'Football.
Bloody 'ell! - Sir Alex Ferguson
As
we took our seats the clouds parted, the sun beat down and layers of clothing
were discarded. Today we were destined to have our day in the sun, both
literally and metaphorically as we shed the years of angst and pessimism and
embraced a brighter day.
A
fine rendition of 'Men of Harlech' rang out around the ground as the combatants
entered the arena, the words displayed on the new screens at either end of the
ground allowing us to sing with unbridled joy and defiance (much more
impressive than the traditional lame double clap). It was the most prescient of
tunes on a day when our brave boys defended their territory against the
mightiest of opponents. In the film Zulu which commemorated the Battle of Rorke's
Drift 150 men defended their garrison against an assault by 4,000 Zulus.
Eleven
Victoria Crosses were awarded that day.
Should
the film ever be remade the Stanley Baker and Michael Caine roles would surely
be taken by Ben Turner and Stephen Caulker. And each member of our gallant
unflinching heroes would be duly awarded the highest honour for valour in the
face of the enemy. This was an epic performance, a production 51 years in the
making and almost worth the wait.
As
just about everyone in the known universe witnessed the spectacle 'live' and
many of us will already be perilously close to wearing out the iplayer 'stop'
'pause' and 'replay' buttons, I'll try to give you a brief view from the
terraces and an analysis that doesn't include Hansonesque gratuitous use of the
word 'fantaaaaaaastic' or Shearer-like statements of the bleedin' obvious.
The
first thing to remark on was the atmosphere. For those of us who've been
fortunate to experience a full house at Wembley this more than matched it.
Those special days were unique, unexpected glorious distractions from the
primary enterprise but we were visitors, guests for the day in an arena loaned
to us for 24 hours. The traditionalists amongst us thought that the raw, intimidating
atmosphere of a full-to-bursting Ninian Park that so unsettled the likes of
Real Madrid, Leeds, and in 1994 Man City, could never be replicated at the new
stadium.
Wrong!
Today was the day we finally made the Cardiff City Stadium our home.
In
a frantic but controlled start we took the game to the opposition and quickly
laid to rest all the concerns raised by the false start at West Ham. We moved
forward at pace and with purpose. We were organised in midfield and held the
line at the back. Man City kept the ball for long spells as expected but we
patiently stood back, filled the gaps and denied them any outlet. At this level
the uneducated imprudent lunge at the opposition is replaced by guile and
patience, you're likely to achieve much more by out-thinking and frustrating
your opponent than by taking his legs away.
The
first 30 minutes were pretty even, accepting that the opposition had many more
tricks up their sleeves than Dynamo and looked the more likely to pull off some
outrageous stunt and secure an advantage. Some of the movement and trickery in
the box from Aguero was frightening and was looking unlikely that we'd be able
to hold out all afternoon. But still we stood firm. At this point Rio Ferdinand
was apparently tweeting his respect for our boys but doubting whether we could
keep it up for much longer.
Towards
the end of a pulsating first half we had two chances to break the deadlock as
first Campbell was closed down by Lescott just as he was about to pull the
trigger after being put through by Gunnarsson and two minutes later the
ever-alert Campbell ran onto a ball played over the top only to be denied by an
advancing Hart.
As
the first 45 drew to a close 27,000 fans rose in appreciation and looked
forward to the second half with justifiable hope that we might get something
from the game. At half-time I stared at the net and dared it to bulge.
From
the restart Man City dominated, running our defence ragged and suddenly finding
space around the box. We held out until the 52nd minute when an unshackled Dzeko
collected the ball and possibly with the aid of a deflection dispatched the
ball into the top corner beyond Marshall's reach. 0-1. Last season Man City
only lost one game after taking the lead. Ah well.
Few
of us thought there was much realistic chance of getting back into the game and
we were quietly accepting our fate when Kimbo found space down the right wing,
saw off a few challenges and pulled back a cross into the path of Campbell
whose shot was blocked by Hart but ran loose to Gunarsson. 1-1.
Man
City were stunned into action and for the next 20 minutes we looked rattled.
The game plan that had worked so well up to this point looked like falling
apart as we sat back, tried our best to soak up the pressure and resorted to desperate aimless clearances out
of defence. But still we held firm and the opposition were becoming
increasingly frustrated. Just after Toure's speculative effort was dispatched
high into the Grange End the game turned.
Bellars
won a corner. Whitts trotted over towards us, his trademark timid limp salute
to the crowd at odds with their fevered urging. He sent the ball swinging in
towards a hesitant disorganised defence which allowed Campbell the space to
rise and head / shoulder past Hart. 2-1. The crowd lost itself in rampant
euphoria, a crescendo of unrestrained joy checked only by momentary disbelief.
In
all honesty I can't remember too much after this point. Blind anxiety clouded
thought. The clocked ticked down slowly. There was a substitution. Suddenly
Cowie was swinging in a corner. Campbell rose and we were again lost in the
moment. There was a blur of flashing numbers. 3-1. Campbell 87. Then the fourth
official's board flashed '6'. How? Negredo rose. 3-2. Desperate whistles rang
out from the crowd drowning the final fateful one that confirmed our glorious
victory.
The
usual Exodus was delayed as the crowd stood with the players, staff and Vincent
Tan to feel One Love as Three Little Birds rang out to confirm that 'every
little ting gonna be alright'.
We're
starting to believe it.
Men of Harlech,
stand ye ready
It cannot be
ever said ye
For the battle
were not ready
Welshmen never
yield
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