Ally
Active Member
We fans make it our daily occupations to be fickle. Subconsciously at least, but it’s what we are. It’s what we do.
Bolton was the nail in the coffin of this season’s title challenge, and what started off in supreme fashion seems to have ended with a ridiculous own goal after an unacceptable capitulation. Bolton didn’t just deserve the draw, they deserve European qualification on that performance. The thing is, we made them look like that.
To throw away a two goal lead at this stage is pretty much unforgivable, and when you consider the quality in depth of our squad (Easily of a higher class than Man Utd, Liverpool, Newcastle or Chelsea) we should never, ever be in these situations. Even though this happens perhaps once a season, we’re all pedants at heart and start screaming for immediate action - to blame Wenger (Have we really, honestly got a ‘Wenger out’ brigade? Absolutely beyond belief) though is out of order, even in the heat of the moment. What about injuries to Lauren, Cygan and Freddie? Three enforced substitutions, two of them lucky not to have broken ankles (Okacha’s unintentional challenge on Ljungberg looked absolutely horrific) meant Bergkamp couldn’t get on when attacking options were needed. Henry was superb as usual and Seaman was man of the match, repeatedly outdoing himself time and time again. Despite this, trying to take positives from a game when your whole season has just crumbled away seems desperate. There, of course, is the staggering selfishness of the fan such as yours truly - I should be grateful for the football that Arsenal play. But I’m not just now, because I expect us to beat Bolton no matter what the circumstances such are the impossible standards we’ve set.
As you may have seen, there was no match report for this game. And there never will be. When I got home, I was angry, tired and sick to the pit of my stomach. Emotion is necessary to write about football properly; extremes of emotion, however, render it absolutely impossible to do so. I’ve tried to imagine what it would have been like to try and write cohesively after last year’s title decider. I suspect that it just wouldn’t have happened, beyond something that would have reassembled a transcript of Jonathan Pearce’s England commentaries - conversely, what you would have got on Saturday is someone peddling doom and gloom, rambling on and on about what his reaction was on the equaliser, blaming the manager, the referee, the pitch, that fascist bastard linesman on Thierry’s side of the pitch and, obviously, the FA, and asking if anyone had a pistol because he’d like to put it to practical use at that point.
When we take it at face value, season 2002/03 stands to be about as memorable as 98/99 was. A title race going down to the wire, and settled because the defending champions lost their nerve on a crucial game right at the death. I believe Hasselbaink scored at Elland Road to end our dream of retaining the league at almost exactly the same time as Keown’s flicked back header did precisely the same yesterday. Each time, we’ve been close enough to, figuratively, see our reflection in the trophy, and each time we’ve been denied by a gloating, arrogant compatriot of mine (I feel ashamed. Really ashamed) looming out of the shadows.
What is particularly hard to take is the manner of the football that was being played earlier in the season. Not in a negative sense of course. Let’s see, for everyone who seems to have forgotten the mind-blowing, free-flowing movement, let me remind you of the opening day exhibition against Birmingham. The warm, glowing evening against Manchester City when Sylvain Wiltord won the game single handedly. The demolition of a ‘bogey team’ not so long ago, Charlton. Not good enough for you? What about the rout in Eindhoven? A match against Sunderland that was actually embarrassing such was the sheer difference in ability? Surely you can surpass yourselves and remember the greatest performance in Premiership history against Leeds?
The frustrating, no - gut-wrenching - facts are that this will all count for nothing, except fond memories. Will a couple of sub-par showings against mid-table journeymen compromise and overshadow what came before? If that’s the case (And in honesty, I think we all know deep down that it will be) it’s going to be very hard to swallow. This season, I’ve had the pleasure to watch the most sublime, wonderful football and to come out of it all empty-handed is heart breaking.
The thing is, I made a mistake that I told myself I never would. I allowed myself to truly believe we would win the league. Last season for the most part I was dreaming. Taking it game-by-game, never thinking that it was a certainty we were going to come out on top. The manner of the performances helped in this respect. The late goals against Sp**s, Ipswich and West Ham never resulted in a victory emphatic enough to leave a stone-wall confidence; instead we got a realisation that grew slowly, minute after minute of every game, that this was going to be our year.
This time, various demolitions of opposition that should have been giving us a serious run for our money led to an assuredness. This is a risky business - when it pays off, you’re left with a lovely, relaxed and triumphant halo, such as the ‘98 cup final. When it doesn’t, it’s that old, exclusive-to-Arsenal story of having something you’ve told yourself that you’re definitely going to win taken away in the final moments. Manchester United fans took this to new extremes (“Their” Premiership crown and so on) - they really, genuinely thought that they were unbeatable. They thought that everything was a foregone conclusion before a ball had been kicked to start each season, and that’s why while we were jumping up and down at half past nine on 8th May with, to paraphrase Nick Hornby, the lights of intelligence gone from our eyes, they were shell-shocked. That must have been worse than what we’re feeling now. Seeing as it would be sadism, and hypocritical given what I said to various gloating Mancs on this forum on Saturday, I’m not taking this as compensation. As it is, I’m content (In a way) to wallow in my own self-pity, rewinding my tape of Lauren’s goal against Chelsea over and over and over again...”Shooting chance! It’s all over now....Shooting chance! It’s all over now...Shooting chance!....”
That was back when I thought we might win the FA Cup. The draws after the effective byes in the first two rounds were sufficiently difficult to leave us more hope than expectation, and that’s what made the victory at Old Trafford all the sweeter - when the news broke that Wiltord and Jeffers were up front, I was all but sure that Cardiff wasn’t going to be somewhere we would be going to this time around. The surprise factor of the victory was pure, total euphoria. Chelsea in the replay was exactly the same - serving as a reminder why we love Arsenal and, more generally, football. The scale of emotion you can go through in 90 minutes can make you wonder if you’ve lost the place one moment and have you on the floor shouting something unintelligible and without consonants the next.
Of course, this is all well and good if you end up with the proverbial happy ending. They also say that everything evens itself up over the course of a season - was the Keown own goal just a counter-balance for Kanu’s last gasp winner way way back in October? Whatever, it doesn’t make matters any easier to come to terms with. We now find ourselves reliant on an opposition slip-up, and that’s a dangerous game to play, and one you won’t win ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
So, if this goes down to the last day of the season, dream about an Everton victory (Last minute? Rooney wins the league for Arsenal? Even better, Kevin Campbell, with all his old Highbury connections, scores the goal which keeps the trophy at his previous employers?). Dream about some dramatic finale at the Stadium of Light as well. Dream about Patrick Vieira lifting the trophy. And if, or when, all of this fails to turn out, start dreaming about the FA Cup Final.
I didn’t. I hoped. I convinced myself that I knew. And that’s why there was no match report on Saturday.
Ally Winford
Bolton was the nail in the coffin of this season’s title challenge, and what started off in supreme fashion seems to have ended with a ridiculous own goal after an unacceptable capitulation. Bolton didn’t just deserve the draw, they deserve European qualification on that performance. The thing is, we made them look like that.
To throw away a two goal lead at this stage is pretty much unforgivable, and when you consider the quality in depth of our squad (Easily of a higher class than Man Utd, Liverpool, Newcastle or Chelsea) we should never, ever be in these situations. Even though this happens perhaps once a season, we’re all pedants at heart and start screaming for immediate action - to blame Wenger (Have we really, honestly got a ‘Wenger out’ brigade? Absolutely beyond belief) though is out of order, even in the heat of the moment. What about injuries to Lauren, Cygan and Freddie? Three enforced substitutions, two of them lucky not to have broken ankles (Okacha’s unintentional challenge on Ljungberg looked absolutely horrific) meant Bergkamp couldn’t get on when attacking options were needed. Henry was superb as usual and Seaman was man of the match, repeatedly outdoing himself time and time again. Despite this, trying to take positives from a game when your whole season has just crumbled away seems desperate. There, of course, is the staggering selfishness of the fan such as yours truly - I should be grateful for the football that Arsenal play. But I’m not just now, because I expect us to beat Bolton no matter what the circumstances such are the impossible standards we’ve set.
As you may have seen, there was no match report for this game. And there never will be. When I got home, I was angry, tired and sick to the pit of my stomach. Emotion is necessary to write about football properly; extremes of emotion, however, render it absolutely impossible to do so. I’ve tried to imagine what it would have been like to try and write cohesively after last year’s title decider. I suspect that it just wouldn’t have happened, beyond something that would have reassembled a transcript of Jonathan Pearce’s England commentaries - conversely, what you would have got on Saturday is someone peddling doom and gloom, rambling on and on about what his reaction was on the equaliser, blaming the manager, the referee, the pitch, that fascist bastard linesman on Thierry’s side of the pitch and, obviously, the FA, and asking if anyone had a pistol because he’d like to put it to practical use at that point.
When we take it at face value, season 2002/03 stands to be about as memorable as 98/99 was. A title race going down to the wire, and settled because the defending champions lost their nerve on a crucial game right at the death. I believe Hasselbaink scored at Elland Road to end our dream of retaining the league at almost exactly the same time as Keown’s flicked back header did precisely the same yesterday. Each time, we’ve been close enough to, figuratively, see our reflection in the trophy, and each time we’ve been denied by a gloating, arrogant compatriot of mine (I feel ashamed. Really ashamed) looming out of the shadows.
What is particularly hard to take is the manner of the football that was being played earlier in the season. Not in a negative sense of course. Let’s see, for everyone who seems to have forgotten the mind-blowing, free-flowing movement, let me remind you of the opening day exhibition against Birmingham. The warm, glowing evening against Manchester City when Sylvain Wiltord won the game single handedly. The demolition of a ‘bogey team’ not so long ago, Charlton. Not good enough for you? What about the rout in Eindhoven? A match against Sunderland that was actually embarrassing such was the sheer difference in ability? Surely you can surpass yourselves and remember the greatest performance in Premiership history against Leeds?
The frustrating, no - gut-wrenching - facts are that this will all count for nothing, except fond memories. Will a couple of sub-par showings against mid-table journeymen compromise and overshadow what came before? If that’s the case (And in honesty, I think we all know deep down that it will be) it’s going to be very hard to swallow. This season, I’ve had the pleasure to watch the most sublime, wonderful football and to come out of it all empty-handed is heart breaking.
The thing is, I made a mistake that I told myself I never would. I allowed myself to truly believe we would win the league. Last season for the most part I was dreaming. Taking it game-by-game, never thinking that it was a certainty we were going to come out on top. The manner of the performances helped in this respect. The late goals against Sp**s, Ipswich and West Ham never resulted in a victory emphatic enough to leave a stone-wall confidence; instead we got a realisation that grew slowly, minute after minute of every game, that this was going to be our year.
This time, various demolitions of opposition that should have been giving us a serious run for our money led to an assuredness. This is a risky business - when it pays off, you’re left with a lovely, relaxed and triumphant halo, such as the ‘98 cup final. When it doesn’t, it’s that old, exclusive-to-Arsenal story of having something you’ve told yourself that you’re definitely going to win taken away in the final moments. Manchester United fans took this to new extremes (“Their” Premiership crown and so on) - they really, genuinely thought that they were unbeatable. They thought that everything was a foregone conclusion before a ball had been kicked to start each season, and that’s why while we were jumping up and down at half past nine on 8th May with, to paraphrase Nick Hornby, the lights of intelligence gone from our eyes, they were shell-shocked. That must have been worse than what we’re feeling now. Seeing as it would be sadism, and hypocritical given what I said to various gloating Mancs on this forum on Saturday, I’m not taking this as compensation. As it is, I’m content (In a way) to wallow in my own self-pity, rewinding my tape of Lauren’s goal against Chelsea over and over and over again...”Shooting chance! It’s all over now....Shooting chance! It’s all over now...Shooting chance!....”
That was back when I thought we might win the FA Cup. The draws after the effective byes in the first two rounds were sufficiently difficult to leave us more hope than expectation, and that’s what made the victory at Old Trafford all the sweeter - when the news broke that Wiltord and Jeffers were up front, I was all but sure that Cardiff wasn’t going to be somewhere we would be going to this time around. The surprise factor of the victory was pure, total euphoria. Chelsea in the replay was exactly the same - serving as a reminder why we love Arsenal and, more generally, football. The scale of emotion you can go through in 90 minutes can make you wonder if you’ve lost the place one moment and have you on the floor shouting something unintelligible and without consonants the next.
Of course, this is all well and good if you end up with the proverbial happy ending. They also say that everything evens itself up over the course of a season - was the Keown own goal just a counter-balance for Kanu’s last gasp winner way way back in October? Whatever, it doesn’t make matters any easier to come to terms with. We now find ourselves reliant on an opposition slip-up, and that’s a dangerous game to play, and one you won’t win ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
So, if this goes down to the last day of the season, dream about an Everton victory (Last minute? Rooney wins the league for Arsenal? Even better, Kevin Campbell, with all his old Highbury connections, scores the goal which keeps the trophy at his previous employers?). Dream about some dramatic finale at the Stadium of Light as well. Dream about Patrick Vieira lifting the trophy. And if, or when, all of this fails to turn out, start dreaming about the FA Cup Final.
I didn’t. I hoped. I convinced myself that I knew. And that’s why there was no match report on Saturday.
Ally Winford
