In the company of heroes

It was going to be another tough day in the office.  I was required to attend a couple of vendor meetings in London, which meant I had to stay in London overnight - to be ready for an early start.  No point travelling out early in the morning, as it would be too tiring.  Funnily, the trip just happened to coincide with the Chelsea v Cluj Champions League game at the Bridge, Tuesday 9 December 2008.  What a coincidence!

I had never heard of Cluj, but discovered that it was a Romanian football club that miraculously made it to the CL group stages by winning the Romanian football league.  (They are apparently not doing great this season.)

This was going to be my first live football game ever. I mean ever. To see my team Chelsea play at home in the Champions League was an extra added bonus.  To make things better, I was invited to attend the game with private dinner, free bar and reserved seats.

I travelled across the water with the supplier just before lunch and took the train to London city centre.  I have a train phobia. I always freak out when I have to board the train.  What if the doors close on me?  What if I took the wrong train? What if somebody pushes me?  All these thoughts make me weird to be around. My traveling buddy noticed this and moved slowly away from me as I started to convulse.

As always, the train arrived safely at the correct train station and we checked in to the hotel shortly before lunch.  It wasn't cold, despite it being early December, but we still wanted to minimise exposure to the elements. There's no point getting sick on a business trip.  The hotel was, according to the map of London, close to the stadium, so we agreed to walk.  After walking for almost 40 minutes, we dragged our exhausted arses into the nearest cafe and we had lunch.  It just happened to be next to Harrods.

I never understood the fascination with Harrods, but based on the cars parked outside, it was the place to shop.  Some idiot had painted his Aston Martin gold. It looked like his kids had done the painting.

We finally arrived at the stadium. We went straight for a pint.  I had promised my kids some Chelsea gear, so I did my fatherly duties and got them the right stuff - all Chelsea of course. It cost me more than £100.  We made our way to the restaurant and had a nice dinner.  I felt like a complete looser surrounded by hardcore fans, who knew the history and results of Chelsea, better than they knew their own kids I'm sure.  I even had difficulties getting the shirt numbers right for John Terry and Anelka, when buying shirts for the kids.  "8 is Anelka and 4 is Terry, right?" I asked quietly.

Kick-off.  I ran to my seat like a little boy running to a toy shop, pushing everybody aside who were in my way, and I sat down.  I had goose bumps all over. I probably looked like a twat taking pictures of the scoreboard, seats, marching band, scarfs and teams warming up.  Within 15 minutes, the camera was starting to run low on batteries, so I had to use it wisely.  There were only space for another 2000 pictures on the memory card - damn!

The fans started singing and I started crying like a schoolboy.  It was a wonderful and yet strange experience.  When the ref signaled kick-off, the stadium burst into cheers.  Holding back the tears was becoming a problem and I pretended it was cold instead.  The fans were singing aloud and I mimed along (not knowing a single word) and waved my scarf.

Chelsea scored and the place exploded in blue and white colors.  No stopping us now.  But, before half time it was 1-1 and the crowd had started to become quiet.  Drogba came on in second half and scored the winning goal. He was hailed as a hero by the supporters.  It was like watching the gladiators in the Colosseum, fighting for fame and fortune.  Brilliant.

We went to the private bar after the game. I was longing for a beer. I had 4 beers.  The VIP arrangement finished an hour after kick-off, by which time all the spectators had left and we could calmly leave the Bridge behind us.  On the way out, a few of the Chelsea players left the stadium too, driving their huge Range Rovers.  It was a surreal experience to see the players up close. However, I refused to ask for their autograph or take their picture - I'm 36 you know.