MY IDENTITY

BY NICK THE REVEREND

One of my favourite snippets in Nick Hornby's 'Fever Pitch' is the bit where he describes that terrible dilemma faced when a loved one catches you off guard with the "What are you thinking?" question. You could well respond truthfully with an Arsenal-related topic, everybody knows full well what the consequences are likely to be.

I found myself confronted with exactly this problem many years ago. It was the dead of night, and the young lady I was seeing turned to me in the dark silence and asked THE question. Should I be honest? I should I be more cunning and tell her something that I think she wants to hear? After a few seconds of frantic deliberation, I decided that if the relationship was to have a future, we needed to be honest with each other. So I said: "I'm hoping Tony's ankle is going to be OK for Saturday. We really need him at the back."

There was a silence, during which I can only presume she was trying to work out whether she had actually heard what she thought she had heard. And once she decided that she had, she exploded. I won't recount exactly what she said - you can probably have a good guess. But the last utterance was: "I can't believe you're so obsessed by Arsenal. It's not as though it's your identity!!!" That was the moment that I knew we had no future, because that was exactly the point - it was and is my identity.

There was nothing inevitable about my becoming an Arsenal supporter. Nobody in my family had any particular interest in football. But there was something about the red and white shirt and the cannon crest, and the fact that there were so many Irishmen in the side in the late seventies certainly helped. So it came to pass that Brady, O'Leary, Rice, Stapleton and Jennings became ingrained in my DNA from the age of nine. And the bond grew stronger, despite my torment watching us lose the Cup Winners Cup Final, and the fallow years of the eighties.

I made my home debut on the same day as Wrighty, standing on the North Bank and watching him score in a 3-2 win against Chelsea in October, 1991. At that precise moment my relationship with the team changed from a sort of obsessive youthful enthusiasm to a grown-up form of addiction. My family weren’t surprised when I left Dublin and to moved London in the mid-nineties so I could work and watch the Arsenal. It was, as it turned out, the perfect moment to make the move - I showed up not too long before Arsene did, and the next thing I knew I was on the North Bank watching Tony lifting the League trophy.

Our last season at Highbury was also my last in London. I returned to Ireland and started a family, and my relationship with the club has changed too. But why should things stay the same forever? The fact is that the club has always been in a constant process of change. What makes the Arsenal unique is the way it has changed and developed and yet maintained its identity: a club based on an unrivalled tradition and heritage. Though I'm better able to manage my addiction now, the Arsenal is still so deeply ingrained in my life and my identity that there is nothing I can do about it. And why would I want to?

SOMETHING STUCK WITH ME

BY ABHIJITH G

I woke up on the morning of May 17th, 2006 to read in the newspapers that Arsenal was playing Barcelona in the final of the UEFA Champions League. I confess I was not a big football fan till then.

I had played football regularly at college but had watched only two football matches in my life up to that point: the first was the 1998 World Cup final between France and Brazil and the second was England versus France in Euro 2004. This Champions League match caught my eye as I had heard a lot about Ronaldinho, Barcelona and some bloke called Messi. I knew very little about Arsenal except Thierry Henry’s name also rang a bell somewhere. Anyway, I thought I should watch this match to see what the hype about Barca was all about.

I must confess that I have not referred to any archives to write this article except for the date of the match. As such the description is entirely from memory and might not be entirely accurate. I vaguely rememver that it was scheduled to kickoff around midnight, although I tuned in early to watch the build-up and how each side had made it to the final.

I particularly remember Arsene celebrating Lehmann’s penalty save from Juan Riquelme in the semi-finals and couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. Anyway, on to the match now (which I had the urge to turn off because the reception got worse by the minute).

The first incident I remember was Jens Lehmann’s infamous sending off after he’d fouled Eto’o. It really didn’t bother me much as I thought Barca would win anyway. Robert Pires was substituted for someone and I could read the disappointment in his face. Arsenal battled hard after that and took the lead via Sol Campbell just before the conclusion of the first half.

At the break, I thought justice would be done if Arsenal went on to win. However, football just doesn’t care about justice sometimes. Arsenal battled manfully in the second half only to be breached by two late Barcelona goals (I hate Barca so I won’t bother remembering who scored). At full time, I remembered Arsene’s crestfallen face and Henry’s furious tirade at the referee.

I really don’t know what happened but something about Arsenal struck me that night and that was when I started following them (and hence football) more closely and its been a roller coaster ride since then.

Is it love at first sight? I think so. Unlike many of the Arsenal fans, I have never seen Arsenal taste success in the form of trophies. I confess I tried supporting other clubs initially in 2006 (definitely wasn’t Spurs) but simply couldn’t. There is a saying that the club chooses you and not the other way around. In retrospect, I am glad I fell in love with Arsenal and have supported it with all my heart despite the trophyless years. No matter what happens this season, I will support the club for the rest of my life.

WHAT DOES HISTORY REMEMBER?

BY BRIAN CABANISS

"History will not remember who played the best football but who won the trophy."

I have to say, over the last several years as a Gooner, I’ve heard or read reasoning to that effect countless times. It’s nigh on impossible to go more than a week without being reminded by a hack journalist or by a rival supporter of the time passed since the last time the Arsenal lifted a trophy.

In the 2007-2008 Premier League season, from August to February there was one team head and shoulders above the rest in England. We lost our first game to Middlesbrough in December of that season, and would only lose twice more, to Chelsea and United, in the run-in. Half the Premiership XI wore red shirts with white sleeves that season. There were matches where our midfield swarmed opponents in the same manner Barcelona regularly do today.

But in an all too familiar fashion, we suffered some key injuries. Van Persie was having another one of those seasons, crocked on international duty in October for Holland. Rosicky began his long spell out with that mysterious hamstring knack in January. And there was no mystery whatsoever about Eduardo’s broken leg on that fateful day at St. Andrews in late February.

That game began a 4 match spell of consecutive draws and the spirit of our side was broken. We spent the remaining months of that season watching Wenger’s dream of building a young side wither, with pundits and rival supporters taking full advantage, leaping into their criticism of the Arsenal with all the zeal of a Dan Smith/Martin Taylor/Ryan Shawcross studs-first lunge.

It was hard to take, probably the nadir of my sixteen years supporting the Gunners. Daily doses of bile from journalists. Weekly taunts from rival supporters down at the pub. And most disappointingly, nearly constant jibes from within. The opening quote is in fact, from a fellow Gooner. It was as if the glorious footballing performances our side put in for six months were washed away from the memory banks of great swaths of Arsenal support. We would win nothing, and as the glory-hunters from within and without were eager to say, no one would remember. Four years on and it’s still a stick with which to beat us. No one will remember your pretty triangles. I guess the Dutch National team was created in 1988 then?

No, fans of football remember outrageous skill, commitment, and courage. We remember Bergkamp scoring a magnificent hat-trick but not winning the game, and being gutted. How could you be gutted after that performance? He was. We remember an endless clinic of close control on the edge of the box while the man we call God waited for Freddie to get into scoring position to accept the deftest of passes. We remember that goal at Newcastle.

We remember Vieira doing a sombrero to get himself out of trouble seemingly every game. Or fighting with Roy Keane in the tunnel. We remember a man with a monkey head crashing down from the sky on top of a horse-faced opponent like a biblical plague. We remember Ray Parlour bagging a triple. You know him right? It’s only Ray Parlour. Yeah, him.

We remember that botched penalty routine. Speaking of Le Bob, we remember Le Lob. We remember Robin Van Persie lashing in a leaping volley after a 50 yard run, or a Pythagorean finish after cutting in from the touchline with no one in the penalty area in support. We remember Ian Wright when he jumped the gun and "Just Did It." And we remember when he actually “Just Did It” for real a little later in the same game.

We remember when Henry just outdid that. We remember the King scoring an audacious back-heel, passing it to himself, or cutting inside from the left, then finishing right foot, right post [that one’s easy, it happened all the time]. We remember when he kissed the Highbury turf goodbye.

We remember Lehmann making a crucial penalty stop to secure a berth in the Champions League final. We remember Mad Jens making a ruckus in the goalmouth at every corner. We remember David Seaman making that save in the FA Cup. We remember toppling Inter Milan at the San Siro. We remember toppling Milan at the San Siro. We remember toppling Real at the Bernabeu. We pillaged Europe’s cathedrals of football and still haven’t lifted that cup with the really big ears.

We remember Eduardo’s comeback, his beach goal. We remember Ramsey’s comeback, and the goal that sunk United only a few games into his return. And if Diaby ever comes back, damn it we’ll remember that too.

We remember Arsene Who? Then Arsene Knows. We remember how he invited the waiting journalists to repeat the vicious rumor about him, and that they cowered in the presence of his honesty and his dignity. We remember that over a decade later it still gets sung down on him from the terraces of White Hart Lane and Old Trafford. We remember him standing amongst that mob, arms outstretched, sent off for kicking a water bottle. We remember so many more of these kinds of moments. Fans of vanity, bragging rights, and banter remember only trophies.

This isn't about losing to sides we should beat, or giving up a lead in the league. It’s not about getting it wrong in the summer and playing catch-up all season. It’s not about how it’s been ‘x’ years since we last lifted silver. It's about losing sight of why we got into football in the first place. It's about dropping the self-absorbed, relentless pursuit of glory which compromises a greater view in exchange for bragging rights.

Gooners perhaps remember the moments above more poignantly in the absence of companioning silverware. Some might even say that it is, in fact, what it is to be Gooner. But what we as football supporters must continue to remember is that for a few hours every week [at least] we FORGOT about everything else. We owe that one to the Arsenal.

A JOURNEY WORTH MAKING

BY JUSTIN MEUSE

I have been an Arsenal supporter for over a decade now, but being American I came about supporting the club in a very different manner to those in England. It was not based on where I grew up or who my family supported, but the product of watching as many Premier League matches as I could after I first got regular access to European football on television.

I knew I wanted to support a club from a major city which subsequently limited my choices, but by the end of the campaign there was only one choice; after all there’s only one club that play the beautiful game in a truly beautiful way.

In 2009 I had the opportunity to study abroad in Glasgow. Knowing that I would be in the UK during football season I promptly secured a ticket to an Arsenal home match. The lodging would have to be sorted later as I circled April 4th in my diary – the day the Gunners hosted City at the Emirates.

I only had the weekend to make the trip South so I decided to take an overnight train from Glasgow to London. It pretty much panned out as expected; one stop in Edinburgh, then a full night’s sleep on the train and arrival in London in the morning. Given the limited time I attempted a whirlwind Tube tour of London sites which I’d missed on a previous visit before the hour came to venture to the Emirates.

I got off at the Arsenal stop and was enveloped by the pre-game fanfare before sitting down to watch a great match. I sat next to two gents who had been season ticket holders together for 40 years and we won 2-0 thanks to goals by Fabregas and Adebayor. At full-time I walked to the pub with my new mates and spent the next four hours listening to them regale me with memories of their favourite matches and players. Nothing could ruin this day…even the journey ahead.

I took a late train to Manchester where I attempted to take a nap on a bench in the station before spending an hour or so on another train from Manchester which arrived in York at 3am. As if I wasn’t tired enough I had the privilege of sharing the journey with all the post-pub and club revellers who all appeared to be in their teens; if you’ve never experienced such a thing first hand, you’re really missing out!

I spent the rest of the night sleeping in the open air at York station on what felt like the coldest night ever. It was definitely the most uncomfortable night of my life, but as I said before, nothing could ruin this day. I had finally made it to the Emirates and The Arsenal had won. The memory was made.

MISSING DAD

BY MATT GOLDING

Like a lot of fans I know, my love for Arsenal has been inherited from my Dad and the passion that we share has meant we frequently watch games together.

That includes the trip to Milan back in February which, whilst having a fantastic build up, was devastating for the both of us. Having been optimistic ahead of the game the trauma of such a heavy defeat and the sense of betrayal which accompanied the performance was so strong that my father refused to watch the home leg, despite tickets being available. Although I too was obviously disappointed, I had a feeling we could turn it around.

I’d missed the 5-2 win over Spurs in the days before and having also missed the win over Barcelona the season before there was no way I was going to miss another potentially unforgettable date at the Emirates.  

Ticket in hand, I made the same trip I’d made hundreds of times before; just this time I was alone. Walking along Gillespie Road on the way to the ground, I missed talking to my Dad about the team, making our predictions etc. Once I had taken my place in the Clock End lower and the atmosphere had started to build, the loneliness eventually drifted to the back of my mind.

I found myself sitting next to two Italians who were obviously supporting Milan and they looked a bit uncomfortable when Koscielny scored early on. The crowd celebrated cautiously, although when Rosicky netted a second we all got far more excitable. By the time Van Persie scored from the penalty spot before half-time I was in a full-on embrace with the visitors next to me…although it obviously didn’t last long.  

I sat down at half time, exhausted, and checked my phone. I’d been expecting texts from friends who I had spent the whole week telling we would win 5-0, but instead there was just one text, from my Dad, saying "Hope you're enjoying it".

Knowing he wasn’t next to me as we attempted to make history took the edge off the excitement and I watched with a slight feeling of regret despite the atmosphere being arguably the best I’ve ever experienced at the Emirates.

Robin missed his chance to level the tie with 20 minutes or so to go and we all knew at that point the game was up, as the team visibly wilted after their first half exertions. While I left the stadium with a real feeling of pride in the team, there was also the disappointment that we’d not qualified and a strange sense of relief – as for me football will always be something I go to with my Dad.

WOLVES AT THE DOOR, ARSENAL IN MY HEART

BY ROBERT TONKINSON

If you were born in Wolverhampton in the early 1990s local legend Steve Bull was invariably your hero…he just didn’t happen to be mine.  There’s no two ways about it, my father was a dyed-in-the-wool Wolves fan; so much so in fact, that I actually suspect that if my mum had told him she was a West Bromwich Albion fan there’s a good chance I’d never have been conceived.

Anyway, as a result of his obsession when I was growing up, trips with my dad to Molineux were not unusual. My first football memory involves seeing Wolves play Walsall in the First Division, although I think I slept through most of it.

Despite the family connection my walls have never found themselves plastered with pictures of players sporting the gold and black. While I did initially taunt fans who weren’t of the Wolves persuasion (my best friend is a Newcastle fan and I had a teacher who liked Villa) it was only after watching a few Arsenal games that I realised my true love.

The Gunners were the best team in the land at the time as they surged to their second Double in four years and the way they dismantled Chelsea in the FA Cup final of 2002 was the game that sealed my love for “the boys in Red & White, who were f**cking dynamite.”

It may have been ‘only’ Ray Parlour but after his goal and a second by Freddie Ljungberg, our super red-headed Swede , I was hooked on the Gunners. Yes, I was a glory hunter, but I wanted to support a team who won and did it in style. I remember not long after uttering the immortal words, “Dad, can I have an Arsenal shirt?”

It helped that at the start of the new millennium, my aunt had begun seeing someone who everybody referred to as “Cockney Dave” – a lifelong Gooner, who up until 1998 had stood on the North Bank every other Saturday until career reasons saw him move to the Midlands. I raided his VHS selection and began watching everything I could to learn more about the club’s great history. It didn’t take long before I could talk about almost anything Arsenal.

My first trip to watch Arsenal saw us beat Charlton 2-0 in March 2003. I almost wonder whether I should have a commemorative mug saying, "I saw Francis Jeffers score for Arsenal." I genuinely can’t recall him scoring in another game!

Highbury of course, was a very special destination and remains close to my heart long since we’ve made the move to the Emirates. The atmosphere, the walk down Gillespie Road from the Arsenal Tube Station, even the club shop seems to have a lasting effect on me (partially due to the fact I spent hours in it queuing up to get 'Ljungberg 8' printed on my shirt). Even now when I hear the faint strains of "We're the North Bank Highbury!" I’m transported back to that glorious Sunday afternoon when I sat with my dad and uncle watching the spine of a squad which would a season later become ‘Invincibles.’

Despite admitting that a taste for victory was enough to get me interested in Arsenal, there is no doubting my love for the club. I was hugely outnumbered at school by supporters of other clubs – mainly Wolves and United – but I’m still here now writing this despite our trophyless run stretching to six years…

A JOURNEY’S END

BY KIN FAI

January 5th, 2012 will be a date I remember forever. It was the day I decided to part company with the bonus I’d earned the previous year so I could pay for my debut visit to the Arsenal.

It would be easy to run through all the things I did from that point to the moment I arrived on the doorstep at the Emirates Stadium (it always leaves a bitter taste acknowledging my club’s home by a corporate sponsors name), but instead I’ll focus on how I went about selecting the games I wanted to watch. My preference was to watch a Champions League tie and a Premier League match during my stay in London, with both games at home as I didn’t fancy trekking around England.

In many ways, the AC Milan and Newcastle games fit the bill. They constituted a European and domestic double with the first scheduled for the evening and the second orginally supposed to be a 3pm Saturday kickoff. Alas, ESPN’s decision to broadcast the match with Alan Pardew’s side meant the match was subsequently moved to a Monday evening, but it didn’t matter too much. Excitement was still very much bursting through my veins - not even an additional fee to delay my flight to fit the rescheduled match could quell that excitement.

The next small matter was actually acquiring the match tickets. I sourced numerous possible outlets, but in the end it was, as expected, Twitter where I found my answer. Armed with my red membership and a high level of patience, I finally secured everything that was needed for my dream trip.

Four paragraphs in and still I’ve not even broached the actual trip yet. Those who are thinking about clicking on the ‘X’ to close the page, will be rewarded eventually…

I stayed in London for six nights and on only one of those days did I not visit the stadium. When I arrived on Monday, March 5th, it was still only 3pm. Once I’d checked in at the hostel it was still light, so I headed for Finsbury Park. Seeing as it was pretty cold my first port of call was the club shop next to the tube where I purchased a red and white scarf and warm hat. After asking for directions from the assistant, I skipped past traffic onto St. Thomas’ Road.

As I walked passed house after house along one of the many routes you can take to get to the ground a calm descended upon me. I walked down Gillespie Road and caught sight of the tube station bearing the 'Arsenal' name pushed for by Herbert Chapman before reaching Drayton Park where I finally got my first glimpse of Arsenal’s magnificent new home.

A rush of blood to my head took over. My feet moved faster with each step. In the blink of an eye I was at the steps beside Highbury House. People say that the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco is beautiful, but I can tell you that the Ken Friar Bridge is something else! Decorated with flags of Arsenal legends from years past, I had a personal moment with each of them testing my memory to remember the first time I watched them. I was exhausted mentally by the time I got to the other side.

People often say things are different in real life compared to the way they are on television and they’re right. The stadium looked as I expected, but I was overcome with emotion. I’m not ashamed to say that there were tears flowing that day. I’d never been before, but it felt like home.

There were probably no more than five other tourists walking around and taking pictures that day and a few joggers making their way around the perimeter, but I could start to imagine the match-day atmosphere enveloping me. It was the day before Milan’s visit.

Having whetted my appetite, I decided it was time to head back to my hostel. I walked back down Gillespie Road. My stomach was growling, but luckily the famous Golden Fish Bar was standing right in front of me. I was still in a daze when I realised that I was at the junction of Avenell Road and therefore right next to the East Stand façade of Highbury.

With goosebumps all over I began reminisicing of all the amazing games that had taken place in the grand old stadium. I don’t really like what they’ve done with the place. To have flats and apartments on what feels like holy ground, just doesn’t seem right. It was such a special place, steeped in history and class. Given a lick of paint it’s Art Deco design has stood the test of time – it’s as beautiful as the first time I saw it in print and on television. I’d planned to visit, but hadn’t imagined I’d stumble across it in the way I did. 

The next day, I was ready for my first match experience. In fact, several Italians even asked me the route to the Arsenal Tavern; luckily, I was staying in the area and could point them on their way. All around, there were groups of people gathering. It was as if the streets suddenly came alive overnight. Where the day before it had been quiet, on game day there was food and drink stalls everywhere. So too places to buy souvenirs, memorabilia and matchday programmes. Even the touts were out in force asking if I was buying or selling tickets.

I was at the Emirates two hours early and watched as people streamed in from all sides. The majority of people were local, but there were a fair few familiar faces too. When I say familiar, I don’t mean people whom I actually know but rather faces, who at least from my perspective, come from the same continent as me. It’s a global game and Arsenal is a global brand after all.

All over the place people were posing for photographs, reading the programme or chatting away about the team. On that particular day Tomas Rosicky’s new contract was the talking point of the day, while others discussed whether the match was a dead rubber after the 4-0 drubbing in Milan. In truth, nobody gave us a ghost of a chance to get back into the tie, but the crowd was still very healthy in numbers.

We were all about to be rewarded for our attendance. Even though we didn’t get through to the Champions League quarter-finals that night, there was plenty to be proud about. I’m not just talking about pride in the team’s performance, but pride in the reaction of the crowd. The Emirates was no library! Buoyed by three first half goals there was constant singing and chanting reverberating around the stadium. It was the soundtrack to what was nearly the greatest ever Champions League comeback.

The pre-game routine was repeated for the Newcastle game except this time, there were no Italians marching through the streets of Drayton Park chanting their way to the gates of the stadium. It was another incredible match and it’s not unfair to say that the encouragement and support from the home fans helped dragged the team across the finish line. Newcastle came to frustrate and to a degree they did. But when Thomas Vermaelen scored late in injury-time to seal the points there was no doubting that the Gunners were deserving winners. I’d been to two games and experienced two great wins. I couldn’t have asked for anything more from my maiden trip to Arsenal.

But something more did happen. The club were generous enough to invite a travelling band of Malaysians to be present at the underground entrance where the team buses are supposed to come through. It was an experience to behold, not least because Gunnersaurus was there and he/she ruffled my hair. The b*st*rd. There was hardly any interaction with the fans from the players – they all seemed very focused on the game at hand, offering only a few smiles. I did manage to catch Andre Santos doing an impromptu dance with our dinosaur mascot though. 

Over the course of my trip I also continued my Arsenal education by undertaking tours of both the stadium and museum. Each was special in their respective ways. The former allowing me to get a feel for what it must be like as a player before a game, the latter transporting me back to the humble origins of the club. It was a crash course in being part of The Arsenal, but at the same time so much more than that. The quotes I saw from former players and managers really stood out. 

Last but not least, I have to pay a special tribute to the people - the everyday fans who supports the club. I saw passion, I saw love and I’ll be forever grateful that everyone treated me like one of their own. The security guy at The Tollington gave me exact instructions as to how to meet the players as they passed by in their cars after the game. I didn’t even have to ask him! There’s also all the wonderful friends whom I’ve met via Twitter who I got to meet in person. You make Arsenal a very special club.

I’d never suggest that anyone who doesn’t attend matches at the stadium is not an actual fan. It’s just that you really have to make a trip, at least once, to complete the holistic journey as a Gooner. The feeling of actually cheering your team on and singing their names and seeing them responding to your support is more than words can describe. Personally for me, even though it was my first time there, the experience alone would not have atoned for any negative results that the team endures. Luckily for me, both games turned out really well. I can safely say that I’ve got a 100% record at the Emirates Stadium.

It was an amazing trip.

BOOED UNTIL THE FINAL WHISTLE

BY JOHN W YOUNG

Many, many years ago, I was at Highbury watching Arsenal against Blackpool in a game in which Stan Matthews was playing.

Seemingly pissed off by the magic of the ‘Wizard of the Dribble,’ a certain member of the Arsenal team, by the name of Alex Forbes, took matters into his own hands.

As Stan was weaving his way down the right wing, Forbes came flying across with a challenge which sent the Blackpool man first into touch and then into the gully surrounding the pitch.

Blimey, I’d never heard anything like it. The whole of Highbury began booing Forbes and kept it going each and every time he touched the ball or went into a tackle.

You’ve got to remember in those days, that while a tackle was a tackle, Stanley Matthews was probably the most revered footballer of his generation. Treating him in that manner just wasn’t acceptable, so Alex was given the treatment by the crowd.

It’s worth noting at this moment that Forbes was a ginger haired Scot who also played ice hockey for the Dundee Tigers! So he was certainly something of a hard man.

He was booed until the final whistle, although I’ve no idea about the score. It was a long time ago after all…

BRINGING FAMILY TOGETHER

BY @WICKLOWGOONER

I have supported Arsenal since the age of nine, which means I’ve been a Gooner for 16 years. During that time I’ve experienced the joy of winning the league at Old Trafford and White Hart Lane and been privileged to watch some of the greatest players ever in the history of this great club. My most treasured Arsenal memory though isn’t a cup final win or vital league victory, but rather last years’s routine dismantling of Wigan in 2011.

The reason this is my favourite game is because it is the first I ever attended with both my father and brother in tow. I’ve attended games since I have been old enough to pay my own way to London from Ireland, but the Wigan win was the first time my father had attended a live football match.

From the early trip to the airport to pre-game beers and pizza it was obvious all three of us were excited. That anticipation reached new levels when we stepped out of Arsenal tube station and crossed over the bridge. You could see the awe on the faces of my brother and father as they saw the Emirates in all its glory for the first time.

The game itself produced a Van Persie hat-trick, his first for Arsenal even though he managed to miss a penalty, and the crowd was in good voice, heartily chanting, ‘He scores when he wants…’

It was freezing cold by the time we left, but we had the warm afterglow of success to keep us company. As we headed back to the tube with our copies of The Gooner in hand, I turned to my father and asked him if he had enjoyed the game. His response 'It was one of the best days I have ever had with ye.’

This is why we support our team, it brings family together and helps keep them close. It may not have been a spectacular game but I think it will always remain my favourite.

MORE THAN JUST A CLUB

BY BRIAN ROCHE

I started supporting Arsenal in the 1995/96 season, although it wasn’t through my parents that I caught the football bug, but via a transitional year under the watchful eye of my uncles. As an Irishman you’ll perhaps be unsurprised to hear that the most prominantly supported sport in my family is hurling, with football traditionally playing second fiddle. That started to change though during the eighties when a number of my relatives, including my parents, moved to London in search of work. Football started to take a hold, particularly on my uncles who supported Liverpool, Manchester United and Arsenal between them.

What followed was a real battle for my affections. My first ever live game was at Upton Park where I watched West Ham take on Liverpool and that was followed by a second helping of the Reds when they played QPR at Loftus Road. I was also handed countless Manchester United jerseys and loads of Red Devil memorabilia, but it was a VHS recording of THAT night at Anfield that stole my heart. My Arsenal uncle let the other two battle it out for a while, until one evening when he was minding me, he threw on the tape – the rest is history!

I moved back to Ireland in 2006, but the one thing I miss is matchdays. I went to countless games at Highbury, and a fair few away games against London opponents, but for me nothing beats Champions League nights. I was lucky enough to be at some amazing games including the win over Juventus, where Dennis produced the greatest assist I’ve ever seen, the victory over Shakhtar Donetsk, when Martin Keown scored twice, and the semi-final win over Villarreal.

I still get to a couple of matches at the Emirates each year, but I’ve yet to taste the European atmosphere at the new stadium in person. I watched last year’s showdown with Barcelona from the comfort of my own sitting-room, but I was proud at the noise I could hear the Arsenal fans making as Van Persie and Arshavin scored the goals. It was so loud, perhaps the loudest I’d heard from Gooners since the Highbury days. We all know what happened on that glorious night and as the final whistle blew I was inspired to start scanning the web for flights to Spain– I was not going to miss the second leg.

I travelled to Barcelona with my best mate who actually happens to be a Manchester United fan. Despite that, he too thought it’d be a great night to taste the atmosphere in Camp Nou so was more than happy to make the trip. We didn’t have tickets for the game and having decided to arrive at 5pm Spanish time and then get a flight back at 7am we’d opted against booking any accommodation either. In truth it was all a bit disorganised, but we were going to get into that monstrous stadium regardless of the the price.

In the end we paid €175 each to sit in the highest tier behind the goal we were playing towards in the second half…right in the middle of 90,000 plus Barca fans and a few blocks from the travelling Gooners. I estimate that although the Arsenal fans only had a small number of seats there must have been 8,000 or so scattered around the ground sitting next to Catalans like I was.

Before the game I was quietly confident, despite shivering like a frozen and nervous wreck; I thought if we could get a goal we would cause an upset. Unfortunately, it was only a matter of minutes before the shit hit the fan. Szczesny was forced off with an injury and on came Manuel Almunia, the man who conceded twice at his near post in the Champions League final five years previously in Paris. It wasn’t long before Messi ran wild making a mockery of our Spaniard.

I’ve tasted the atmosphere created by supporters across a wide range of sports, but I’d never seen any as ignorant and abusive as the Barcelona fans who were around me when they scored. I just kept thinking to myself they were all bastards. Half-time came and went and then, out of nothing, Busquets headed into his own goal and we were back in it. I had a tear in my eye as I celebrated that goal, not just because I could jump up and down surrounded by morons, but also because I had a perfect view to my right of the designated away section in absolute raptures – it was a sight to behold! The more the locals threw their middle fingers up at our boys, the more I jumped around, screamed and shouted. This is what it was all about I thought, a night away in Europe in one of the most historical and biggest grounds with a cup tie well in the balance. What happened next though was an absolute disgrace…

Three minutes after the jubilation of snatching an away goal Van Persie was ludicrously sent-off. I will forever put the result of that night down to a c**t of a referee named Massimo Bussaca. It was followed swiftly by two minutes which quashed any hopes of victory. First Xavi walked the ball into the net and although I felt we were still in the game I realised playing with ten minutes for extra-time would be near impossible. It didn’t matter anyway as two minutes later Koscielny brought down Pedro and Messi stepped up to score from the spot.  I was treated to plenty of abuse from the ignorant bloke next to me before the whole row, and then block, joined in the taunting.

Despite the referee ruining the game, we still had a chance to win the tie. In the 87th minute Nicklas Bendtner was clean through with only Victor Valdes in the Barcelona goal to beat. A goal would have put us into the next round on away goals, but the awkward Dane banjaxed the chance leaving us Arsenal fans to lament another year without a trophy. We were out.

Heartbroken, tired, exhausted, angry, you name it…that’s how I felt. However, with the travelling Arsenal fans being kept in the stadium I decided to hang around as scores of other Gooners also suddenly popped up all over the place. Amazingly Arsenal anthems were being chanted like we’d just conquered the Camp Nou and we all joined in. The moment just reminded me what being a supporter is all about and that Arsenal is more than just a club, it is a way of life. I've been shaped by my life with the Gunners and for me, there is no other religion.

After that it was back to El Prat for the early morning flight...

ONE NIGHT IN MADRID

BY DAVE CURRAN

I’ve been very lucky during my time supporting Arsenal to see some great games in the flesh. However, without a doubt, the night we won away to Real Madrid is my favourite.

We were having a terrible season in the Premier League, had already been knocked out of both the domestic cups, and despite progressing easily as top of our Champions League group, still managed to draw the ‘Galacticos’ in the first knockout round.

Me and the same group who’d travelled to Sparta Prague earlier in the season all booked flights and a hotel as soon as Arsenal’s name was drawn from the UEFA pot. It was only when we arrived in Spain that we started the hunt for tickets. After finding a very nice, but definitely dodgy, East European tout we exchanged €200 each knowing full well we’d be seated with the home fans.

The game kicked-off, but we missed the first five minutes trying to find our way around the Bernabeu. Of course, we couldn’t ask anyone for directions because we didn’t want them knowing we were Arsenal fans. As we sat down Freddie Ljungberg missed a great early chance.

We’d all agreed that we weren’t expecting a win and that a 2-1 defeat would be just about acceptable…the key was to score an away goal. We’d also established it would be stupid to celebrate if we did get a goal, knowing we were surrounded by Spaniards.  

That was all well and good, but when Thierry Henry strolled through the Madrid defence to score one of his finest ever goals, we just couldn’t hold back. We went absolutely crazy! It was funny because all around the stadium, little pockets of Arsenal fans were doing likewise. We had a little bit of trouble when missiles were thrown at us by the home supporters, but I suppose we had it coming!

It was the best game I’ve ever experienced…so far.

THEIR MISERABLE FACES

BY ANDREW FOULIA

My first year as an Arsenal season ticket holder coincided with the 1988/89 season. As I was only 11 at the time and amazingly it only cost £16. Yes, sixteen pounds…for a whole season. It’s fair to say times have changed. My dad and American uncle Chuck also had tickets for the year and there’s were only £34 each!

At the time we had no idea George Graham’s side would be challenging for the title, let alone win it. As such there were some great moments along the way; experiencing my first live last gasp injury-time equaliser having been 2-0 down against Southampton certainly comes to mind. Of course there were lows as well. The home defeat to Derby County in the penultimate home game of the season had everyone thinking the title was gone, nobody even bothered to celebrate Alan Smith’s late consolation goal…although, little did we realise how important goal difference would prove to be.

Though we went to every home match in all competitions, we weren't travelling supporters so only went to one away game, the 3-2 win against that small club down the road in the third game of the season. By the time May 26th arrived we’d agreed as a family to watch the title decider together at home.

Unfortunately, some uninvited Spurs supporters turned up as well, including the bloke across the road (his son was my best mate at the time but couldn't face the prospect of seeing my face in the unlikely event that we did it) and three relatives on my mum's side. Needless to say, I wasn't happy about this as I knew that if we didn't achieve do it an Anfield, I wouldn't be able to handle their piss-taking! Luckily, one of those relatives brought along one of his Gooner mates, meaning we had even numbers. Four Gooners, and four Spuds cheering on Liverpool.

In the early portion of the game the Spurs relatives couldn’t help themselves from laughing at the fact we had no chance, although they were, in no uncertain terms, told by the  neighbour not to tempt fate. All the while, we Arsenal supporters just sat quietly concentrating on the match, far too nervous to respond to the banter. Even Dad was silent, despite being the most optimistic Gooner I know. 

When Mickey Thomas missed a chance with 15 minutes left, we understandably thought that was that, and there’d be no chance Liverpool would give us a second free run on goal. The Spurs relatives grew increasingly confident, resuming their laughter and ‘banter,’ while we sat with our heads in our hands. As the match entered injury time we were all just screaming at the TV, begging for one more chance...

There's no need to describe the goal as you've all seen it several million times, but as us Gooners were going completely and utterly berserk, I glanced at the faces of the Spurs fans. I've never seen such misery!

This, of course, made it even more enjoyable (if that was even possible). They were motionless, looking as though they had a front row seat to the apocalypse.

When we calmed down to watch the final, heart stopping moments, the neighbour piped up to my relatives, "I fucking told you not to tempt fate, didn’t I?

That night, the elation, their miserable faces, it will all live with me forever!

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

BY LEE HURLEY

When writing my blog and talking nonsense on Twitter one of the questions I get asked regularly, after ‘how do you stay so positive’ is ‘how did you start supporting Arsenal?’  This has been phrased many ways over the years from people who have a genuine interest to those who think that I should support my local team instead of one which is located some 300 plus miles from my house, but football isn’t logical. We don’t get to choose the teams who find their ways in to our hearts, like love, it just happens, and that’s the way it was with me with Arsenal.

Until I was 11 I didn’t support any English teams, I was quite happy supporting my local team, both home and away, and even though the standard of football was poor in the Irish League, even back then, I didn’t know any better. It was all I knew and I couldn’t get enough.  Sure I watched old First Division matches when they were on TV and my friends were always trying to get me to declare loyalty to either Manchester United or Liverpool, but I flat out refused because they just didn’t feel ‘right.’

Then, in 1987, when I was 11 years old and on a school trip, my footballing world was transformed forever.  The trip had been to Germany where I had lead the girls to a narrow 4-3 victory over the boys on the banks of the Rhine, my one and only ‘proper’ match in which I scored a hattrick, the third coming from the ‘spot’ and which was just about allowed.  Girls didn’t play football in Belfast back then and I can’t say I don’t often wonder ‘what if.’  On the way back home, an arduous coach journey from Germany to Northern Ireland via just about every country they could travel through, we stopped overnight in London.

As part of the trip the school had organised a visit to Highbury and my love affair with Arsenal began as our coach pulled up outside the iconic East Stand on Avenell Road.  What was this place? What was this club which played its football in such a magnificent stadium?  Until then my only experience of football grounds had been Windsor Park and some other grounds which might as well have been fields with a few sheds strategically placed around them. I was hooked.

We were led inside and given a full tour of the stadium, from inside to out. We sat in chairs in the boardroom, listened to the wonderful history of this great club, marvelled at the trophies, were shown around both dressing rooms and stood on the hallowed turf. If I’d known more about anything I’d have known that it was David O’Leary and another player standing on the pitch not 25 yards from us being photographed with the Littlewoods Cup, but I didn’t. My only regret from that day.

As we left we were all given a pack of goodies I’ve long since lost, well, I didn’t lose them, but that’s another story and that was that. Arsenal were my club and there was no discussion needed. I felt at home in Highbury.  All the feelings others had tried to get me to muster when it came to the likes of Liverpool (my uncle’s team), United (my cousin’s team) or even Newcastle (my granddad’s team, the man single handedly responsible for my love of football) flooded over me. I just knew that Arsenal were the team for me.

I never had the chance to get back to Highbury to see an actual game, a fact that will always weigh on my heart, but every time, without fail, when I’m over at the Emirates I take a few minutes to stand outside the East Lower and remember that day. I marvel at the stadium, as classy as the club which once used to play there and I say thank you. Thank you to whoever organised that trip, thank you to my parents for paying for me to go on it and thank you to Arsenal for the way we were treated that day.

It changed my footballing life and without them it just wouldn’t be the same.

HOME AND AWAY AT HIGHBURY

BY VEGARD THORSTENSEN

In my country, English football is sacred and far bigger than our own domestic league. The likes of Liverpool, Manchester United, Tottenham and Leeds all have a huge number of supporters here, this down to the likes of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, John Arne Riise, Erik Thorstvedt having long careers in the Premier League. By now of course, you’ll recognise I’m talking about Norway…

When I grew up my love for football came from watching international football. My big hero was Roberto Baggo and I still recall being in floods of tears after he missed his penalty in the 1994 World Cup final. I was only 6-years-old at the time, but things like that you do not forget – it’s just the type of affect football has on you.

I didn’t know much about English football back then, but one day in 1995 (or maybe it was 1996) my Dad bought me a copy of FIFA 96 on the Super Nintendo. I was still very young and not speaking the language could only understand the basic commands such as: “Yes,” or “No,” or “Start Game.”

Every time I turned the game on I just pressed one button until the game started. It meant an exhibition showdown between Arsenal and Aston Villa, with me automatically selected to play as the home side. I still remember evenings spent trying to score goals with my favourite player Alan Smith, or having David Seaman saving penalties like he famously did in real life.

Some years later Ole Gunnar Solskjaer signed for Manchester United and many of my friends automatically plastered their walls in posters of him wearing the Red Devils kit. I though, despite not knowing much about him, had pictures of Tony Adams – the captain of my team, The Arsenal!

My Dad travels quite a lot because of his job and I still remember the time he came home and gave me my first Arsenal kit with the JVC sponsor on the chest – I still have that kit in my drawers actually, although it obviously doesn’t fit. I was very lucky, every time my father travelled to London he returned home with more Gunners goodies including jackets, calendars, shirts etc.

Many years later my older brother, a Spurs supporter, moved to London and despite his affiliation he offered to take me to an Arsenal game when I visited him in 2004.

We didn't have any tickets, so we arrived early hoping to buy some on the black market. I remember we took the tube to Highbury and Islington and it took us a while to find the stadium. After a little walk, it suddenly appeared in front of us – a perfect sight. I think even my brother was impressed by the vision of this big arena blended in with small houses all around. We struggled for hours to get tickets, until five minutes before the game we found a guy willing to sell them for £120 each! My brother, seeing the desperation in my eyes, paid up.

The tout just looked at me after the sale and said, “Good luck lad.” At the time I thought he was talking about the game, which was against Charlton, but soon realised he was talking about something else. As I was only 15-years-old I’d really dressed up for the occasion…and I mean really dressed up! I had the home shirt, an Arsenal jacket, a red and white scarf, a red Gunners cap and even branded sweatpants! Seeing as we were running late we ran to the Clock End and offered our ticket to the guy on the turnstile. It was at this point he told us it was for the away end!

I had to turn the jacket inside out, the cap had to go and I was told in strict terms not to celebrate if Arsenal scored. As we ran to take our seats amongst the Charlton fans we heard huge cheers for not one, but two Arsenal goals. I was thinking it was a great game to be at, there was sure to be more goals for the Gunners. Some of you may remember, but the only goal left in that game was a free-kick that went past Lehmann by the post.

It still remains the day I not only fell head over heels in love with Highbury, Arsenal and my fellow Gooners, but the day I fell for English football.  The atmosphere in the stadium, the build up, the singing on the tube, the curse words…everything. It was fantastic and I couldn't wait to get home and tell everyone.

I got to visit Highbury again, this time with my Dad, for a match with Cardiff and still remember the away fans chanting the ‘Highbury Library’ chant. Thankfully I was sitting with the home fans this time and finally got to see where my Dad had stood when he visited in the 70s.

I now make it to London twice a season to watch the Gunners, but while I love the Emirates, nothing will ever compare to my first match at Highbury with the away fans.

SUPPORTING FROM AFAR

BY BEN NUGENT

Growing up in Clonmel, a relatively small town in Southern Ireland, to a family of avid Liverpool supporters (for the most part), I always presumed once I inevitably developed an interest in football that I would be draped in a Liverpool jersey and that would be that. I don’t have a clear memory of when exactly my interest in football began, I have vague memories of my father roaring at the TV on the rare occasions matches were shown on terrestrial TV here (normally FA cup games on the BBC), and my uncle in particular was always keen on seeing me grow up to support Liverpool-I thought it was a given.

My predetermined footballing allegiances changed however one fateful weekend when I was 8, at an age where my interest in the sport was developing at a rapid rate. I went on a weekend visit to my cousin’s house, one of whom happened to support Arsenal. The weekend was horrible. I was beat, chased and pummelled into submission. I was to support Arsenal….or else. And that was it. Living in fear of another beating, I made sure that I kept up to date with every result, and jotted each one down accompanied by each goal scorer, by way of teletext and Match of the Day (when I was allowed stay up) religiously every weekend.

At this point, Sky was a luxury in many Irish households, and as such, the only opportunity for a budding fanatic to watch his team play was via BBC and the FA Cup. My first discernible memory of watching an Arsenal game was the 1998 FA Cup final and Marc Overmars racing clear and nutmegging Shay Given. I was delirious with joy. What began as a chore conducted through fear was slowly morphing into an obsession.

I remember vividly still the day when I received my first Arsenal jersey. Arsenal had lost that weekend (I can’t for the life of me remember against whom it was) and I was inconsolable still going to school Monday morning, knowing too well what awaited from the legions of sheep following Liverpool and United in School. I came home that evening worn out from defending my Arsenal and there it was- red with white sleeves and a white collar, JVC printed on the front and Bergkamp 10 on the back. I still maintain that it is the best gift I have ever received.

Being a fan living in Ireland and not being able to attend matches with the frequency with which I would like, I feel as if it is my duty to wear the jersey each match day, as a way of showing support of course, but also as a way to feel closer to the club. If I can’t be there in body every week, I feel as if I am at least there in spirit in some way by donning the jersey, whether it be for a pre-season friendly or a champions league final (more of those would be nice, please, lads). This is a habit which was born on that day when my mother bought me that jersey. Although I’m sure she thought she was being nice in her attempt at cheering me up, I’m certain she regrets her part in creating this monster and the Arsenal related mood-swings she has had to endure in the years following that purchase.

The natural progression for me was to visit Highbury. I spent two years pleading and begging, but due to the arrival of a younger brother and sister, for my parents to afford such a journey would have been a stretch. I had given up hope; I genuinely thought I would never get to see a match in the flesh. My uncle accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be supporting Liverpool, and to his credit, he embraced the fact I too was a football fanatic and brought me to the pub to watch Arsenal on Sky whenever he could, he would even bring me to watch Soccer Saturday if Arsenal were not on the box. ‘At least I was seeing more games in full’ was how I consoled myself each time I longed to sit inside Highbury, even though Match of the Day still amounted to the highlight of my week.

To my absolute shock, my dreams of going to Highbury came true on Christmas morning 2001. I had finished opening up my presents and was attending to my collection of chocolate, when my dad pointed out a present I had missed-an envelope sitting on the table. I thought I was getting a book voucher. I opened it up to discover two tickets to Arsenal v Fulham on Saturday the 23rd of February 2002. I couldn’t believe it; I was floating on air for the following two months.

For those Arsenal fans brought up in the shadow of Highbury, Islington, anywhere in North London and its surrounding areas, Highbury would have amounted to a somewhat regular part of their footballing life. Going to games, even passing the stadium on any given day and instantly being struck with memories of the place. For those of us who admire from afar; it’s difficult to put into a coherent sentence the emotion of sitting inside that stadium for the first time.

My father and I arrived in London at 9am on the Saturday morning. Following a brief stop in McDonalds (another novelty for me at the time), we proceeded directly to the ground on my orders. He wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t going to risk a scene in the middle of Piccadilly Circus by telling me I had to wait a few hours to see Highbury.  We arrived in Islington via tube at roughly 11:30 am that morning. Stepping up out of the shadow of the tube station and into the shadow of Highbury I was greeted with chills. After an hour exploring the inner sanctum of Highbury and sampling the rubber burgers, I was in my seat in the North Bank by 12.

How my Dad managed to get such good tickets I will never know, it was perfect. Around 1:30pm David Seaman and Richard Wright jogged onto the pitch for a little kick about in the North Bank goal. I trotted down to be near the pitch and was subsequently struck in the face by an errant shot courtesy of the boot of Mr Seaman. It was the most enjoyable pain I have ever experienced. I picked the ball up and handed it back to, him, absolutely terrified, and received a pat on the head from those shovels which he calls hands.

The game was brilliant, we could have lost 5-0 and I would say the same. This was Arsenal approaching their pomp. We beat Fulham 4-1. Patrick Vieira dominated the midfield and scored. Our then resident lunatic right-back Lauren scored one. Henry ran at the Fulham back four with venom and a bloody-minded determination to win that we have been so sorely missing in the recent past, scoring twice. One of which was somewhat of a fluke, but nevertheless brought a huge cheer from the home crowd, and an ICONIC CELEBRATION from the man himself. I’m sure he was looking at me.

That day was one of the best I have ever experienced. Such is the rarity with which I can attend games, each time I have made the journey to North London since has brought with it the same anticipation and wonderment. That was the first and only time I ever sat inside Highbury. It is only in the past three years, now that I am working and earning my own way in life, that I have been able to prioritise these visits. The Emirates doesn’t hold the aura that Highbury did for me. Working in the local post office (which happens to be the home of Clonmel’s oldest Arsenal fans) I have been well informed of the history of Highbury, and it is where I watched my hero’s do their thing every weekend.

The Emirates history is only beginning, and it is my full intention to ensure that I am there to watch it being written. I will own a season ticket one day. Growing up supporting Arsenal from a distance I feel that if this is not my aspiration, I’m not supporting my club as best I can. Maybe subconsciously I am still afraid my cousin is going to hammer me into the ground if I don’t, he’s moved to London, he see’s games regularly, this is the natural progression surely?

Supporting Arsenal from a distance has fostered this desire in me, I am grateful for every match I attend, whereas if I was an Arsenal fan brought up in relatively close proximity to the club, I would take such a thing for granted. The respect I have for season ticket holders is immense. I feel as if I am disrespecting those loyal attendees by classifying myself as a supporter, I’m not even from the same country, never mind the same part of London, how can I say Arsenal is my club? But these doubts are erased each time I attend a game. The warmth with which Arsenal fans from all parts of the globe are greeted to the Emirates and the neighbouring pubs by the fans who have been attending week in week out for years upon years is fantastic, but above all else, it is re-assuring. Especially to those of us to whom attending a game is a relative rarity. I don’t know if these fans know this, but they represent this brilliant club in a way which extends far beyond their presence in the stadium each week.

I genuinely believe that supporting Arsenal whilst living overseas has intensified my love of the club. Absence makes the heart grow stronger and all that. And on nights when the fans inside the Emirates drive the team with such ferocious support, I like to think they’re doing it for those fans who wish they could be there as much as anything. I’m probably wrong, although I was never so proud to be a Gooner as I was when we beat AC Milan earlier this month.

A RUDE AWAKENING

BY JOHN W YOUNG

I’m an old Gooner and as such, one of my earliest recollections regarding a couple of our club’s most esteemed players, occurred way back in the early fifties.

In those days, we young fans, during the school half- terms, would go to Highbury and wait around to collect the players' autographs. I expect many of you other oldies did the same…

Anyway, on this one particular occasion we spotted the great Denis Compton along with his brother Leslie, or Les as he was mostly called, coming down the steps of the famous Marble Halls.

Excitedly, we kids rushed up to the famous duo. “Can we have your autographs please?” we asked, ever so politely.

Came the answer from good old Les, “Fuck off!” Before he climbed into a waiting car and fucked off himself.

So, neither Denis or Leslie Compton’s names made it into my book. It’s funny how simple little things like that stick in the mind after 60 plus years. 

Needless to say, Les Compton was not my favourite player after that…not that he was before. The prick.

Happy days. Ooh to, Ooh to be, Ooh to be a Gooner.

FOLLOWING THE WHITE RABBIT

BY ANDRES SALCEDO

I’ve been following Arsenal on a regular basis for the last twelve years or so, but because I’m from South America I’ve no story about getting myself to Highbury for a first game. While that will always be something I deeply regret, I have instead a story about finding a love without searching, about curiosity and about facing the unexpected.

Until the late nineties access to international football over here in Colombia was very limited. Often expensive and never more than a few matches, it meant the World Cup finals were often the best chance to watch European players for a whole match, as opposed to 30-second video snippets in the news. France ’98 was perhaps the last major tournament that I enjoyed in such a retro-romantic manner, but it was to have a lasting legacy. 

A lot of people will no doubt remember all the hype around Brazil and Ronaldo ahead of that competition, but I cherish the memory of another team. I gathered many newspaper and magazine articles as I tried to read up on all the teams and players and while I actually watched most of the games just for the fun of it, it was the Holland team that I began to favour. I was curious about their humungous goalkeeper and the defender with a really powerful free-kick…the kind of things that spike the interest of young kids I guess. And there he was. I discovered Dennis Bergkamp.

I have a rather vague recollection of his goals against South Korea and Yugoslavia, but the strike that will be forever imprinted in my mind is the one he scored against Argentina. I watched it as it happened: the long pass from De Boer, the shadow of the roof on the field, Dennis running into the penalty box, his jump and control of a ball played 50 metres, his first touch moving inside Ayala, his second elegant touch and then the shot and goal with his third.

I thought it was the best goal I had ever seen and I maintain that view to this day. It was a demonstration of pure talent working efficiently to defeat an opponent. After the World Cup I followed Bergkamp’s career at club level. And there you go, I found the Arsenal. I read and I learned. The interest grew as time went on until we finally got cable at home and I could watch the Gunners regularly. After that I followed the trail of the non-flying-Dutchman as he played great football with amazing teammates like Henry, Pires and Vieira (only with online videos, did I see him playing with Wright). I even witnessed him assisting some fancy guy named Robin in his last matches and spent countless Sundays waking up at 7am to watch the Invincibles in action. 

During all that time I never had a single shirt, poster or even a computer desktop background. I just wanted to learn more as I followed my White Rabbit into Wonderland. It has been a truly magical journey and I can honestly say I’ve fallen in love along the way. I’ve experienced the despair, sadness, joy and elation that comes with supporting a club through highs and lows and love the team and my fellow supporters all the more. Nowadays I can interact with fellow Gunners all over the world using Twitter and I feel a part of a global-family that is going from strength to strength.

All this from following the progress of one man. 

ON PEUT LE FAIRE

BY PAVLOS ANASTASI

Part of my degree entails me spending a year in the south of France, which I admit has its benefits. The sun, the sea, the ski slopes...all are easily accessible to a student and far be it from me to complain about them! However, the biggest issue with this arrangement has been supporting Arsenal from afar. It has been said on Twitter that this season has made people fall in love, if possible, even more with Arsenal and this has certainly been the case for me.

It has become almost a ritual for me to wake up late on a Saturday morning, blearily reach for my laptop and find a stream through which I can watch my beloved team, whilst following our progress on Twitter when the internet fails me. I've become known as 'Le Gooner' amongst my fellow flatmates, all of whom are the first to congratulate me/sympathise with me depending on the result. I like to think I have done my own little part to represent Arsenal in this most cultural of countries, even though I am unable to visit our wonderful stadium.

The match away to AC Milan was, I concede, a low point in what has been a memorable season. Losing 4-0 was harrowing, more so the way in which we allowed ourselves to be dominated on the pitch (if you can call it that). It hurt. This was the year that we were meant to do England proud in the Champions League, not to mention the chance to put one over the Manchester clubs, who had both bowed out during the group stages. 4-0 just wasn't in the schedule. My flatmates saw my hurt, saw the pain as each goal went in, and thankfully held back with the taunts. As soon as the match finished, I turned around and said 'Oh well, we'll have them 5-0 at home,’ more out of blind faith than determined conviction.

Matchday drew closer and with it my nerves increased. I'd never before felt like this before a match, even that match against Barcelona in Spain. The odds were so against us, we couldn't do it could we? Yet, as a temptress works her wonders, Arsenal knew the way to tease me into believing. Victory against Spurs, no, thrashing the old enemy had lifted our spirits. That last minute van Persie wonder volley against Liverpool had consolidated the momentum. I knew one thing for certain. We were not going to lose to Milan at home - call it blind faith, call it determined conviction, I just knew.

With half an hour to kick-off, I sat there eating dinner and talking to my friends, trying to explain what I was feeling but struggling. Could we really put at least 4 goals past an AC Milan side so dominant two weeks prior? I fidgeted, I paced, I sat down, I stood up endlessly. Finally, kick off and 14 days of anxiety and worry would be justified in 90 mins. Six minutes into the game and we won a corner but my stream stopped. I opened Twitter to the news that Laurent Koscielny had powered in a header to give us the lead. Delighted, I stormed out of my room and ran to the other end of the corridor, past 20 rooms, shouting 'YES YES 1-0!' What a start, the perfect start in fact! I closed Twitter, determined to watch the next goal (I knew we would score again).

15 minutes passed, but with no goal I began to fidget again. We needed another goal to go in at half time 2-0 up, a dream scenario for many fans before the match, but for all our attacking prowess, the Milan defence was holding resolute. Another five minutes passed...then Rosicky struck from inside the area. 2-0! This time, I jumped up and ran the same route up and down the corridor. Some of my quieter flatmates opened the door in bemusement at my antics, but I didn't care. Come on Arsenal! 2-0 at half-time would be a perfect result!

The break swiftly approached and I began to smile, grin even. This wasn't mission impossible, this was mission redemption and we were halfway there. Then it got even better. Oxlade-Chamberlain was blocked off in the area - PENALTY I cried from the south of France! PENALTY cried the thousands at the match! PENALTY agreed the referee, and I cheered!

Robin van Persie, our captain, our talisman, our leader stepped up and slammed it home. This time, elation got the best of me - I whipped my Arsenal top off and ran the length of that same corridor, screaming 'WE CAN DO IT!' A Frenchman opened his door, I yelled 'on peut le faire! On peut le faire! We can do it! We can do it!' He smiled and closed his door. Continuing my run, I dropped to my knees and slid à la Henry down the corridor and stopped perfectly outside my door, pumping my fists as pleasure and happiness coursed through my body - we really could do it!

Half-time came and I couldn't wait for the game to get going again. I was absolutely exhilarated, convinced that I was about to witness the miracle of all miracles which somehow no longer seemed like a miracle. At that moment in time, nothing else apart from my beloved Arsenal mattered and by God, they were repaying my faith in bucketloads!

As it was, our first half exertions (mine included) were ultimately too much and try as we might, we couldn't find that fourth miracle. The final whistle blew and emotions raced around my mind. Never had I been so proud of my team, never had I willed us on to victory so much before and never had I felt so gutted - we deserved more, much more than this 'glorious failure' as the media called it.  Exhausted, I went to bed dreaming of a night full of promise, hope, emotions and my Arsenal.

The marks outside my door from where I skidded are still there. My reputation as 'Le Gooner' is still there. I still remain in France for the time being. But more importantly, my love for Arsenal is still here, stronger than it ever has been. Why? Because on a night where I triumphantly proclaimed to the world at large that 'on peut le faire', that 'we can do it', the hope remains that one day, we actually will… 

A SAN SIRO FAREWELL

BY STEFAN VLIEGER

Arsenal away from home, especially in the Champions League, has probably been the most enjoyable feature of being a Gunners fan during these barren trophy-less years. Unfortunately, I’ve never seen Arsenal win a Champions League game in person! I thought I had seen our worst European performance ever when I went to Camp Nou last season, but then there was the recent game against AC Milan. Despite the terrible performance and a horrible result. I will never regret going to the San Siro, thanks to one man - Thierry Henry.

I became an Arsenal fan when RTL 5, a Dutch television channel, began broadcasting Premier League games at weekends. It was about eleven years ago that they started and thanks to a certain Dennis Bergkamp, Arsenal were often selected as the televised game. I didn’t know much about the club at that time.

In fact, I rather fancied Manchester United. I even had a fake David Beckham shirt that my sister had bought for me during a holiday in Italy. She’d let me choose between two shirts, the other one being an Arsenal shirt with Overmars on the back. However, he had just made a transfer to Barcelona, so I decided to have the Beckham shirt. The other one was for my twin brother René. But when I saw those live games on the box, with Dennis Bergkamp playing at that fantastic stadium called Highbury, I turned into an Arsenal in an instant. Winning the league at Old Trafford, the Invincibles season two years later, I couldn’t have picked a better moment to start supporting Arsenal.

I was about 15-years-old when I visited Highbury for the first time. It was during a college excursion in October 2003. To my disappointment, I had no chance to visit a game, because there was an international break that week. A big guy with glasses as thick as jam pots who was sitting at the entrance wouldn’t even let me and a few classmates have a look inside the beautiful stadium. “You can come back on Friday for a stadium tour,” he said. Unfortunately, we were going back to Holland that day. During the last season at Highbury, I was in my last year at school, preparing for my exams. I had to make peace with the fact that I would never see a football game at the Gunners home of 93 years.

My first visit to an Arsenal game was in April 2009 against Middlesbrough, which means I also never saw Thierry Henry play for us. I will never forget those images from the unveiling of his statue at Emirates Stadium, a few months ago. There he was, our all time top goal scorer with tears in his eyes. It gave me goose bumps and I was thinking: “If only I could turn back time…”

In the next week, we were drawn to AC Milan. I immediately started to plan a trip to the San Siro, with my brother and two friends, who also visited the pre-season friendly in Cologne and the away game in Dortmund with me earlier in the season. Obviously I couldn’t wait for the game in Milan. Seeing your favourite team play in one of the most iconic football stadiums in Europe is certainly something to look forward to. But the most exciting moment was still to come. Arsenal signed Thierry Henry on loan on the day I bought the tickets for AC Milan away. I can’t explain how happy I was when Arsene Wenger said he would be eligible for the first leg of the Milan tie.

The build up to that night at the San Siro was very exciting as well. Thierry’s winning goal against Leeds United and especially the one at the Stadium of Light made me realize I was finally going to see Thierry Henry play for Arsenal. We travelled to Milan on the day of the game. The pre-match atmosphere at Piazza Duomo was just awesome. A big part of the square was full of Gooners, singing many different songs and chanting Thierry Henry’s name. We arrived at the stadium just before kick-off, not knowing we were about to witness ‘our worst European game ever’ as Arsene described it afterwards. 2-0 down at half time, there was only one thing that, besides an Arsenal goal, could make my day.

And there he was. Huge cheers erupted from the Arsenal crowd as Thierry Henry took to the San Siro pitch – the same placve he’d once ripped Inter’s defence apart. I think we started to play better and Robin van Persie fired a dangerous volley at goalkeeper Abbiati after a nice flick by our Gallic top scorer. Unfortunately, our back four were never able to control Milan’s attacks. The dramatic 4-0 defeat certainly wasn’t the farewell Henry deserved…but you can’t have a fairy-tale every week.

When the game entered injury time, we started the Thierry Henry song for one more time. And after the final whistle, when Milan’s club anthem was already echoing through the stadium, he thanked the travelling supporters for the very last time, before disappearing into the catacombs of San Siro.

Goodbye Thierry Henry and thanks for the great memories!