A LEARNING PROCESS

BY KUDA MANGOMA

I was an Arsenal fan before I knew it. A club passed down to me under the family code of conduct. I started properly supporting The Arsenal from the age of seven and in my early years I was spoilt by success. That 2003/04 unbeaten season a fine example of our superiority.

2005 was the last time Arsenal had the pleasure of basking in the glory of a major title. 2005 was the year I turned 13 and entered my teens. September shall host my 20th birthday putting an end to this chapter of life.

I will be leaving my teenage years behind and in reflection not many things have remained constant. I have made and lost many friends, moved to a different continent whilst leaving my immediate family in my hometown and continued to matured year on year.

One of the few things that has remained consistent though, is my love for The Arsenal, despite the fact our title drought has corresponded directly with this period.

It is often said that teenagers are  fickle and struggle to commit to anything. This is, in the main, true and I can say that throughout my teens I have had and lost interest in many things. Such capricious behaviour has never touched my relationship with the club of my life.

Of course, we supporters have witnessed players come and go on both civil and churlish terms since we last tasted victory, but Arsenal always stands tall and carries on. It has taken time, but I've come to terms with the mistake of emotionally investing in players who subsequently turned their back on me. The same lesson was harshly dished out by a female acquaintance who I was naive enough to think was the love of my life, only for her to crush my heart.

I have spent much of my life comparing personal highs and lows to those of the team on the pitch. Each season from 2005 has had much promise, admittedly some more than others. The cup runs and league campaigns, which came to bitter endings and led my father to solemnly reassure that, “next season will be better”, have always had magical moments I can’t and won't forget.

Adebayor’s winner against Manchester United at Old Trafford in September, 2006. Thierry’s goals, sad departure to Barcelona and recent fairytale return. Each and every North London derby victory and goal.

It's not just great games and goals though that are nestled in my heart; I'll always remember the little things, like the emotional returns by Eduardo and Ramsey after horrific injuries, each and every player who represents the club, the way the fans always turn up in their droves at the stadium and of course, Arsene Wenger. These events and individuals make up some of my earliest memories and heroes - they are personal philosophers of eminence.

I have memories of anxiously waiting to see and purchase the new home strip then debating with myself about which player’s name and number to have on the back of it. Each strip for me is like a memory vault – bringing back these sensual motifs upon sight.

Most importantly supporting Arsenal has taught me the value of loyalty, how to deal with disappointments and to enjoy the moment.

Even though my teenage self never celebrated a major title I have learnt a great deal since 2005 and know that when we do win something it will be beyond great.

‘Please be tolerant of those who describe a sporting moment as their best ever. We do not lack imagination , nor have we had sad and barren lives; it is just that real life is paler, duller, and contains less potential for unexpected delirium.’ – Nick Hornby.

A BITTER PILL TO SWALLOW

BY JAMES DICKENSON

As a teenager and a prescribed 'Junior Gunner', I managed to get to Highbury for a couple of Arsenal matches as I was growing up. But those home fixtures - often heavy wins against lesser sides or insignificant League Cup games - pale into comparison with the most poignant memory I have of supporting Arsenal so far. That was making the trip to Paris for Arsenal's Champions League Final with Barcelona.

It was to be played on my 16th birthday, and my Dad had been offered two tickets from someone he knew at work. I was slap bang in the middle of a tough GCSE schedule, but luckily didn't have an exam for a few days. Having ignored the teacher's protestations for me to stay home and 'revise', my Mum came round to my Dad's line of argument and off we went to France for the biggest game of our lives.

Barca of 2006 were a great side, but our Arsenal team was not bad itself, with many players from the Invincibles vintage still in the line up. In terms of influential personnel, Fabregas had replaced Vieira, Bergkamp had been left out in favour of a slightly defensive 4-5-1 on route to the final, but we were still enjoying the best of Thierry Henry. It was a big ask, but Arsenal were not huge underdogs. Barca were favourites, but the travelling fans definitely felt it was possible.

So my old man and I set off at 4am the day before the game, catching a cab to North London before a horrendous coach journey pitched up in suburban Paris at about 10 in the morning. Feeling rough and hungry, we bought our metro passes and tubed it into the city. Whilst I have no doubt many fans started boozing right then, there was nearly 10 hours until kickoff and we were shattered. So we picked up some breakfast and set up camp under the Eiffel Tower, promising each other just a quick nap before pre-game prep started in earnest.

Several hours later we woke up dreary but refreshed, and forgetting to actually go up the Eiffel Tower we headed towards the fan park. The more pre-match previews I read the more I began to believe that winning tonight was Arsenal's destiny. "We deserve it", I kept telling my Dad. He was quieter than usual in response.

The fan park at the stadium was pretty good. I guess you usually only see them on TV and never really catch what's going on, but the one at the Parc de Princes certainly got my approval. We played human-size table football, took part in the Heineken penalty shoot-out and sipped luke-warm beer as we ticked down the clock. But it helped pass the time you spend nervously awaiting kick-off for such a stupendously important game. After pleading with another travelling English father-and-son for two programmes, (the official vendors had sold out by the time we remembered) we entered the ground wishing for success.

Everyone knows what happened from here. Tense start, Lehmann red-card, Pires' chance in a showpiece final cut short. Almunia on. The odds had racked up in our opponents favour. But that just made the opening goal even more incredible. When big Sol Campbell headed home Henry's free-kick in the 37th minute, we all started to believe. Perhaps against the odds with a man down we could hold out against the best side in Europe.

However, despite fighting valiantly for 75 minutes, it just wasn't to be. In the second half on came Belletti and Henrik Larsson to devastating effect. 2-1 we lost eventually, as any simmer of hope evaporated from Red and White eyes. We had lost the Champions League Final, and to make matters worse in the back of our minds we had lost our star player. Henry's outrage against Barca's style and tactics in the aftermath of the game did little to convinced hardened fans that he was set for the Nou Camp. Less than 12 months later he had completed his move to Barcelona. Perhaps if we had won he may have never left, but we didn't and he did leave.

Little words were exchanged between my old man and myself on the journey home. As my 50-year-old father drifted off to sleep tired and weary, I fired up my PSP in an ill-fated attempt to win the Champions League for my beloved club. Little did I know at the time, we were to repeat the same situation five years later at Wembley after a dismal Carling Cup final, but I am not embarrassed to admit tears rolled down my face as we left the French capital. What made matters worse was that my handheld repeat of the final finished 1-0 to Arsenal with an Alexander Hleb goal. You know it's a video game when that happens.

We arrived back in London the next morning, awakening to the realisation that our club had not won the most prestigious tournament on earth but had instead faltered at the last stage, with the vocal travelling support wasted upon a runners-up medal. Instead of feeling like a champion, I had woken to the bare fact that I still had half my GCSE's to sit. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

APRIL 1980 - A FOOTBALL MARATHON & THE HERO OF TURIN

BY IAN CASTLE

April 1980 proved to be the most exhausting month in the club’s history. In the 30 days between 2 April and 1 May Arsenal played 11 games – five in the league and six cup ties. Incredibly, although we only won three of those games we still entered the history books.

I went up to Hillsborough for the FA Cup semi-final against Liverpool on 12 April; it was not a memorable match. The game ended 0–0 prompting The Observer to report ‘that this was a match from which no one was due a victory. Rarely can so many gifted players have combined to produce so much scuffling mundanity’.

The replay at Villa Park followed four days later and provided a far more competitive game, but again it ended with the scores level. And so it went on. Three days after the replay, one of those oddities of the League calendar meant we played Liverpool in the League at Anfield – another 1-1 draw – then the Cup marathon continued at Villa Park with yet another 1–1 stalemate.

Finally, in the third replay three days later, at Coventry, when I’m sure the players must have hated the sight of each other, we won. A Brian Talbot goal early in the game secured a 1–0 victory. That series of four games, lasting seven hours, has entered the record books as the longest ever semi-final tie in history. With tied games now decided by penalty shoot-outs, it will remain there for all time. I must therefore take my hat off to my friend Steph and her father Gerry who demonstrated stamina equal to the players by attending every game. But as the tie had taken so long to resolve we now had only nine days to wait for the Final – this time our opponents were West Ham United of Division Two. Another FA Cup appeared within reach.

However, remarkable as it may seem, during the Liverpool marathon we also played a two-legged European Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final against Juventus, the favourites to win the competition. I feel exhausted just thinking about it all.

The first leg at Highbury developed into one of those games that typified the British view of Italian football at the time; niggling fouls, outrageous challenges - ‘dirty tricks’ as one newspaper called it - and in-depth defending. In the end the game revolved around the Italian forward Roberto Bettega. Only eleven minutes into the game he latched on to a poor back pass and broke into the penalty area; a desperate attempt by Brian Talbot to save the situation saw Bettega tumble and the referee point to the spot. 1–0 to Juventus.

About ten minutes later Bettega’s over the top challenge on David O’Leary saw our Irish defender carried off on a stretcher. Then, a few minutes later, Marco Tardelli, booked in the melee that surrounded the challenge on O’Leary, hacked down Liam Brady and got his marching orders. The crowd was baying for blood. One man down but a goal ahead, the Italians withdrew into their shell.

There seemed no way through the solid 10-man defence, until, with just five minutes left on the clock, Brady took a free kick out on the right. In a crowded, anxious penalty area, the ball flicked off the shoulder of Bettega, past Dino Zoff and into the net. Final score 1–1. But Juventus, with an away goal, had the advantage, and having just witnessed their defensive qualities – well for 85 minutes anyway - I, like most other fans, could see our European dream coming to an end in two weeks’ time.  

By the time the game came around I had convinced myself we’d lose. On top of everything else, no British club had ever won there before, nor, for that matter, had any other European team for the past ten years. I listened to the first half on the radio (no such thing as TV coverage of anything as unimportant as a European semi-final) with increasing fatalism. Juventus demonstrated little enthusiasm in pressing for another goal, preferring to rely on their solid defence to see them through on the away goals rule. At half time the score remained 0–0 and stayed like that into the second half. Depressed by the whole thing I retired to the bathroom with the radio and wallowed disconsolately in the bath as the clock ticked down.

Unexpected gifts remain long in the memory and so it was that night. With just two minutes to play, and with the sound of the already boisterously celebrating Juventus fans in Turin penetrating all the way to my bathroom in Hertfordshire, Graham Rix got the ball out on the left, just like he had done at Wembley a year earlier. He moved forward, noticed Dino Zoff at the near-post, and so floated a high cross into the penalty area. Advancing unmarked toward the far post, 18-year-old substitute Paul Vaesson leapt to meet it and head home. It silenced the Italian crowd in an instant – everyone knew what that goal meant. Sitting in my bath it probably took me a half second longer. Then, like Vaesson, I too leapt into the air - and screamed. And as we all learnt at school, for every action there is a reaction; in this instance my action caused a flood of tsunami magnitude to sweep unstoppably across the bathroom floor.

An historic moment in the history of Arsenal Football Club but also, sadly, the highpoint of Vaesson’s all too short injury-ravaged career. Forced to retire from football aged just 21, his life took a downward spiral, leading to his premature death in tragic circumstances eighteen years later. But in April 1980 his face shone out from the back page of every newspaper, hailed the Hero of Turin.

The above is an extract from a chapter in “Arsenal – The Agony and the Ecstasy”, a new book by Ian Castle.

NOT JUST ANOTHER ROLLERCOASTER RIDE

BY @CHANGEARSENAL

In the grand scheme of Arsenal history, the 2011/12 season will largely be forgotten. There are far more noteworthy seasons in our clubs history than our 125 anniversary season, and after the highs and lows of last season, I think it’s safe to say that many of us are quite happy to draw a line under that season, and move onto next season.

In truth, the events of last August meant our title campaign was over before it had even began, and I think it’s fair to say I speak for most Gooners in saying I would have happily accepted 3rd place at any point in the season, considering the summer and the start we had.

We all know the low points, they don’t need revisiting, the media remind us of them enough as it is, however in a season we will largely forget and move on from, there really were some magical moments.

Our worst team in a decade managed to destroy Spurs 5-2, beat Chelsea 5-3 on their own patch, play the eventual champions City off the park in our win at the Emirates, mesmerise a European juggernaut in the blistering first half at home vs Milan, and record a win 7-1 against Blackburn.

Success in football is measured in trophies, that can’t be denied, but as this very website proves, great memories aren’t confined to whether trophies are won or not.

This was the year that the King returned. With the Invincibles largely retired, arguably the greatest player in that team came home. In the annals of history, Arsenal beating Leeds 1-0 at home in an FA Cup 3rd round match will be a mere footnote. But for those of us blessed to be there that night, we witnessed a moment to cherish forever. I’ve been to a lot of football matches in my time, and I’m lucky to support a team who have given me the chance to attend cup finals and victory parades, but in my lifetime I’ve never seen anything quite like it. It was by some distance the best night the new stadium has seen, it was phenomenal.

I remember back in 2004, a commentator said he had run out of superlatives to describe Thierry Henry. Well there are no words I can use to express the unique feeling those of us in the stadium shared that night. It was like nothing else mattered, a hero had returned and delivered us a fairytale.

It wasn’t the only time this season I’d have no words to say.

Ten weeks later on a similarly brisk, cold night in North London, I sat in the same seat, and had watched Arsenal outplay and outperform Newcastle for 95 minutes, yet remain deadlocked at 1-1. The way the season had gone we knew we couldn’t afford to drop points, particularly against a Champions League qualifying rival.

Then it happened. As Vermaelen bundled the ball into the net, scoring us a 95th minute winner, joy transcended the Emirates crowd. I experienced a sensation I’ve never previously encountered: I couldn’t talk. Furthermore, I couldn’t even make a sound. I was jumping up and down with the rest of the crowd, the sheer sense of relief and happiness all around. So happy was I, I had lost the ability to make sound – it was like an ethereal, out-of-body reaction. After a few seconds of deliriously hugging fellow Gooners, I was able to grunt some semblance of a cheer as Vermaelen’s name was cheered out over the tannoy.

Both those games were truly sensational, and experiences I will never forget.

Added to the memorable, last gasp victories over Sunderland, Liverpool and Marseilles, in addition to the remarkable anniversary game vs Everton, there was a fair amount to be excited about this year.

So while we bid the 125 anniversary season a welcome goodbye ( I for one am glad to see the back of it, I’ve been fraught with nerves for 9 months about CL qualification), it’s worth reflecting that, even in a non-vintage year, Arsenal still supplied some breathtaking moments. And for the rollercoaster of emotions that this last season caused, we can always remind our neighbours that it was the year the Spuds were 10 points clear in February, and they still f**ked it up. I think they’ll remember it longer than we will.

A YEAR OF GOODBYES

BY MARK BENNETT / @BASELGOONER

The following entry is a compilation of mini blogs written during the final season at Highbury and first published on HTTP://HIGHBURYFAREWELL.BLOGSPOT.CH/

________________

So the 2005/6 season has started and I have to say farewell to what has been my second home for just under 30 years - Highbury or, as we Gooners say, THOF (The Home of Football).

Many clubs, for a variety of reasons, have changed stadium in recent years and I'm sure their supporters felt all manner of emotions when they did. This season-long blog will hopefully give you an insight into how I’m feeling about the huge forthcoming change in my football life.  

Newcastle United / 14th August 2005 / Premier League / 2-0

Thanks to those lovely chaps at Sky we have the new season’s traditional curtain raiser at 1.30 on a Sunday afternoon. Just great - we have to get up much earlier on a Sunday morning, the pubs don't open until 12.00 and we only have an hour to drink pre-match.

The Bailey was, as usual, awash with barcode supporters - it is a regular away haunt for them, so I disappeared with two mates to Lily Red (ex-wig and gown) - not a great place BUT the cricket was on - August 14th, first game of the football season and we're only halfway through the most intense Ashes series in living memory. The back pages of the tabloids still have Shrek all over them though!

Oh the game - 2-0 (Henry -pen & RvP), not inspiring but a good way to start our final season at Highbury and I did see the first (or maybe I just can't remember any before) streaker at Highbury that I've ever seen.

Fulham / 24th August 2005 / Premier League / 4-1

If the landlord of The Bailey pub is reading this (unlikely I know) please ensure you have London Pride on for Arsenal games (my mates are getting p***ed off with the infrequency of its availability these days) - Thanks! The early season games are normally t-shirt affairs, this one wasn't - a wet & miserable autumnal feel greeted the fans last night. I like Fulham, nice club, try to play football the right way, nice little cottage at the ground and usually six points every season. Compared to their less illustrious neighbours they play attractive & entertaining football BUT we play it better and have now found a plan B - its big, bald and French and called Cygan! Only 181 goals to go Pascal...

FC Thun / 14th September 2005 / Champions League / Group stage / 2-1

A showdown with mighty FC Thun. What do you mean you've never heard of them? They came second in the Swiss league last season and have an annual budget of £2 million (approximately 1/3 of TH14's annual earnings!). We duly stuffed the mighty clockmakers 2-1 with a last minute goal from Dennis after RvP has been sent off for a slightly raised foot!

Everton / 19th September 2005 / Premier League / 2-0

Last night saw us comfortably beat the most uninspiring Everton side I can remember seeing at THOF (and there have been some bad ones). The memory of last season's two games against us seemed to instigate a 9-0-1 formation at times. Two goals from free-kicks (have we finally worked out that it is worth practising them?) - Sol heading in from Reyes on both occasions - meant we were 2-0 up and cruising at half time. Everton's response was to take off their most likely two sources of goals (Cahill & Bent).

This is now the Premiership norm, mediocre teams "rest" their best players against the "big" teams to keep them fit for the relegation "six pointers". Somewhere and at some moment in time clubs, players, managers & chairman lost the plot and the drive became the need to keep receiving Murdoch's lucre whilst completely forgetting the paying public. First people will stop (have stopped) going and, more importantly, then stop paying for SKY. At that point the brown smelly stuff will truly hit the whirly metal thing…

Birmingham City / 2nd October 2005 / Premier League / 1-0

On the way to this game (yet another Sky induced 1.30 kick-off on a Sunday) I had some time to kill and walked past the new stadium at Ashburton Grove. Despite our slow start and many pundits talking of a "crisis" it is so impressive to see my club being so progressive - even if the thought of leaving Highbury will makes me sadder with each day that passes.

Yes there was a game today as well. Not great and it took a rather lucky deflection from a Robin Van persie shot to beat the superb MOTM performance from the Blues' goalkeeper, Maik Taylor.

Manchester City / 22nd October 2005 / Premier League / 1-0

When you leave games like this you know one thing - this is a game that is going to be remembered for a long time…and not because it was a 4-4 thriller! We arrived to see Thierry Henry embrace Ian Wright and be presented with an award for becoming the greatest goalscorer in Arsenal's history - greatest player ever, we shall see? The game showed how Stuart Pearce has got his team organised and why they have reached a lofty position this year. They didn't threaten but they easily stifled our limp display. Not exactly a lot to be remembered so far, huh?

Suddenly Mike Riley sprang into life, correctly (despite some city fans observations) awarded a penalty for a foul on Henry by James, up steps Pires and 1-0 - a penalty efficiently taken. 10 minutes later another foul on Bergkamp leads to another penalty and then the moment which ensures the game will forever be enshrined in the memory of those who were there…for all the wrong (or funniest) reasons.

Our two illustrious Frenchmen have a chat, Bob steps up and then the strangest sight I've seen at Highbury takes place. Bob drags his foot over the top of the ball (just touching it), Thierry runs past and a Man City player boots it clear. Referee Riley then blew for a free-kick. What happened? Well it seems that Bob / Tel were trying to recreate the Cruyff/Olsen goal from 1982 (SEE HERE) and cocked it up. We weren't 4-0 up and at best it was stupid, in reality it was downright unprofessional. Vassell's disallowed goal a few minutes later was a lucky reprieve for the two players. Afterwards TH admitted it was wrong and promised to take all future penalties.

Sparta Prague / 2nd November 2005 / Champions League (group stage) / 3-0

I had to rush back from Paris, avoiding riots and burnt out cars, for this game and for once we had the possibility of an easy qualification for the Champions Leafye knockout stage. I think this is probably the first time we have ever made this task look simple, albeit aided by a particularly easy group. This game may also be the start of a good run for Van Persie. He scored two cracking goals and is beginning to look the part. The result from the Stade de France also helped the mood :-)

Sunderland / 5th November 2005 / Premier League / 3-1

Remember, remember the 5th November (as the saying goes) - well maybe not this one apart from the memory of one of the poorest teams to play at Highbury in its 93 year history. They did score from the only shot they had (from a corner) but otherwise were bereft of ideas and, more interestingly, spirit & fight. The game will have continued to help build confidence and we could be ready to surge forwards BUT we have YET ANOTHER frigging two week break for meaningless (for the most part) international matches. I think only Jose Antonio Reyes and Philippe Senderos have competitive matches with TH going all the way to Martinique to play in a friendly! Whoopee! Still it wasn't as bad as cheering on the Mancs the following day...

Blackburn Rovers / 26th November 2005 / Premier League / 3-0

Game not watched.

Reading / 29th November 2005 / Carling Cup / 3-0

I used the Carling Cup as an opportunity to sit somewhere different from my normal East Lower seat. Thanks to an incompetent Ticketmaster (they don't seem to recognise Gold Membership numbers - though this is no surprise as the club don't either!) and a VERY HELPFUL Arsenal Box Office, I got FRONT row seats in the North Bank Upper Tier. It made my normal seat seem quite poor in comparison but did give hope of great views of the new stadium.

The game itself was lively with a full house (including 7,000+ Reading fans) helped by excellent ticket pricing from Arsenal and a REDaction singing section. This game may have given Steve Coppell an idea of what awaits a likely promotion side next year. We played the kids but with the addition of RvP and JAR up front the difference in class was obvious. Maybe if Kitson had scored when it was 1-0 the score would have been different but minutes later Van Persie showed his class and confidence by getting a superb second goal. All in all a great night (shame I left my bag on a train!)

Ajax / 7th December 2005 / Champions League (group stage) / 0-0

Very strange arriving for the final Champions League Group game knowing we’d not only already qualified comfortably, but were also guaranteed top spot! With Ajax also certain to finish second the game was like a pre-season friendly and a missed penalty and Ajax fans shouting abuse at RvP apart - it was a non-event. However, text messages were relaying the events in Benfica which provided the most entertainment of the night. Gone are the days (did they ever exist) when you supported the "other English" clubs in Europe and so it was with great glee that the Mancs loss in Portugal was received. They didn't even make the UEFA cup!

Chelsea / 18th December 2005 / Premier League / 0-2

Thankfully I can ignore discussing the game itself. We pretty much knew how it would go and even if RvP's goal had been allowed (as it should have been) I'm not entirely convinced we would have won the game, although we may have got a point. The Russians have bought another Premier League title and we have to move on with our own game.

And the main reason I can ignore it is because today was the day that I chose my seat for the new stadium. Although a 10.00am appointment was a little early (especially travelling up from Guildford with a hangover) - it allowed a large breakfast, a trip round the outside of Ashburton Grove and a reccy of new pubs for the next season. There were 5 of us (a group of three - me, Ian and Steve who had sat in the East Stand together plus two other mates - Andy & Steve) and we actually agreed on a location very quickly. So we're all off to the East Stand (lower) right on the halfway line! Have we made the right choice? Well we'll see next season.

Portsmouth / 28th December 2005 / Premier League / 4-0

Game not watched.

Manchester United / 3rd January 2006 / Premier League / 0-0

So as the Russians march away with the league, the two once-mighty armies met for a near meaningless battle. When the central midfield of United is Fletcher and O'Shea you realise how times have changed and with neither a Vieira nor a Keane to be found we sat down and watched the most timid of all Arsenal vs Man Utd games. Even the attempts at controversy were light, a dive by Reyes (?) a possible handball & sending off for Rooney, and a possible penalty on Cesc were all rather pathetic attempts compared to games of yore. Transition is an oft-used word…this season and this game pretty much defined the term.

Cardiff City / 7th January 2006 / FA Cup (3rd round) / 2-1

After the excitement of TH saying "I'm Staying (Ts & Cs TBC of course)", we had the joys of a 1.00pm kick-off (no doubt due the reputation of the Welsh fans), and a 3rd round tie with a number of players rested, injured or, thanks to the Ivory Coast FA, unavailable! With pubs seeming to be varied in their opening times and the avoidance of hardcore Cardiff fans a priority we ended up in the Lil Red on Holloway Rd - I've never seen it so quiet but it still is a horrible pub. Although Cardiff could have scored with their first attack, two superb moves and finishes from Bob effectively settled the game. I've read reports saying, "Arsenal weathered the storm after the Cardiff goal" - well can I just say that they scored with roughly five minutes to play. For the first three of those minutes we played keep ball, only being interrupted by a pitch invader from Wales.

Middlesbrough / 14th January 2006 / Premier League / 7-0

Strange how you approach a game thinking it could be tough - looking at two experienced centre forwards against our two teenagers - and coming away wondering how you could be so wrong. Perhaps that is why I'm not managing a Premiership club! This won't mask our poor away form (a tricky Bolton cup tie awaits after Everton) but it was a pure joy to watch and no football fan could fail to appreciate the way we played and the goals we scored today!

Wigan Athletic / 24th January 2006 / Carling Cup (semi-final, 2nd leg) /2-1 (2-2 agg. Lost on away goals)

Up until the 119th minute when Jason Roberts scored the goal (thanks to some defending that would have shamed schoolboys) that ensured we lost on Away Goals, this had been a most enjoyable evening. The losing of a Carling Cup tie, even with the "big guns" playing, is not particularly galling (sound arrogant?) although it did take the shine off a bit. Last night I sat in the luxury of the West Upper.

I had never been here before (only being in the West Lower once - my first ever game!) and despite the poorly designed corridors and access it was a delight to visit this part of the ground. The old signs look as though they’ve seen many years of service, the bars were small and badly located, but the toilets are still a mile better than the Lower East Stand! We even had the privilege of a near empty pub before the game. Some positives - Gilbert looks a fine ENGLISH prospect and Robin Van Persie is a class act. I never liked Cardiff in February anyway.

West Ham United / 1st February 2006 / Premier League / 2-3

So the main talking point after the game is the disappearance of Sol, something which deflects attention from a pretty tame performance against another decent, but not great side. West Ham (along with Wigan) have proven all the pre-season critics wrong but that is no excuse for the two awful goals we gave away and the hatful of chances we missed. There has been a lot of discussion about our "poor defence" but actually we have the third best in the league – it’s scoring goals that has been our failure and for that we can look at three senior players - Dennis, Bob and Freddie. They have collectively failed to deliver this year and despite the emergence of RvP we are short of firepower and so every goal we concede hurts us more than it should. Oh well - Intertoto Cup anyone???

Bolton Wanderers / 11th February 2006 / Premier League / 1-1

Rarely can a last minute equaliser against a team such as Bolton (trying not to sound arrogant and giving them due respect) have been greeted with such joy. The much maligned Gilberto Silva scoring the goal we patently deserved in the 92nd minute after another MOTM performance from an opposition goalkeeper.

The goal and draw only tells part of the story as Bolton could easily have been 3-0 up in the first 15 minutes of the match and deserved their 1-0 lead at the break. In the second half we dominated but yet again failed to finish. This result indicated to me that we won't get 4th place and we won't be in the Champions League next year - a bit of a shock after eight years, but that's football and too many Arsenal fans have taken for granted our recent success! We need a dose of reality. At least the new stadium is looking good!

Real Madrid / 8th March 2006 / Champions League (1st knockout round, 2nd Leg)/ 0-0 (1-0 on agg.)

Of course, having won the away leg most people would have you believe that the second game at home would be easy. This, of course, doesn't take into account the fact that a) we're the Arsenal and never do it the easy way, b) We're playing Real Madrid, Los Galacticos, Zidane, Beckham, Ronaldo et al and c) it's football.

Thankfully we survived one of the best 0-0 draws you could hope to see (or shred your nerves watching in my case) with a bit of luck (Raul hitting the post), some excellent keeping (Jens from Raul again) and, maybe, we could have sneaked a win (Pires nearly scoring from the halfway line!).

So "one team in Europe" has become the sound - despite the petty xenophobic sniping from Pardew and Taylor regarding the so-called ‘Englishness’ of our team. I'm sorry boy, but we don't care about passports or England winning the World Cup when we watch Arsenal play - we do care about our club being successful and playing the most beautiful football in the country. Here's to the next round - you just know we're going to get Vieira back here at some time!

Liverpool / 12th March 2006 / Premier League / 2-1

I was at the airport when this game was on and only saw the last few minutes of the first half (thanks to the coverage of the Rugby) and had to go to the gate as the second half started. I did manage to see the score - thanks to Blackberry technology so the flight was more enjoyable knowing we had managed an important win. I didn't, however, know that we owed a huge debt to the vision and passing ability of Stevie Gerrard to win the game!

Charlton Athletic / 18th March 2006 / Premier League / 3-0

It was approximately 0 degrees Fahrenheit today and that was without the wind chill factor! Thankfully for Thierry and co. I was skiing in Stowe, Vermont and the weather was a little milder in the UK. I never like missing home games and normally manage to arrange trips so that I only miss one game, maximum, but this year it went horribly wrong. Not only did I miss two matches, but also the final game at Highbury to fall on my birthday – a weak link I know, but this last season will be full of "last evers....". Apparently this was a stroll in the park - as has often been the case in recent seasons with Charlton (and thankfully after that horrible 2-4 a few years back). I'm looking forward to Tuesday now - not a bad return after my holiday.

Juventus / 28th March 2006 / Champions League / quarter-final, 1st leg /  2-0

So Patrick returned and in one of those "changing of the guard" moments that often happen in football a young 18-year-old Spaniard took control of midfield as the Highbury crowd got a glimpse of the future. This match truly epitomised the values of Arsene Wenger - youth, athleticism, technique and pace. Not many Arsenal fans can say they’ve seen anything quite like the performance we put on tonight.

It’s strange to awake to the resounding noise of praise from all quarters, but then it was a great team display that certainly puts us in the driving seat! The only thing that concerned Arsene was us not getting a third goal. Not bad for a back four that we stumbled upon, a bunch of kids and a 4-5-1 system that we sort of tried and now seems the perfect approach for us in Europe.

Aston Villa / 1st April 2006 / Premier League / 5-0

The euphoria surrounding the performance in midweek against Juventus was still in the air before and during this game. There was the emotional remembering of a legend with the reminder that today was five years since the death of "Rocky". It was also great to see that fans can appreciate the true geniuses that transcend club rivalries - Aston Villa fans heartily applauding when TH was substituted after yet another 2 "great goals" worthy of goal of the month. Just for good measure RvP popped up with a gem of an individual goal. So an easy win but a tinge of worry as both Cesc and Eboué went off injured - fingers crossed for Wednesday.

West Bromwich Albion / 15th April 2006 / Premier League / 3-1

We're getting to that point of the season when every game is a "last" of some sort or another. This was the "last" 3pm Saturday kick-off - something that has been more and more of a rarity in the Sky era. The walk down Avenell Roadwill only be taken three more times and each ahead of an incredibly intense game. During this game the players' (and perhaps the crowd's) minds seemed to be on Wednesday and the CL semi-final. It's always dangerous and is very worrying considering who we play between the two legs of the semi!

Thankfully, class told and the day designated as "Dennis Bergkamp Day" was made complete when he rolled back the years to make one before scoring one of his trademark curlers (well pre-2002 it was trademark) to finish off a lacklustre West Brom. It was also nice to hear Bryan "man of the match" Robson whine on & on at the end of the game....

Villarreal / 19th April 2006 / Champions League / semi-final, 1st Leg / 1-0

Well we've one foot in the final but the Spanish side showed enough quality (if not much punch) to suggest they will make it very hard in a week's time. I arrived early to take a last walk around the old stadium and it's a very different place three hours before kick off. The scarf sellers are out in force (do they all have every scarf of every club in Europe?), the stalls are setting up and, strangely, the stadium reverberates to the sound of the Champions' League theme music!

As for the game, this was a different animal to the previous two knockout round home legs. Villarreal are a predominantly South American side who play with a defensive outlook and love the dramatic arts of diving and time-wasting. We had an early goal disallowed (wrongly), they had a good claim for a penalty (only seen after on TV) and we scored the vital goal at a good time. 1-0 was about right and certainly better than the potential 2-1 if the two decisions had been different. So a clean sheet from the greatest European defence ever(!) gives us a 60:40 chance in the final. I hope my Eurostar tickets haven't jinxed it!

Tottenham Hotspur / 22nd April 2006 / Premier League / 1-1

Okay let's be upfront and honest (as hard as it is to say it) - Spurs deserved a point, maybe more, on Saturday. They certainly played the better football until we finally decided to bring on pace and power in the form of Henry, Cesc & Eboué. Eboué has been a revelation since the African Cup of Nations returning with confidence and willingness to drive forward, as well as the pace to be a sturdy right back.

As much as we all love and respect Arsene Wenger, and as much as we hate all things Spud-related, I'm not convinced on this "they should have kicked the ball out" argument. At the time I shouted, "cheat" as much as the next man, but Arsenal’s players stopped and failed to react to the situation. Considering how upset Freddie was on kicking the ball out against the Spanish cheats last week perhaps we need to rethink all this "honour" bollocks.

So the dream of winning the Champions League and taking 4th may now be our only option. Even if Spurs drop points to Bolton or West Ham I'm not expecting us to win our last three games, especially if we get to the Champions League final. Let's face it this may never happen again so let's concentrate on Tuesday’s away game at Villarreal and worry about qualification for next season’s tournament later on.

Wigan Athletic / 7th May 2006 / Premier League / 4-2

Well if you're saying goodbye to a friend of over 30 years it's a good idea to make it one hell of a party. It's also essential that everything goes to plan…and yesterday the football gods worked in perfect harmony!

We did, of course, have to win the last ever game at THOF and thanks to our own earthbound god we managed that part. It was also part of the plan that our neighbour’s attempts to hold onto fourth place (and the Champions League spot) were derailed. For that second scenario we need to stand up and salute the chefs at the Marriott hotel in London, as well as our friends from Upton Park.

And so it was that we said our farewells to ex-players, we reacquainted ourselves with the old marching band and finally departed the stadium for one last time.

Thank You Highbury you will never leave my heart...

LIKE TAKING A DRUG

BY DHRUV KUMAR DANDA

I live in India, in the homely town of Kolkata, and when I was young I developed a love of Arsenal. I didn’t know much about them, aside from they were a club in England and the only team I used to play as on Fifa 99, despite Manchester United being more popular.

I knew the manager was called Arsene Wenger, and figured his name had something to do with why he was hired. I also knew all about Thierry Henry after watching him win the World Cup with France in 1998.

It took time, but gradually I imbibed an interest in the club through watching matches more regularly. It was then that I began to truly admire what it was the club stood for – playing really ‘good’ football.

One moment which for some reason stands out in my mind is the first Arsenal game against Manchester United at the Emirates Stadium and the feelings I felt when Titi scored the last minute winner. I screamed so badly as he celebrated that I lost my voice for quite some time. The joy lasted for about two minutes as Martin Tyler’s commentary sunk in. 

“With a minute to go. The great man produces a great moment for Arsenal at the expense of Manchester United. What a turnaround at the Emirates!”

The feelings I felt in that moment I’d never felt before and I confess from that moment on, football became a real part of my life. In a crude way it was like taking a drug.

I now consider myself a typical Gooner. Yes, I get pissed off with Wenger when we lose. And yes, when we win I feel happy and praise the team. Overall of course, I’m a great admirer of Wenger no matter what – after all, he’s the only manager I’ve known.

His vision for the club is what I like about him most, not to mention the fact he’s made the club financially stable and self-sufficient when others have relied on handouts. So thank you Arsene. I really hope you taste more success at Arsenal, you deserve something special before you leave us.

THE GENT IN THE CREAM SUIT AND ARSENAL TIE

BY HUGO GREENHALGH

Every Gooner remembers their first Arsenal match. However, my first visit was made extra special by the sight of a true Arsenal legend.

The match itself was a 3-0 win against Sunderland, on a lovely Easter afternoon in March 2002. As we know, the team were on their way to completing a second ‘Double’ under Wenger. How I took such success for granted as a 10-year old!

Yet I’d started the day not thinking I’d end up inside the ground. My mum had promised a trip to the Arsenal museum and the club shop to spend a voucher (a £2 birthday present from the Junior Gunners). I used it to get a figurine of Robert Pires. However, it was another Bobby that made my day.

I don’t know if it was the fine weather or the allure of Highbury’s famous marble halls, but my mum said we could try and see if there were any spare tickets at the box office for the day’s game. As it happens, there were, and right bang in the middle of the North Bank. I was about to lose my Arsenal virginity.

Tickets in hand, we crossed Avenell Road and passed a man, still handsome despite his years, in a cream suit and silk Arsenal tie. I caught his eye and we grinned at each other. “Enjoy the game”, he told me. Only once we reached the pavement did I realise who this was. The man from the Arsenal videos and ITV presenter.

It was Bob Wilson.

It’s a memory that has stuck with me ever since. As my passion for Arsenal grew and grew, I came to appreciate quite what a club legend he was. It was 30 years since the club’s first ‘Double’ in 1971; Wilson played every game that season.

Like other members of that team, Pat Rice and Charlie George for instance, Wilson has remained immensely proud of being part of ‘the Arsenal’ and continues to be involved in the setup. His charity work is well known and there are few men who embody the 'Arsenal way' more than Bob Wilson.

With his words in my ears, we took our seats on the North Bank. I remember standing on my seat for most of the game and the legendary stand living up to its reputation; my mum was suitably appalled by the language of the terraces.

Unfortunately, the best action was at the other end and Arsenal had the game wrapped up in the first three minutes. The whistle had barely been blown before Vieira opened the scoring. This was quickly followed by a wonderfully worked second, with Henry teeing up a tap-in for Bergkamp. Wiltord added a third on the half-hour mark.

For all the beautiful attacking play, we defended impeccably that day too. My mum and I agreed Ashley Cole was the man-of-the-match and he really was a fan-favourite back then. It’s memories like this that made his betrayal to Chelsea all the more sour.

I was only lucky enough to go to Highbury once more for the star-studded Testimonial of Martin Keown. Since the Emirates move I’ve been able to go more or less to any game I want.

But I doubt I would have the quite the same fanaticism about Arsenal today if I hadn’t been to Highbury, something I’ve got my mum to thank for. I’m looking forward to taking my children to their first game one day. And maybe we’ll cross paths with David Seaman outside the Emirates…

ANFIELD’S SWEATY COMPOST CORNER

BY SIMON RICH

On the morning of May 26th 1989, I should have been making my way to school. Having turned 16-years-old just three months before, I’d unofficially finished in full-time education but frustratingly still had the pain of a geography GCSE re-take hanging over me.

I had no intention though of taking this exam. I’d already secured a job and was well prepared for the wrath of my parents once they inevitably found out I hadn't turned up. You see this Friday wasn’t any old Friday; it was the climax of the 1988-89 First Division football championship. After a painfully emotional season following Arsenal there was nothing that was going to stop me attending the final game at Anfield.

The Gunners had enjoyed a fantastic season under George Graham. We’d played wonderful football at times and deservedly maintained a title challenge for much of the season. Liverpool of course were considered to be almost invincible and apart from the occasional Everton title, they seem to have won almost every title in the eighties.

As many will recall, until the final two home games Arsenal’s young side looked destined to be champions for the first time in 18 years. And then disaster struck in the form of two very poor results. We’d been due to play Liverpool on Sunday April 23rd, but following the tragic events at Hillsborough we instead faced Norwich at home, Middlesbrough away and then hosted Derby and Wimbledon at Highbury before taking on the Reds.

While six points was secured against the Canaries and Boro, the home game against Derby County, at the time something of a bogey side for us, went very badly.  We ended up on the end of a 2-1 defeat although a very late consolation from Alan Smith was still to prove vital weeks later. 

When Wimbledon visited on a balmy May evening four days later we twice took the lead, our second a Nigel Winterburn piledriver, but still got pegged back and had to settle for a 2-2 draw. Liverpool, having resumed their fixtures, sensed blood and beat QPR before thumping West Ham 5-1. That hammering meant that Arsenal would have to go to Anfield and win by two clear goals to secure the title. Given Liverpool hadn’t lost at home for three years, it looked like our title dreams were over. Our chance had gone.

So there I was lying in bed at 8am on the Friday morning admiring the Arsenal club crest I’d had painted on my bedroom wall. After reaching for my Woodford Bridge (my Essex hometown at the time) Gooners Union Jack I decide, despite not being religious in any way, to pray to the footballing gods to just let this miracle happen: “Please let us win 2-0 and I’ll never ask for anything again.”

I made my way to Highbury on the tube and waited for my older brother Greg to meet me by his car, a crappy white mark3 Escort (I ended up buying it from him a year later). On his arrival we then waited for the travel club coaches to arrive.

We had tickets for coach number 1 out of about 44 and were surprised to see almost half the seats were filled by Arsenal officials and travel club staff. The atmosphere was great, everybody remarkably confident and stressing we had nothing to lose.  

Our coach led the huge convoy as we set off for the M1 and our date with destiny. It was all pretty uneventful until we hit the M6. Suddenly we came to a grinding halt and we barely moved for what seemed like an age. Whoever had scheduled the match for a Friday night hadn’t taken into consideration the fact it was the day before the May bank holiday weekend. With the sun shining it appeared that everyone had taken the day off to drive somewhere on holiday and the traffic was at gridlock.

At first we weren't bothered as this was the travel club coach and they'd never let the game kick off without half the Arsenal supporters there, but how wrong we were. It quickly dawned on us that we had no say in whether the game would be delayed or not and suddenly we all started to worry like hell! I can’t remember how long we were stuck waiting before some news filtered through from Travel Club head honcho Paul Johnson that the game would start 15 minutes late. 15 frigging minutes! Everybody was looking around asking, “Are they having a laugh?” We need at least an extra 45 minutes the way we were going.

As concern grew our bus driver had an idea. I’ve no idea if he was a Arsenal fan, or perhaps he just didn’t give a shit about his job, but he decided that the hard shoulder of the motorway should be a bus lane. We sneaked on and away we went. It was the cue for ecstatic celebrations and chants of “the driver is a Gooner.” 

Suddenly we were going to make it and with some time to spare. I know a lot of supporters missed anything from 5 to 35 minutes of the first half but thanks to our hero driver we were parked up near the Anfield Road stand with enough time to grab a programme before heading to the turnstiles for the infamous ‘compost corner’ terrace.

Anyone who knows the old Anfield layout will remember that most of the Anfield Road stand was seated apart from one corner. It was an awful terrace that went from being about 30 ft wide at the base to about 150 ft wide at the top. In addition to about 1,000 Arsenal fans who were seated, about 3,000 joined me and my brother standing in the compost corner. It’s fair to say the atmosphere was electric.

Two weeks had passed since the rest of the league had finished and combined with the ridiculously good weather, it didn’t feel like a normal evening kick-off, but like a game being played at the height of the off-season. The Gooners who filed in were in great voice.

Having won the FA Cup six days before, Liverpool were rightly confident that they could secure the title and with it another Double. Of course, with Hillsborough so raw in the memory the football fraternity would hardly have begrudged them a victory to honour those who had only recent lost their lives.

At one point there was a thought that Liverpool might pull out of the rest of the season, a decision nobody would have criticised.

Worse for Arsenal was the suggestion that the whole campaign be stopped, a course of action which would have seen a line drawn under so much hard work with no reward. Everybody felt genuine sympathy for the Liverpool supporters and the families of those that passed away at Hillsborough and I’m sure, when it was confirmed the club would indeed finish the season, that they had their fingers crossed for a win.

For us Arsenal fans and for the players the belief that we deserved to win the title was equally strong. The team came out carrying bouquets of flowers which they took to all four sides of Anfield – a gesture which was warmly receieved by the home support and especially the Kop.

When the referee blew his whistle it was down to business, no more generosity, just 90 minutes to play the game of their lives. The opening exchanges were tense but Arsenal pushed and attacked for the whole first half. Liverpool were dangerous at times, but to be fair there were no real clear chances as the sides went back down the tunnel.

At the interval, we sang an unending rendition of “Georgie Graham’s Yellow and Blue Army” and the players returned. I swear they must have heard us as we didn’t stop well into the second half. I won't waffle on about what happened next, we all know what happened. I will though give you an insight as to have things looked from our vantage point, rather than on television.  

When Alan 'Smudger' Smith glanced in Winterburn’s indirect free kick we went mental and celebrated like never before. That was until someone pointed out the referee hadn't given it. We went equally mental at that point…just in anger. It looked as if Liverpool, after complaining the ball had gone straight in, had got their way. Thankfully, somewhere up there in the early summer sky, the footballing gods answered my early prayers. After a consultation with the linesman, the goal was given. We embarked on a second round of delirium!

The rest of the second half is a blur. I remember Thomas having a chance on goal and blowing it and Liverpool having a goal chalked off for what I think was offside. As the clock ticked down, it looked as though our efforts would represent nothing more than a glorious failure, although it didn’t stop us singing proudly.

Edging towards the result they needed, Liverpool tried to run the clock down with Grobbelaar spending as much time as possible time wasting. I didn’t ever see the home side gloating when Kevin Richardson went down with cramp or Steve ‘one minute’ McMahon waving his finger. We were too busy singing.

I do remember Lee Dixon receiving the ball from John Lukic, him lofting it long to Smith and our lanky striker nudging it into the path of Michael Thomas. We held our breath – Mickey had already missed once!

Once again though my football god smiled on us. A lucky ricochet set our No 4 through on goal.  

Being quite short and having to look far to my right from the position I was standing, I lost sight of the ball for a split second. Then in ultra slow-motion  I saw Thomas flicking it into the corner of the goal.

As I mentioned, the first goal was met with crazy celebrations, but this one made me almost die with happiness. I ended up rolling around on the floor like a complete nutter until a young woman pulled me up and proceeded to hug me closer than any fully grown woman, who wasn’t my mum, had ever hugged me before.

On any other occasion this in itself would have been a great moment for a hormonal teenager, but combined with a championship winning goal it was unbelievable! I was continuing the celebrations with my brother and my new cougar girlfriend like a mad man when Liverpool went forward for one last attack. Thankfully the ball was intercepted by Thomas and played back to Lukic.

Seconds later the final whistle went and there were tears of joy all around me. I too was weeping with happiness, albeit out of sight of my brother.  We were champions! Incredibly we had won 2-0. We were in dreamland!

When Tony Adams went to lift the trophy, those Liverpool fans who remained gave our side a standing ovation. It was a moment that will live with me forever and a really classy gesture from our hosts. We celebrated with the players long after the television cameras had gone before eventually being herded back towards our coaches.

It wasn’t so much as a walk to the bus, but a giant Gooner conga. Waiting for us, was our hero driver who’d not been arrested for his earlier antics. We boarded, sang some more, mocked the back pages of the newspapers which had written us off, got pelted with bricks by a few Scouse locals whose goodwill had apparently run thin and then something strange happen. For the rest of the journey there was deathly silence on the coach.

I’ve no idea if we were all just tired and worn out or still in shock that we’d actually done the impossible. We’d witnessed history unfolding before our eyes and no matter what any Manchester City might say it remains the most amazing end to a football campaign.

When we stepped off the coach in Avenell Road outside Highbury’s East stand we could tell from the sea of beer cans and champagne bottles that there had obviously been one hell of a party. I’d have loved to have seen it, but wouldn’t swap my experience in the sweaty compost corner for anything. I was one of the lucky few who had witnessed a miracle at first hand.

I doubt I’ll ever feel what I felt that day ever again. The whole day is an amazing memory. I can only hope that those who weren’t there experience something similar as an Arsenal fan soon. 

in the moment of it all

BY MATTHEW HARVEY

After the rollercoaster season we've just had, it's nice to sometimes reminisce about the good times we've had as Arsenal fans. I’ll always remember for example, the first game I attended with my Dad, will forever cherish the ‘Invincibles’ season and won’t ever forget the day I sat down to watch the North London derby with my new stepbrother, only to find out he was a Spurs fan.

It was December 2nd 2006, the day before my 18th birthday, and my stepbrother, Dad and I went to our local, The Bluebell in Bedford, to watch Arsenal take on Spurs. We weren’t doing well in the league at the time and having lost to Bolton, Fulham and West Ham in the preceding weeks I was very nervous about the derby.

My stepbrother on the other hand was confident. Not only was confidence low after two consecutive defeats, we were also without the injured Thierry Henry and had a nasty habit of conceding the first goal in seemingly every game at our new home.  

I remember the game starting tentatively and it was Spurs who created the first chance, Steed Malbranque starting and nearly finishing a move, only for his shot to fly wide of the post. As it turned out, it was their only real chance of the first half.

Twenty minutes in and Adebayor connected with a ball over the top from Kolo Toure and slotted it neatly past Paul Robinson before running to the touchline to celebrate his goal with Henry. I was ecstatic at us going one-nil up and almost spilt the pint I wasn’t legally supposed to be drinking as my brother and his mates groaned.

Having found a footing in the game, we pressed hard and nearly extended the lead through both Johan Djourou and Adebayor. It was though, Gilberto Silva who finally doubled the lead, netting from the penalty spot after a bad call by the referee at the expense of Pascal Chimbonda.

Half time pints were ordered and downed before the second 45 minutes got under way. It was Spurs who nearly scored next, Lehmann being forced to make a good save to maintain our two goal advantage. Thankfully, the nerves of the Arsenal fans were settled soon after when Gilberto, again from the spot after a bad decision, scored to make it 3-0.

The game ended not too long after and we had won! Yes, decisions had gone our way but I took that as an early birthday present and continued to drink and celebrate with my dad while my brother drowned his sorrows with the rest of the Spurs fans there. 

My favourite part of the day though wasn't the win. It was being there, in the moment of it all. My favourite thing about football has always been the community and the brilliant atmosphere it can generate. That's why I love going to watch the games live (when I can) or down at the pub with my mates. That day, it was like nothing I had experienced before and amongst the smoke and drunken chants I had the time of my life.

A BIRTHDAY THAT FELT LIKE CHRISTMAS

BY RYAN CAMERON

A while back, I submitted an entry to the Memory Bank detailing the first and only time I'd ever watched Arsenal in the flesh, a debut which saw me witness Arsene Wenger's side win the title at Old Trafford on that famous spring evening in 2002. In that piece, I alluded to an upcoming visit to The Emirates Stadium to see them in action for a second time - almost 10 years later. 

The trip was a 21st birthday present from my fiancée, Joanna, and I don't think she'll ever fully appreciated just how much it meant to me. It was a lifelong dream come true. Walking to the stadium from Finsbury Park that evening can only be described as an emotional experience. Seeing people walking from every direction draped in red and white, all for one purpose, all together, kindred spirits, united in the love of our football club. 

It's the sort of feeling that is hard for non-football fans to comprehend. I felt like I belonged, I felt like I had arrived home after twenty-one years. All those years of pretending to be Marc Overmars in the back garden, of checking teletext for Arsenal goal updates, searching the length and width of Northern Ireland to find a JVC Arsenal replica shirt...they had all led me to this one magical moment. I beamed a smile which lasted for days.

As the magnificent stadium came into view, my grin grew even wider. I was experiencing the same sort of feeling I'd had on Christmas Day morning as a kid. Shaking and practically running closer to soak it all in, Joanna was dragged along by the hand. It was a freezing November night and she has no interest in football, but she knew how much it meant to me so she at least pretended to be excited, bless her.

As I gazed open mouthed at the stadium, Joanna drew my attention to a crowd that had gathered outside The Armoury. There were TV cameras in the middle of them, so I knew someone famous was down there. I thought perhaps an ex-player, Pires or maybe Dixon. I had to check it out. Almost elbowing my way through the masses, I saw one of my favourite players, Jack Wilshere, alongside Carl Jenkinson, charity buckets in hand in order to raise funds for Save The Children. A picture with both of them was the cherry on top of my metaphorical cake, and well worth a few quid in the bucket for a great cause.

We took our seats about two hours before kick off. I soaked in the surroundings and savoured every second. Cheesy as it may sound, it was breathtaking, almost dream-like. The match flew by. Thomas Vermaelen popped up with a header to salvage a draw against an impressive Fulham side. I shouted, chanted and appealed like a regular. I knew it may be a while until I was back, so I had to make the most of it!

But the result, for me at least, was irrelevant. I had just witnessed my team in action. Nothing could take that away from me. Joanna had enjoyed the weekend, but for me, it was a day I'll never forget. A truly defining experience. Roll on 2012/2013 so I can do it all again.

YOU’RE NOT SINGING ANYMORE

BY MICKEY DENNIS

I’ve been an Arsenal fan for seven years now, finally taking an interest in international soccer following the 2006 World Cup in Germany. For one reason or another it took 15 years to start properly following the sport which I’d played since I was just 5-years-old, but despite being slow on the uptake I was eager to make up for lost time.

I wanted to pick an English club to follow and knowing that my grandfather had been born in London I wanted it to be a team from the capital. At the time I was certain he’d grown up in Hampstead so I started doing some research and found that Arsenal and Tottenham were the two closest clubs to the area. I vaguely recalled that Arsenal had recently gone unbeaten for an entire season, so I figured they’d be a decent side to follow and began watching videos of games and reading about the history of the club. I was instantly a fan and there was no turning back when I found out I’d got my grandfather’s birthplace wrong and he was actually from Hanwell!

Over the coming years me devotion to Arsenal steadily grew. I watched almost every game and celebrated as much as fan in the United States could, but I knew I needed to visit the Emirates and experience a matchday in the flesh. Having committed to studying in London, my first thought on arrival was to buy a ticket to the first game I could.

It turned out that the FA Cup clash with Aston Villa, earlier this year, was to be my debut. It was only my second weekend in London and I was going to an Arsenal game, I could scarcely believe it. Staying in Regent’s Park, it was very easy to make the journey to the stadium. A couple of short tube rides and I was exiting the tube on Gillespie Road and in seconds could see the top of the Emirates. I don’t think I stopped smiling as I walked following the other fans, I was giddy in fact. Arriving early to ensure I enveloped myself in the experience, I treated myself to a jacket from the club store (I couldn’t resist), before finally entering the stadium to be greeted by the absolutely gorgeous turf.

I was pretty far up, but I had a great view of the field. The Emirates is a really impressive stadium, not just massive, but awesome in its scope and architecture; you can tell every detail has been expertly scrutinised and made perfect. Of course, it may not have the history of Highbury, or other old stadiums, but in time it will start to feel more like home for the supporters. The 60,000 who filed in for the Villa game are proof of the club’s appeal, but on the day I bet I was the most excited around.

As you might remember, January represented something of a sticky patch for the Gunners. The tough period was obviously taking its toll on the supporters, most of whom were grumbling their dissatisfaction before the game. When the starting lineups were announced, it got worse and then worse still after the game got going.

The guy sitting next to me was (correctly as it happened) unhappy with Fabianski and said he’d rather have a Szczesny in goal playing with a broken leg. I couldn’t disagree with him, I felt a tightening in my chest whenever the ball entered our final third! My neighbour soon began to moan about Theo Walcott. “He can’t dribble, can’t shoot, can’t take people on, can’t defend. The only thing he does well is run.”

As Arsenal struggled to get to grips with the game, the home fans grew quieter and quieter while the Aston Villa fans became louder and louder. It was humiliating. We half-heartedly sang chants trying to show support, but it was hard. It was an uncomfortable silence that came down upon the stadium at half-time with the scoreboard showing Villa two-nil up.

Thankfully the second half was a completely different story. From the first kick, it was obvious Arsenal meant business and there was a noticeable buzz on the terraces. Each chant was more full bodied and there was a strong belief we could get a result. Then Arsenal were awarded a penalty kick. “Off, off, off,” chanted the fans at Villa’s guilty man Richard Dunne. He was already on a booking, but was reprieved by the referee. I was nervous when Van Persie stepped up to take the kick, but it wasn’t long before the, “He scores when he wants” chant was being heartily sung for the captain.

Two minutes later, Walcott made a great run towards goal. Just as it looked like he’d messed it all up, his toe poke towards goal was cleared against his chest and dribbled over the line. The guy next to me was about to complain about another wasted chance by Walcott, but stopped short and jumped up with the rest of us to celebrate the equaliser. “Theo, Theo, Theo” echoed around the stadium, followed quickly by “You’re not singing anymore” firmly directed at the visiting fans.

Not long after, another penalty kick was awarded to Arsene Wenger’s men and van Persie stepped up and put it away without hesitation. Our comeback was complete and the noise was deafening. The place went absolutely nuts with everyone jumping and screaming with an exuberance that was nowhere to be found in the first half.

Naturally choice words were aimed at the Villa fans after their collapse screaming “Who are ya, who are ya, who are ya,” was screamed by everyone, before a guy behind me added, “c***s from the Midlands and their stupid f***ing Northern accents.” Further fun came when our fans played ‘keepsies’ with the ball after it had gone out of play. Several times it got close to the pitch, only for it to be again hurled back into the crowd; boos jokingly rang out when play was finally able to re-start, but they were soon replaced by more singing.

 The chanting absolutely made my day and being part of a noisy crowd for the first time made me feel like a proper fan. I got chills taking it all in. Heading home, I felt a tremendous amount of pride knowing I’d played my part while watching my team win a superb game. I can’t wait to go back.

MEETING BOBBY

BY REUBEN LEWIS

On Saturday the 12th of May, I met my hero Robert Pires, and I hope my story of how and what happened leading up to this miraculous event will fill your hearts with warmth and joy!

With my exams around the corner, this weekend was not expected to consist of anything other than worrying about Arsenal revision. However, on Saturday afternoon, my French mate Nathan texted me saying Robert Pires would be playing in a charity match at Craven Cottage that night, knowing he is my hero. I wondered how could this be? After all Robert was supposed to be in India. I instantly asked Nathan of his source; apparently his football coach is good friends with Pires and was also playing. That's good enough I thought.

I rampaged through the house, destroying all that came before me, in search of a permanent marker pen. Success! I carefully removed my Pires poster from my wall, got my Arsenal scarf, and set off to Craven Cottage, dribbling at the thought of meeting Bobby - the man the word dreamy was invented for. But more importantly, he is a legend, who throughout my life I've tried to emulate on the pitch, and also with facial hair. I have tried in vain on numerous occasions to grow a goatee. All God has given me is bloody bumfluff! I may or may not have once cut a bit of hair off and stuck it on my chin; however I do not wish to comment on speculation.

I entered a deserted Craven Cottage, and caught a glimpse of Bobby. If there was such thing as being drunk with excitement, then I most certainly was. There were only 20 people there; wives, girlfriends, friends. And me and Nathan. It seemed a pretty private affair which meant I was definitely going to get the chance to meet him. Pires got the ball, shimmied past an overweight balding man, and slotted it beyond the keeper. I stood up, surrounded by the family and friends of those involved, and started singing at the top of my voice, "SUPER BOBBY PIRES".

Then. Then. Jogging back to the halfway line, he saw me, Arsenal scarf aloft, singing his name - and waved. I felt like a 14-year-old girl who just received a smile from Justin Bieber. But whatever, I didn't care. From his point of view, I probably looked like a drunk hooligan/fanboy who had somehow broken into the ground. Looking back on it.... I think he was waving at security to eject me from the stands... Damn.

At half time, he came up to the stand, presumably to see his friends/wife. We were all pretty close to each other, so I jumped off my seat, pen and poster in hand, and approached him. I think my exact words were: "DFHGVJBNKMROB". I looked at him. He looked at me.

Destiny.

After a bit of incoherent jabbering from myself, I got a picture with him, and he signed my poster.

Play resumed and 45 minutes later, after several more Pires goals - celebrated by myself in a manner that the word 'exaggerated' doesn't do justice - the game was over. We walked down to the front and one of the other players invited Nathan and I onto the pitch for another picture with Pires. I asked Bobby for his boots (no harm in trying) and he laughed and said 'No my friend, I need them for next week - I'm going to Cameroon for a charity match, with Alex Song!' *EXCLUSIVE* news from the Wonder of Wenger. In The Know and all that.

It was an amazing evening. The prospect of meeting Robert Pires has been a dream *Cringe-O-meter in overdrive* ever since I first saw him in an Arsenal shirt. The way he caressed the ball and split defences open at will - it's how football should be played. Every time I wear my Arsenal scarf I will know it has been on the neck of a legend.

And Robert Pires.

Up The Arse! (An appropriate sign-off, continuing the homoerotic theme to this article)

ONE GOAL, THREE POINTS AND A CHISEL

BY SIMON RICH

Back in the day I used to travel with my brother Greg up and down the country to home and away games no matter how important they were. Whether it was a League Cup 2nd round game away from home, or a crunch game at Highbury, we were there. One particularly memorable trip began on a Saturday morning in October 1990…

Things were looking good for The Arsenal, unbeaten in the league and playing attractive football we were in with a shout of the title. It all added to the usual excitement of travelling to an away game at Old Trafford, even though I’d never seen us win there. I was 17 at the time and had seen us lose the previous year 4-1 and watched us draw 1-1 in the 88/89 championship season.

Instead of making the journey with the official travel club as usual we opted to travel in style in my brothers not so luxurious maroon Ford Orion. As you might expect, I don't remember much of the journey, but I do know we got caught in traffic near Manchester and were pretty worried we might not make it to the stadium in time for kick off. Eventually we parked up as close as we could and started jogging to the away end mindfully hiding our Arsenal shirts from view.

I new we’d been spotted when I heard shouts behind us, but I didn’t expect what happened next. I turned around to see my brother being thrown backwards over a dwarf wall and then getting threatened by United supporters with London accents. Not only did they inform us that they were the ‘Cockney Reds’, but that we were also on their manor. If we weren’t careful my brother was warned he’d get a chisel to his face.

As funny as a chisel sounds, as a choice of weapon, looking back it could have been nasty; luckily the chisel never appeared. The police saw what was going on and we were left to leg it to the rest of the Arsenal fans. Just as we were crossing a road a local United supporter approached us (rare I know) and apologised for what happened. He quickly made clear only real Mancs had the right to beat us up!!!

The game itself has passed into Arsenal folklore. A scrappy and tense game of few chances it exploded into life in the second half when 21 players became embroiled in a massive brawl.

It started with Nigel Winterburn going in hard against Brian McClair. The two players had a history of going for each other since ‘Nutty’ had mocked the Scot for missing a last minute penalty two years earlier at Highbury in a cup game which we ended up winning 2-1.

McClair obviously hadn't forgotten this and, helped by Dennis Irwin, proceeded to kick the shit out of Winterburn who was still on the floor. As you’d expect; cue handbags, pushing, shoving and a rather nifty right hook by little Anders Limpar on McClair’s cheek. While Tony Adams and Michael Thomas appeared to be pushing the feisty United striker away from the fight, acting as peacemakers, in truth they looked like they were trying to throttle him.

The ref finally regained control after several minutes before flashing his yellow card a million times and resuming the game. Quite how McClair, Irwin and Limpar didn’t get red cards I’ll never know, instead The FA took matters into their own hands. Arsenal were eventually docked two points, while United had a solitary point taken from the.

It looks as though the authorities chose to come down harder on George Graham’s men, despite United being the aggressors, as the Highbury boys were already on a warning after a massive punch-up with Norwich City the season before. With a £75,000 fine to boot it was a big punishment and to this day, as far as I can recall, no other side has been sentenced so heavily. It’s an amazing situation given these things happen week in, week out; a definite sign of an anti-Arsenal bias if you ask me.

Anyway…back to the game. Before the fight had begun we’d started to take hold of the game and in one of our few opportunities we snatched the lead. From an impossibly tight angle Anders Limpar, pretty much standing on the goal line, curled the ball home at the near post. The reaction from the travelling army of 4,000 was the craziest I’ve ever experienced.

One of my brother’s mates, a United fan who was sitting above us, said he’d never seen any away fans go so crazy for so long. When the final whistle blew, we were still unbeaten and of course went on to win the league in style. Despite one defeat to Chelsea and the two deducted points nobody could stop us.

As for the journey back to my brother’s maroon Orion? Well let’s just say we never saw Mr Chisel, as he came to be known, ever again. We jumped into the car in one piece and three points better off.

SHOCK, ANXIETY, DISBELIEF, PANIC, DESPAIR AND ANGER

BY STEVEN PYE

As an Arsenal fan of nearly 30 years, it is quite hard to put into words just how inept the early to mid-80s team could be. On their day they were a match for anyone, as this 3-1 destruction of Liverpool in September ‘84 emphasises. But when the mood took them, they were often capable of displaying levels of mediocrity that simply drove Arsenal fans insane.

As Nick Hornby concluded in Fever Pitch: "That Arsenal team – full of cliques and overpaid, over-the-hill stars – would never be bad enough to go down, but never good enough to win anything, and the stasis made you want to scream with frustration." Precisely.

So when I agreed to follow in my Dad's footsteps and support the mighty Gunners in 1983 you would have thought I needed my head examined. Rather cleverly, the old man failed to show me a league table, or any recent (post-Brady) results, so I was blissfully unaware of any potential issues with following his lead.

Since that day I have been eternally grateful that my Dad showed me the light, although as an 8-year-old boy I was already beginning to regret my decision ever so slightly. Going to school/football training would often be taxing, with the masses of Liverpool, Manchester United and Tottenham fans hurling abuse at me on regular occasions. When even Watford fans are laughing at you, then as a child you start wondering if it is all worth it.

There were the occasional moments of hope: beating Tottenham 4-2 away in the league on Boxing Day ‘83; Tony Woodcock's five-goal salvo away at Villa in October ‘83; beating Tottenham 2-1 away in the League Cup in November ‘83. But the latter victory merely served to highlight our inconsistency. Having beaten our fiercest rivals away from home in an intense cup tie, we then proceeded to lose 2-1 at home to Third Division Walsall in the next round. From high to low in the space of 20 days. Terry Neill departed shortly afterwards but with Don Howe replacing him, it seemed very much a case of same-old-same-old.

If I had hoped that an FA Cup run in 1984 would provide some light relief then I was greatly disappointed. A 3-2 defeat at Second Division Middlesbrough was a hammer blow to my already fragile esteem. To make matters worse I'd had to endure a trip to the local panto to watch Mother Goose, and on returning my mood was not improved when my Mum replied negatively to my "Did Arsenal win?" question. I was fast coming to the conclusion that this team were going nowhere fast, not a bad assessment for someone so young.

Of course, being Arsenal in this period, we did get some rare glimpses of what might be possible. For the first 12 games of the 84-85 season, we were flying, winning 8 of these games and topping the table at the end of October. It couldn't last of course and within a few weeks we were back to our annoying best, even managing to throw in a League Cup defeat to Second Division Oxford (I'm getting sick of these divisional prefixes).

Come January my hopes for an FA Cup run were minimal to say the least. We did get past the third round this time, although this wasn't as easy as it should have been. A 1-1 draw at Fourth Division Hereford (there I go again) was almost disastrous, Hereford's Ollie Kearns contriving to miss a guilt-edged chance late on, and the giant killing was averted at Highbury in a 7-2 thrashing. We were only delaying the inevitable however.

Bootham Crescent, York, Saturday January 26, 1985. A sentence as chilling as the day itself. An ice and snow covered pitch up north was a recipe for disaster for our "song-and-dance brigade", and as I listened to the game on Radio 2 it was a gut-wrenching experience. As the goalless game drifted on I stupidly allowed myself to think that we had avoided the ignominy of defeat, and contemplated that school on Monday wouldn't be half as bad as I had expected. I even considered whether we could better the 7-2 Hereford score in the replay, and pondered who we might get in a favourable fifth round draw. I should have known better, as Jim Diamond had noted a few months earlier. All of a sudden I could hear a raised voice on the radio and the enormity of the event hit me: York had been awarded a last minute penalty.

When an incident such as York happens to you in sport it is hard to describe just what emotions you go through, but I will try and have a go: shock, anxiety, disbelief, panic, hope (that they might miss), anxiety again, despair, anger and resignation. As soon as Keith Houchen scored that penalty, all I could think of was Monday morning at school, grinning faces, mental torture, and the sheer embarrassment of it all. And I wanted to run away, never go to school again, quickly wishing that my Dad had not introduced me to such a stupid game and abysmal team. Of course Arsenal might equalise, but deep down, even then, you know that they won't, and the final whistle goes and you're in state of sheer panic at the prospect of ever meeting anyone vaguely interested in football again.

I'm sure I tried to invent a mystery illness to avoid the "banter" at school. My parents probably knew what I was up to though, and sure enough I made it to the school gates, my fear growing with every step. On entering the playground they were all there of course, pointing and sniggering, thankfully unable to think of any witty songs that might lead to my stiff bottom lip quivering with the shame of it all. But as soon as the jibes had begun we all moved on, and it was hardly mentioned for the rest of the day. My concerns had been slightly exaggerated, somehow the inner turmoil I was suffering had allowed me to think that my life would never be the same again. Even so, I'm still not sure I've ever fully got over York.

In time Steve Williams would become one of my favourite Arsenal players, but at the time I wasn't sure I could ever forgive him. Of course time moves on and the fickleness of us fans means our memories can sometimes be short and we forgive and forget a little. Anyone who saw me celebrating Coventry's second equaliser in the 1987 FA Cup final would certainly vouch for that.

ONE DENNIS, TWO TRIBUTES

BY SAM DREW

I’m still not quite sure how it happened, but on Saturday 15th April 2006 I ended up dishing out orange t-shirts at Highbury before Arsenal’s Premier League match against West Brom. The game is still known for being Dennis Bergkamp day, and the shirts were commemorating exactly that.

Bergkamp’s contract was up at the end of the season, and in our final season at Highbury it was a chance to dedicate a day to the Iceman, although he was eligible for a testimonial once he left; more on that later.

I was only 10 in 2006, so I don’t have a brilliant recognition of the game. In the race for Champions League football, we went 1-0 up, but the Baggies hauled themselves level as the clock ticked towards the 90-minute mark. By this time Dennis Bergkamp had entered the fray, and surely he wasn’t about to let his day be spoiled?

Of course he wasn’t. The Dutchman set up Robert Pires to put Arsenal back in front just a few minutes after Nigel Quashie’s equaliser, and things looked rosy again. And then, the part of the game I remember the most vividly. With two minutes remaining, Bergkamp collected the ball outside the area in space. Taking two touches to set himself, he arced a majestic shot past the West Brom goalkeeper’s despairing dive and into the back of the net. A flood of orange erupted behind the goal.

It was a fitting way for Bergkamp to score what would be his final goal for Arsenal, and a fantastic tribute to the magnificent number 10. Fast forward a few months, just down the road at the Emirates Stadium, another tribute was being paid to Bergkamp at his testimonial, and once again I was involved.

This time I do remember how it came to pass; my dad e-mailed me a link to a competition on Arsenal.com to become a flag-bearer/mascot as the teams came out of the tunnel. The question asked how many teams Dennis scored against for Arsenal, and at first I had no clue. Then one was given by the website, and I was again pointed in the right direction by my dad.

Apparently the answer was the same number of games as we famously went unbeaten between 2003 & 2005, and of course I knew the answer and entered. A while later I received a phone call saying that I’d won, and I would be one of 49 mascots waving a flag on the pitch before the game.

I arrived fully kitted out in my new Arsenal home strip, and I was given the Newcastle flag to wave; immediately I realised its significance, given that he scored arguably the greatest Premier League goal against the Magpies.

Underneath the stadium I saw some sights – it was almost like I was Charlie in Willy Wenger’s chocolate factory. One of these sights was, if I recall correctly, Nwankwo Kanu and Kolo Toure riding around on a luggage car in the players’ car park.

It soon came the time to line up in the tunnel, and we did so – several high profile faces walked past us, and we reached out to touch some of our heroes as they strolled along. Then came Arsene Wenger, and let me tell you he seemed far taller than on TV. Having been so eager to make physical contact with the players, we mascots were much more afraid to do the same with Arsene, and we all backed off, slightly intimidated by his presence and aura.

And then, Dennis. Hands reached out and were duly fived and grasped. As he moved past me, I tried to do the same – but a rather large woman alongside him barged my outstretched hand out of the way. I will never forgive her.

The experience on the pitch was incredible, and I’ll never forget the moment I walked out onto the newly-laid, lush Emirates turf. Savouring every second, I found my place on the semi circle, and when signalled to do so began to wave my flag.

After the initial ceremony, the game itself was also a fitting tribute to Mr Bergkamp. Gilles Grimandi even scythed down Edgar Davids when the Tottenham midfielder was faced with an open goal, with our now-scout Grimandi desperate to deny a Tottenham player the first Emirates Stadium goal. When shown the red card, Grimandi simply shrugged nonchalantly as if to say “Worth it”.

Frank de Boer missed the penalty, but Klaas-Jan Huntelaar scored the first goal at the new stadium for the Ajax side. But after goals from Kanu and Thierry Henry, a victory was sealed, and Dennis’ side walked out victorious.

With the debate over who was better for Arsenal, Bergkamp or Henry, my involvement in two tributes to Dennis make it incredibly hard to ignore him. His legacy brought about one of the greatest days of my life, so it’s incredibly difficult to look past him when discussing Arsenal legends. While Henry is the one with a statue, it surely won’t be long before Bergkamp is immortalized in bronze outside the place where six years ago we bade him a wonderful farewell.

IN MY DAD’S FOOTSTEPS

BY TASHA EVERALL

I’ve grown up with my father’s stories of The Arsenal. He’s told me countless times how he wouldn’t leave the house if they lost and how he used to go to matches sporting makeshift jeans with a red and white scarf sewn down the seams on each leg and how he never failed to wear either the home or away shirt and his Levi jacket with two badges proudly proclaiming his Gunners affiliation.

I seemed to follow in his footsteps as a child. A fully-fledged tomboy, I would go to school discos in jeans and my Arsenal shirt, even though I wasn't particularly interested in the team. I would watch all the matches with Dad at my uncle’s house, but I’d often fall asleep or lose interest. I wanted Arsenal to win because Dad wanted Arsenal to win.

Something changed when Dad moved out. It wasn’t one significant moment; it was something that gradually developed in my heart. I found myself glancing at the Arsenal website for the scores to check if they had won. Then I found myself keeping an eye on the matches whilst they were happening. It was something of my Dad that I could hold onto. Now I never miss a game.

I distinctly remember one occasion when Dad came to pick me up and I was wearing my red Dreamcast shirt. He didn’t tell me where we were going, but he did let on that it would involve a train journey.

“Are we going to see Arsenal?!” I asked. “Don’t be silly, I can’t afford that,” was his response. “But we can’t pass the train station without having a look…”

And there it was, Highbury Stadium. A sea of red shirts, just like mine, all the way up the road. He ended up buying a ticket off of a tout for a ridiculous sum of money, in row Z. Arsenal against Manchester City wasn’t as big a game in 2004 as it is these days. It was though Jose Antonio Reye’s debut and also the day David Seaman (my hero) took to the pitch and received a standing ovation as he waved goodbye to the Highbury crowd.

I remember spending quite a lot of the time watching Dad’s enjoyment of the occasion; I even missed a goal, then rapidly looked back at the pitch for the replay. There was no replay…I wasn’t used to this, but I loved it. The noise of the crowd was music to my ears, the noise of my Dads elation was music to my heart.

I had seen the highs and lows that my Dad had experienced, and no matter how deep down in the depths of hell those lows seemed to be, there was always something that intrigued me about the highs. How could someone’s week, month, year(?!) be affected by what happens on that pitch. Now I understand.

I am now 19-years-old and have moved in with my Dad. His football obsession started to diminish around the same time mine was flourishing, but he always cared. Since I’ve begun living with him again that obsession has once again found its spark. He now reads the same blogs as me every morning, and watches every game. We sit out on the patio for hours discussing the ins and outs of our glorious team and of the beautiful game. I like to think I have done for him what he done for me, he showed me my Arsenal, I rekindled his Arsenal.

I cannot imagine any team taking ownership of my heart the way The Arsenal has. They are the one constant thing in my life, they have always been there, and always will be there. It’s an unexplainable feeling, an unprintable love. And for that, I cannot thank my Dad enough.

just 14 more minutes

BY RASHEED CLARKE

As a Canadian, I’ve come to accept that hockey coverage will inevitably dominate the local sports media. As an Arsenal FC supporter, that makes life frustrating. Canadian newspapers publish footie scores in tiny print on the back pages of their sports sections, and television networks rarely broadcast Arsenal matches.

Luckily for me, the 2006 Champion’s League Final carried enough cachet to warrant a televised broadcast. Plus, with the four-hour time difference between Europe and North America, the Canadian sports broadcaster TSN (The Sports Network) could show the Final in the afternoon without sacrificing evening timeslots reserved for obligatory hockey coverage.

That rare treat of watching Arsenal on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 17th, 2006, in the Champion’s League Final no less, remains one of my most vivid Arsenal memories.

~ ~ ~

I work as a traffic reporter for a radio station in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Inside News 95.7’s traffic centre, I fix my eyes on my computer screen, studying the online articles previewing the UEFA Champion’s League Final. Between the web pages, I monitor the region’s traffic cameras and announce updates for Halifax’s motorists:

“Well just a minor bunch up on the inbound 102 heading onto Bayers Road, just normal there. So far we’re trouble free on both the inbound 111 and 118. On the MacKay and MacDonald Bridges, moderate volume heading into Halifax, but still pretty light if you’re heading into Dartmouth.”

Traffic in the city flows smoothly on most days, which makes for blissful motorists and bored traffic reporters. Throughout my 5 a.m. – noon shift, I browse from one football website to another, reviewing the paths that Arsenal and Barcelona each took to reach the Final of Europe’s most illustrious club competition. I announce my last report of the day at 12:01 p.m. I scramble to gather my keys and fling my black messenger bag over my shoulder.

“Have a good day guys,” I shout to Natalie, Doug, Erica, Ruth and Alison – my co-workers in the newsroom. I don’t linger to see how or if they respond, I just bolt to the station’s parking lot and jump into my car for the five-minute drive home. I make it home in three.

3:43 p.m.

I tune the TV to TSN and watch the Arsenal and Barcelona players walk out of their dressing rooms and down a long tunnel that leads them onto the pitch of Stade de France in Paris. Barcelona’s players wear blue and red striped shirts with red shorts and blue socks. The Gunners wear their change strip – yellow shirts with dark grey shorts and socks. The television camera scans the faces of Arsenal’s starting eleven. I smash my sweaty hands together in applause.

The Champion’s League anthem plays as I gaze at the three Arsenal jerseys I hung on the living room wall when I moved in. They make wonderful décor in my otherwise sparse one-bedroom apartment. Besides, who on Earth would confine such chic apparel to a closet? The navy blue 2002-03 away shirt hangs on the far right. The maroon 2005-06 home shirt hangs on the far left, its gold printing commemorating Arsenal’s final season at Highbury shines in the afternoon sun. In the middle hangs my first Arsenal top – the red and white 1994-96 home shirt. My father bought it for me on a trip to London to visit my aunt, uncle and two cousins when I was nine years old. From the moment I put on that shirt and received disgusted looks from my cousins – both Manchester United supporters – Arsenal was the club for me.

My monotonous job demands 3:30 a.m. wake up alarms, I don’t have a girlfriend, and my immediate family lives 785 miles away in Toronto. But I have Arsenal – the refreshing antidote to my life’s dreariness. I kiss my hand and touch the Arsenal crest stitched on the 94-96 home shirt.

I plant my bare feet on the hardwood floor in front of the television and stand cross-armed – my usual position when watching important Arsenal matches. The referee blows his whistle. Arsenal takes to the attack. An early cross from right back Emmanuel Eboué finds Thierry Henry near the penalty spot. Henry takes the pass down with his right foot then pokes a shot on goal only to have Victor Valdés turn the ball away for a corner. I send a loud, angry moan out the screen door.

Eighteen minutes in, Ronaldinho slips a pass through the Arsenal defense and sends Samuel Eto’o in alone on goal. Jens Lehmann rushes forward from his net and slides towards Eto’o’s feet at the edge of the penalty area. Eto’o crashes to the turf, the ball bounces out right towards Ludovic Giuly, and he tucks it into the net. The referee pulls the play back, races over to Lehmann, reaches into his back pocket and flashes a red card before Jens.

“Get the fuck out! No way that’s a red!” I scream at the TV.

I sigh then whisper, “Damn it.”

I cover my mouth with both hands and watch Mad Jens walk off the pitch, to a pat on the back from Arsène Wenger on the touchline before disappearing into the tunnel. I remember Lehmann’s outstanding play in the matches leading up to the Final. He kept clean sheets in Arsenal’s previous six matches and stopped a Juan Riquelme penalty in the dying minutes of the semi-final second leg against Villareal to clinch Arsenal’s spot in the Final.

Robert Pires comes off and is replaced by Manuel Almunia, who takes his place between the posts. Nothing comes from Barcelona’s free kick on the edge of the area. Down to ten men, Arsenal press on.

I glance through my screen door and watch two of my neighbours walk into the parking lot and settle into their car. I wonder what the hell they could possibly find more important than watching the Champion’s League Final.

Thirty-five minutes in, Arsenal win a free kick on the flank just outside the penalty area to Valdés’ left. Henry places the ball on a spot of lush green grass and takes three steps backwards. With a swing of his right foot, he lofts the ball into the box where Sol Campbell’s smooth head meets it, powers it towards the back post and into the Barcelona net.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I jump around the living room. “Fuckin’ right Sol! Yes!”

My eyes well up and I collapse to my knees an arm’s length from the TV. Campbell runs to the sidelines, leaps and punches the air. Arsenal’s supporters at the Stade de France erupt in a mass of yellow jubilation. The Gunners make it to halftime a goal to the good and I sit down on the edge of the sofa.

As the highlights from the first half flicker on the screen I think back to last season’s Champion’s League Final between Liverpool and AC Milan. I watched the game in a pub in downtown Toronto where drunken Reds fans bumped into each other and splashed beer all over the place. I hated the crowds, I hated the noise, I hated the fact that Liverpool won. I love watching Arsenal’s matches alone so I can be as emphatic and undistracted and obscene as I want.

The second half begins and I spring up from the sofa and assume my stance. The ecstasy of Campbell’s goal gives way to a sense of worry as Barcelona buzz in front of Arsenal’s net. They string passes together and pepper Almunia. The minutes tick away and I regain my voice.

“That’s it Ashley, great tackle.”

“Oh fuck off ref that’s not a free kick!”

“Away! Away! That’s it Kolo!”

“What a fucking dive!”

Fourteen minutes from full time, we’re still up 1-0. So close. So close to our first ever Champion’s League title. So close to sending a gloating email to my cousins in London. So close to creating a memory that I can happily relive with any Arsenal fan I meet.

“Hold on guys, just fourteen more minutes,” I whisper.

Barcelona build again from the back. Barcelona’s substitute Andrés Iniesta plays a pass along the deck into Arsenal’s penalty area. Another Barca sub, Henrik Larsson, steers it with his right boot toward Eto’o. Eto’o looks a shade offside, but the linesman’s flag stays down. Eto’o takes a touch to get it on his right and sneaks his shot past Almunia inside the near post.

“Fuck!” My fist swings in front of the TV. The momentum of my flailing arm spins my whole body around. The Barcelona fans at the Stade de France bounce up and down, waving red and blue flags.

Eightieth minute. Barcelona’s third substitute, Juliano Belletti, slides a pass into the box for Larsson. Larsson takes the ball out wide and Belletti continues his run into the Arsenal penalty area. Larsson plays it in to Belletti who takes the pass to the near side of the six-yard box and strikes a shot on goal. The shot hits the inside of Almunia’s right calf and bounces into the Arsenal net.

“Nooooo. Nooo. Damn it!” I collapse into a squat and pound the hardwood floor with both palms. Barcelona’s players pile on top of Belletti. The match commentator announces that Belletti just scored his first ever goal in European football, his first ever goal for Barcelona.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

I stand again, cross-armed. My legs jiggle while the remaining ten minutes wind down. Cheering on the exhausted Arsenal ten, I hope for a bit of luck – a hoofed Arsenal clearance that bounces over Valdés and into his net, a Barcelona own goal, a streaker who distracts the Barcelona players just long enough for Freddie Ljungberg to run forward and score for the Gunners.

Something.

Anything.

Nothing.

The final whistle sounds.

Barcelona 2, Arsenal 1.

I tug at my curly black hair and pace around the living room. The TV camera scans the faces of the Gunners. We look at each other with blank stares and damp eyes.

I applaud the Gunners as they receive their runners-up medals, then I look on in silence at a blurry image of Barcelona captain Carles Puyol lifting the gleaming silver Champion’s League trophy above his head, beneath a shower of red and blue confetti. I predict a sleepless night ahead.

My alarm goes off at 3:30 a.m. as it does every weekday. I feel groggy. I have a headache, a dry mouth and a sore throat. I pluck the 94-96 red and white Arsenal shirt off the living room wall and wear it to work. It fits perfectly.

“Well a pretty light drive so far this morning on the major routes. The 101, 102, and 111 are all in great shape, and we’re still moving along with light volume on both the MacKay and MacDonald Bridges into Halifax and Dartmouth.”

I wonder why the referee didn’t just allow play to continue after Lehmann’s tackle on Eto’o. Barcelona would have scored, but Arsenal may have still had eleven players. I wonder what the game would have been like if Pires didn’t have to be sacrificed as Almunia’s entry fee. I wonder what would have happened if we had eleven players for the full ninety minutes. I wonder if Lehmann would have stopped those shots from Eto’o and Belletti.

“Just normal volume this morning on the inbound 102, no trouble spots to get in the way. Not too bad on the inbound 111, it’s moving pretty well from Portland Street over to the MacKay Bridge, and both harbor bridges are now filling in a bit heading into Halifax.”

I wonder why Eto’o wasn’t called offside before he scored the equalizer. I wonder if Belletti will score a goal from such a tight angle ever again. I wonder what Arsenal’s chances are like for next season.

~ ~ ~

            For me, the inherent value in Arsenal lies not in pretty football or cabinets full of trophies – although those things are important too. It lies in the team’s ability to bring out raw expressions of joy, anger and pride, unrestrained by the part of us that doesn’t want to make a scene.

If I earn a job promotion and scream, “Yes!” as loud as humanly possible, I might seem over-competitive. If I watch a man litter and yell, “Pick it up, jackass!” I might risk a punch in the throat. If I earn a bonus at work and tape the paycheque to my shirt for everyone to see, I might look conceited or simply insane. But as an Arsenal supporter, I can let out the emotions I would otherwise contain. I can shout with delight for every goal scored, swear contemptuously at each one conceded, and wear my Arsenal shirt anywhere to let the world know what club I support with pride. Not arrogance, just pride.

IT BEGAN IN ODENSE

BY SEAN MARLAND

I was watching a highly fashionable Scandinavian crime drama over the weekend, when the city of Odense subtitled its way across my screen. Apparently, some bird from The Bridge was off to university there, not that I caught much more of the episode because as is often the case, my brain had found a way to think about The Arsenal.

As you'll probably remember, George Graham and his men travelled to Denmark for the first game of what was to be a glorious Cup Winners’ Cup campaign, back in September 1993. Goals from Ian Wright and Paul Merson gave us victory on the night, but when I uncovered a video of the match later on, two things struck me.

First, the high regard the Danes apparently had for Arsenal (during a time in which English football was hardly en vogue) and second, the opening interview with George Graham.

Listening to him eschew the 'continental game' and bemoan the futility of endless passing came as a bit of a surprise, especially when you remember that he was responsible for some exciting Arsenal teams (Limpar, Rocastle, Merson etc). Obviously, there's a big difference between "getting the ball in the box" and playing like St*ke, but what Mr Wenger would make of it all is anyone’s guess.

Either way, it’s an interesting curio and a fine reminder of how our last successful European campaign started. Enjoy.

gooner karma

BY RASHEED CLARKE

December 27th, 2010

            I line up three Asacol tablets and two rows of five tiny, white prednisone pills on the breakfast table. I fill a glass with cranberry juice and gulp the prednisone pills two at a time, then the Asacol tablets one-by-one. Three slices of white bread brown in the toaster while I chew a banana and slurp a cup of applesauce. I drizzle honey onto the toast slices and munch them while trying to hold back another urge to shit. I wipe the sticky crumbs from my mouth, swig the rest of the cranberry juice and take my dishes to the sink. I scrub the dishes, lay them on the drying rack beside the sink and run up the stairs, two steps at a time, to the bathroom. My stomach rumbles, my body aches, my third shit of the morning.

            I slip into a pair of dark blue jeans, button up a green shirt and wrap a red and white Arsenal scarf around my neck. My favourite football club, London’s Arsenal F.C. host their city rivals Chelsea later this afternoon at the Emirates Stadium. I’ll have to watch my beloved Gunners in between traffic reports at work. I feel like crap and I have to go to work. Arsenal’s gonna win today.

Christmas fell on a Saturday this year, so Torontonians had their statutory day off pushed to today. I work stat holidays, and I’ll be the only one in the studio from noon to six, guiding the city’s drivers around the quieter-than-normal highways.

~ ~ ~

            “Hey Elle.” I wipe my slushy shoes on the mat at the studios’ entrance.

            “Hiya,” Elle replies.

            “How was your morning?”

            “Uuuuuuuugh.”

            “Busy?”

            “No! Nothing happened! All day!”

            “Well that’s kinda good isn’t it?”

            “I guess so. It was an easy morning. It’ll probably be the same for you.”

            “I hope so.” I unzip my parka, unravel my Arsenal scarf and hang both on the coat rack. I scan the traffic camera feeds on the computer monitor and check websites for construction and travel information. “Yeah, it’s fine, everywhere.”

            Elle unplugs her headphones from the mixing board in her studio and wraps the cord around the headband. “’k, I’m gonna go home and take a nap.”

            “Sounds like a fun afternoon,” I say.

            “Oh, it will be. Have a good shift.”

            “Thanks. See ya.”

            I plug my headphones into the mixing board, turn up the microphone level and record my first report:

            “Good afternoon, well it’s a pretty quiet drive on the major routes around the GTA. The 401, 404-Parkway and the Gardiner are all moving along nicely. Just a tiny bit of volume filling in on the westbound QEW from Appleby to Guelph Line. And if you’re heading to the U.S., right now there’s a 45-minute wait at the Queenston-Lewiston Bridge heading into the States. A 40-minute wait at the Rainbow Bridge, and a half-an-hour delay at the Peace Bridge. I’m Rasheed Clarke, more traffic in minutes.”

            I save the recording as an mp3 and send it to a client station. I record two more reports for two more stations. I open a new tab in the web browser and enter “arsenal.com” in the address bar. Three hours until kickoff.

~ ~ ~

            I scan the second half of my afternoon schedule. Only four reports an hour from 3-6 p.m. Good, I won’t be too distracted from the Arsenal match. I open a new web browser tab and find a website streaming the Arsenal-Chelsea clash.

            I turn down the microphone and turn up my headphones. “Let’s go fellas!”

            The referee blows his whistle to get the game underway. The Arsenal supporters, “Gooners” like me, sing as the ball whizzes around the slick grass:

            “And it’s Ar-se-nal. Ar-se-nal eff cee! We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen!”

Chelsea fashion the game’s first chance. Didier Drogba fires a shot wide of the Arsenal net. The Gunners respond through Alex Song, who chips a ball into the box towards Robin Van Persie. Van Persie volleys his shot wide of the mark.

I mute the stream, scan the cameras and record two traffic reports. I click on the stream and watch Samir Nasri sting the hands of Chelsea’s goalkeeper Petr Cech with a free kick. A minute before half-time, Song plays a one-two with Jack Wilshere, receives the return pass and clips the ball past Cech.

“Yeah! Yes! Yes!” I throw my headphones off and jump up from my chair. I clap in front of the computer monitor as the men in red and white pile on top of Song. One-nil to the Arsenal at half-time.
            I check off another two reports on my schedule and return to the stream. Five minutes into the second half, Theo Walcott picks off a loose pass from Chelsea’s Michael Essien. Walcott runs through on goal, draws Cech from his net and taps a square pass for Cesc Fabregas to slot home.

“Yes! Yes! Yeah!” I jump and clap. “That’s it Cesc, that’s it!” My applause reverberates around the studio’s glass walls. I pump my fist as play resumes. Three minutes later, Walcott nicks the ball off Florent Malouda, slides it over to Fabregas and races forward. Fabregas slips a pass back to Walcott, who lets the ball roll onto his right foot before firing it into the bottom corner of the net. The crowd at the Emirates Stadium erupts.

“Yeah! Yeah! Atta boy Theo! What a fucking finish!” Tears pool in my eyes.  “Brilliant finish. Clinical.” I pump my fist and pace around the studio. “Come on boys, defend now, defend. Don’t get lazy.”

Four minutes later, Chelsea pull one back. Branislav Ivanovic heads home from a Drogba free kick and the Chelsea fans crammed into the southeast corner of Emirates Stadium burst into cheers and wave their blue and white flags and scarves.

            “Fuck! I just said don’t get lazy. Fuck. Defend!” I peek at my schedule, mute and minimize the stream and record more reports.

            “Just one trouble spot right now and that’s on the eastbound 401, in the collectors past Leslie, a collision blocking the right lane. Volume though remains pretty light so no real backup as a result. Elsewhere the 404-DVP and the Gardiner are still in good shape, and no problems to get in the way on the QEW through Mississauga, Oakville and Burlington.”

            I open the stream again. Still Arsenal three, Chelsea one, fifteen minutes to go. I turn up my headphones, sit erect in my chair and fold my arms.

            “Good stop Lukasz!”

            “C’mon Diaby, get back.”

            “Great tackle Johan, great tackle!”

            “Nice pass Samir. That’s it fellas, move the ball.”

            The referee blows the full-time whistle. I clap as the Arsenal faithful at the Emirates Stadium let out a unified, “Yeah!” The Gunners win 3-1 and move above Chelsea into second place in the Premier League table, trailing only Manchester United. I grab my Arsenal scarf and kiss the gold cannon embroidered above the tassels. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes and take a deep breath. One hour remains on my shift, another four reports. I smile as the Arsenal players applaud the fans around the stadium as they walk off the pitch. The stream cuts out.

            “Whatever. I got what I needed.”

            I click through construction and travel information websites. My stomach feels full. I lean to my right and let out a fart.

Oh yeah, the UC. I’m sick. And I still have to take potent pills, and my body is still achy and I’m still slogging my way through a flare-up. But Arsenal won. The universe is in balance.

--

This story appears as chapter 11 of my book, “Three Tablets Twice Daily”, a collection of short stories about living with ulcerative colitis.

WORDS FAIL ME

BY ASYIKIN YUSOFF

When Arsenal announced the Nike 125 project in the build-up to last December’s anniversary celebrations, I decided to just go for it. My challenge was to put into words what Arsenal meant to me with the prospect of my entry being included on the club’s official Facebook page.

When I received an email informing me that my story had been approved, I was elated; it seemed surreal, to be picked out of thousands of entries. Finally, I could share with others how this wonderful football club of ours influences me.

Somehow though, in the joy of the moment, I managed to overlook the email from Arsenal’s Senior Media Officer revealing that not only would my story be visible through official channels online, but that it had been selected to be installed outside the Emirates Stadium on a stone bench. Even when the 125th anniversary match against Everton came round, I still had no idea about the existence of this special accolade.

That was until a certain friend of mine, who was on holiday with her family of Manchester United supporters, made a trip to the Emirates. I’ll never forget the moment she revealed she’d seen my name outside our magnificent home in front of Thierry Henry’s new statue capturing his celebration after that goal against Spurs. 

I know there is a regular debate about whether foreign fans, and supporters who don’t make it to games, are as ‘good’ as those who are regulars. Personally I think it’s a ridiculous argument. Yes, maybe those who’ve travelled England and Europe to watch the team share an experience that us who are further afield don’t get to taste, but to me it doesn’t matter who we are, or where we come from – as long as we all call Arsenal Football Club our own, we’re all the same in my eyes.

I’ve never been to Highbury or the Emirates and I’ve never experienced the matchday experience except from the comfort of my own living room in Singapore. I’ve never walked down Avenell Road towards Highbury, or down the Seven Sisters Road to the Emirates. I didn’t even get to watch Arsenal when they visited Malaysia, nor for a number of reasons will I get the chance to see them when they come to the region again at the end of the current campaign.

Despite all that, I’ve got something of which I can be truly proud. My heart has been set in stone at Arsenal's home - quite literally. And I'm certain that when I do visit the Emirates one day, I'll be able to look at the stone bench bursting with pride. The Arsenal is more than just a football club to me, it’s a way of life and a reason to keep my head held up high.

All the same "Arsenal is something I still don't have enough words for…"