Sporting Contests to Remember: When Barcelona kneeled

“Wilshere…Fabregas…terrific pass to send Nasri clear…ARSHAVIIIIN….” The roar that filled Emirates was visceral, like the triumphant cry of a wounded animal set free after a million years in captivity. As my headphones pulsated with the ecstasy of half a million jubilant Gooners, my knees gave away and a solitary tear ran down my cheek. I had just realized that I lived for moments like these, solely for moments like these.

“He’s five foot four, he’s five foot four, we’ve got Arshavin, F**K ADEBAYOR! “ The cauldron broke into song again. A full house of North London’s finest, and at that moment, proudest citizens, held their red and white Saville Rogue scarves high in the air and swayed to the rhythm of the chants, age old and sung through the centuries, divine compositions that have echoed across the walls of the Emirates stadium and Highbury before that. And for many such as myself, the only sounds that come close to prayer.

If you haven’t guessed already, I support Arsenal. I’ve supported them for five years. In an age where plastic fandom and billionaire oligarchs are as common as gonorrhea, this is an incredibly long time to support the same club. Certainly it wasn’t success that drew me to them, because the last time Arsenal won a major trophy was 3 years before I started supporting them. Maybe it was the colour of the shirt that I fell in love with first. I can’t remember. As my friends counted trophies and compared statistics like accountants, I delved into the history books and read about the Gaellic demigods who ran riot in England and the all knowing Arsene Wenger, the studious sportsman who revolutionized modern football. For the first and only time in my adolescent life, I was in love.

Alas, life is not a kitschy feel-good flick. If it was, that win would have heralded a golden era of unparalleled success. It did not, and they’ve ambled on like a boxer with two left feet and glass jaw, keeping themselves in the Champions League and thankfully finishing above Tottenham. But sometimes, I still watch re-runs of that match, and it gives me goosebumps each time. A constant reminder of what could have been.

I still remember that Champions League match day of 16th February, 2011 like it was yesterday. The mood among the Arsenal fans was one of anger. We had not forgotten Barcelona‘s media campaign to bring Cesc Fabregas home. It sickened us, and Arsenal fans have long memories. The fans, if not the team, wanted to prove a point. A stormy sea of red and white filled the stands, bathed by the floodlights, emptying their lungs into the chilly winter air, singing their hearts out well before kickoff.

We didn’t start very well. Barcelona dominated proceedings, peppering the Arsenal goal with a number of shots. Frantic defending, fine goal-keeping and a huge slice of luck kept us in it. I still remember a Messi shot that looked certain to go in, dribbling just wide of the far post as the goal-keeper lay helpless ahead. It almost seemed as if the goal moved away from the ball. But the pressure finally paid off when Barcelona drew first blood in the 25th minute. David Villa was through on goal before anyone reacted, and he pulled the trigger with a ruthlessness uncharacteristic of his team that afternoon.

The Arsenal fans were silenced, but not for long. Barely two minutes later, they were as loud as ever. Barcelona had a few more shots on goal and the first half came to an end. Barcelona had dominated the first half, taking the lead and seeing most of the ball. But somehow, we knew the match wasn’t over yet. Arsenal came out a changed team in the second half, putting together some sharp passing moves. They were driven from midfield by the mercurial Jack Wilshere, who was playing like a terrier powered by a dynamo – winning all the 50-50′s, using his explosive burst of power and pace to transition play from midfield to attack, and leaving the likes of Xavi and Iniesta in his wake a number of times. We were watching a legend being born, and we were well aware of it.

Move after promising move came to nothing, and eventually play settled down a bit. Arsenal still had most of the ball but I imagine the more pessimistic fans, like myself, had already started ruing the loss of momentum. I’ve often remarked that this team has a tendency to play in the unhealthiest way possible. True to this trend, the equalizer came when I was least expecting it, sending my heart into my mouth. Arshavin played the ball back to Gael Clichy at left back, who sent a slightly over-hit lofted ball over the Barcelona defence. Robin Van Persie chased it all the way; I was half ready to applaud his effort and get on with the game, when from a seemingly impossible angle he lashed at it with his wand of a left foot. Victor Valdes was beaten at the near post, but it would be a grave injustice to call that goal a goal-keeping error. No chance he was going to save that.

As you can imagine, the crowd went bonkers, chanting and roaring and urging the team on. The Gunners had smelled blood and were all over Barcelona like a pack of hounds, pressing them all over the pitch and forcing mistakes.

Three minutes later, the attack reached a crescendo. Laurent Koscielny intercepted a Messi pass at the edge of the Arsenal box; Koscielny to Bendtner, Bendtner to Wilshere, Wilshere to Fabregas. The first stab. Like a swordsman plunging his saber into the heart of the opponent, he cut the Barcelona midfield and defence into ribbons, sending Nasri through with an inch-perfect through ball. Using his pace to full effect, Nasri ran into the right side of the Barcelona box. The second stab. Nasri cut back. The knife was out. But it was back in before they could react. Nasri played the ball square to the untracked Andrey Arshavin, ghosting in from the left wing. I could’ve sworn the whole stadium was silent for those few milliseconds, the pitter-patter of tiny Russian feet echoing as he plunged the knife in a second time, curling the ball past two Barcelona defenders and a hapless Victor Valdes, with no backlift whatsoever. The crowd roared like never before. Goliath had fallen.

Arsenal had emerged, bruised and knackered, but identity reclaimed. No more Barcelona-lite. The goal was typical Arsenal, a throwback to the days of the Invincibles. Death by 5 passes. Precise, clinical, beautiful.

I felt euphoria. It felt like a boulder in my throat. The next 8 minutes or so were a blur. I was Arsenal, and Arsenal were on top of the world. I’ll throw in a cliché about how I was physically at home but my soul was the Emirates, or something like that, because there’s probably no other way to describe it without pushing the boundaries of language.

“Arsenal have come of age”. “Jack Wilshere, boy playing like a man”. The media was gushing with praise. Many jumped guns and premature conclusions later, Fabregas left, van Persie went to Manchester United, Nasri went from cult hero to pantomime villain and Arshavin went to McDonald’s because he had given up on his ungainly waist. The self-destruct button is always within reach at Ashburton Grove. Teams and players will come and go, leaving broken hearts and possibly silverware behind them, but this match will live on in the memory of Gooners for ages to come.