN
I’ve been around the Arsenal blogging circuit for over five years now. Arsenal’s history and anything vaguely nostalgic about my own Arsenal reminisces are very much my twin muses. So when I was invited to contribute to The Arsenal Collective, I was excited, but then felt a hint of trepidation too. I’ve already written about my first ever game, my favourite ever player, I’ve written extensively about the rhyme and reason behind my Arsenal fandom.
It’s difficult to find a nook or cranny of the club’s 125 year history that I haven’t documented elsewhere. The idea of the memory bank appealed to me beyond words, yet I couldn’t think of anything to add. I couldn’t see that one hint of an opening on the opponent’s chin with which to deliver an uppercut of an article. Or so I thought.
Quite simply, I thought I would write in detail about the greatest memory following Arsenal. Given my emotional attachment to the club and obsessive match attendance, it would probably also qualify as the greatest night of my life to date. The night of May 8, 2002 is an evening I have mentioned on a multitude of occasions, but I don’t believe I’ve ever dedicated an article to the forensics of the night.
On May 8, 2002 I was 18 days away from my 18th birthday. It was really my first ever season of going to every single away game, on top of every single home game. Four days earlier, Arsenal had sealed the F.A. Cup with a 2-0 win over Chelsea in Cardiff. Nine days earlier I had used a phantom orthodontist appointment to obtain an exeat from school to attend a crucial away match at Bolton on a Monday night. Given my reputation at school for being a big Arsenal fan; it didn’t take my teacher’s long to realise I’d duped them.
So when we were due to play a title decider at Old Trafford on a Wednesday night, there was no room for manoeuvre. My head of sixth form at the time would not likely believe any shaggy dog story I would deliver for my absence. To complicate matters, my form tutor was the Head of the English department and had insisted on arranging a mock English A Level exam that day. Given that I had already been accepted into four universities to undertake an English Literature degree, to say I was expected to attend would be an understatement.
Nevertheless, missing a game of this import (or any sort of game in truth) just wasn’t an option. So I took the renegade option and bailed on school. I awoke with a rather life threatening strain of man flu. As we made our way to the Travel Club coaches, we discovered that Tony Adams had lost his race for fitness. By the time we had boarded, we had learned that Henry was also ruled out and that Bergkamp would be fit enough for the bench at most. With Pires already tragically injured, my confidence was shrinking. Our journey to Manchester was horrible. A combination of rush hour traffic and a coach driver who had missed the turning off of the M1 meant we breathlessly arrived in the stadium just minutes before kickoff.
The prevailing feeling myself and my school mate Jim (who had rather demonstrated greater subtlety in not declaring his allegiance to teachers) was that United would never let us take their title in their own lodgings. Together with the abundance of injuries, I was filled more with hope than expectation. But then we learned that van Nistelrooy had, bizarrely, been omitted from Ferguson’s line up in favour of the struggling Diego Forlan. To this day I’m not sure I can reconcile the thinking behind this.
Then as the players emerged from the tunnel, the PA blasted out The Stone Roses lush paean to occasion, ‘This Is the One.’ The Roses were, and probably still are, a band that meant more to me than any other. I’m not a spiritual person by any stretch of the imagination. But the feeling that things were going to come together began to permeate. It wasn’t a feeling of optimism so much as one of correctness. As well as leaving his talisman out; Ferguson erred tactically for a second time. He sent Keane and Scholes out to perform a hatchet job on Vieira and Edu.
The tang of inferiority poured out from such a tactic. It was an enormous error on Ferguson’s part, it was a confirmation of fear and one we all understood. Vieira and Edu were majestic that night and controlled the game. Though the Gunners didn’t look overly threatening in an attacking sense, neither did United. The sofa bound Thierry Henry would later admit, “I wasn’t really scared watching the game, I just knew the team were calm and in control.” Arsenal only needed a draw and never looked unlikely to get it.
On 68 minutes, one could sense United’s frustration growing. Ljungberg dashed onto Wiltord’s pass and into the area. His weak attempt was saved by Barthez but it rolled tantalisingly towards Wiltord. From here, everything went slow motion. I felt Jim’s hand grip my shoulder in anticipation. I suddenly became aware that I was sat next to a metal crash barrier and any goal celebration was likely to be conducted with such vigour that I could end up seriously hurt. Wiltord rolled the ball back towards the goal.
From there I just recall fighting for breath as I was pressed against the barrier, my arms pinned to my sides. I didn’t see Ljungberg wheel towards us, I didn’t see Kanu’s hilarious star jump over Wiltord’s head. I don’t really remember seeing anything. Just a metallic blur. From there on, you just knew there was no chance that Arsenal would let it slip. I should have been nervous, but I wasn’t really. To paraphrase the Fever Pitch movie, on the surface I was nail gnawing, but inside I just knew. We all just knew.
Ferguson grew purpler with every chant. Down to my left, Barry First (he of the infamous vein bulging celebration at Old Trafford in 98) unfurled a banner saying ‘Champions Section.’ One could almost see the steam rising from Ferguson’s head as we tunefully implored, “Hand it over Ferguson!” Gary Neville was treated to a ditty implying that he is a chronic masturbator as he chased a ball forlornly out of play. The final whistle was greeted with an outpouring of emotion. One of those true stranger hugging moments. The PA system announced that Arsenal fans would be kept in by police after the final whistle. I don’t think even one of us had any intention of leaving.
As we finally poured outside to the empty streets of Sir Matt Busby Way, I chanced across a couple of friends. Hugs were exchanged, profanities yelled at the tops of our voices. It was one of those nights. As we reboarded the coach, I have some recollection that Daft Punk’s ‘One More Time’ blasted out from the radio. That song has been embroidered onto my memory of that evening ever since. Our coach arrived back at Avenell Road at about 3.30am on the Thursday morning. The street was absolutely awash with champagne and beer bottles. There was hardly an inch of pavement to be seen.
I arrived at school the next morning having not slept, barely able to conceal my grin. I think my Head of English had originally called me into her office to administer a rollicking. But I think she saw in the smile on my face that any sort of tongue lashing would fall upon unreceptive ears. “Did you enjoy it?” she asked. “More than any other night since I’ve been born,” was my truthful reply. As it happened, one of the English teachers at my school was an Arsenal season ticket holder. “Yes, Mr. Guy is rather hungover this morning,” she said, half smiling, half sneering. Having escaped any sort of punishment, I saw a bleary eyed Mr. Guy a few hours later. We didn’t exchange any words; the effort was probably beyond either of us. Just a furtive glance and a knowing smile.
The night of May 8th, 2002 is something of an untouched recollection in my mind. It is absolutely untainted and can’t be topped until such time that Arsenal achieves the holy grail of the Champions League. Bonds are formed around such evenings that, once bound can never be broken. Many of the people I travelled to that game with don’t go to Arsenal anymore. Some have dropped off the scene gradually. Others put an end to their soirees around the country more abruptly. But even those that I have all but lost contact with stay stitched into my mind as friends. As kin.
But most of all, when I see the playback as Wiltord’s shot roll towards the net- as I have done thousands of times since that night- it’s more than just a memory. I feel that joy again.
