I DON’T EVER WANNA FEEL, LIKE I DID THAT DAY
BY JAMIE DALTON
It felt unbelievable at the time and it still feels that way years later. For the first time ever Arsenal had made it to the final of the European Cup. Real Madrid and Juventus had been banished in style on the way and although we’d struggled against Villarreal in the semi-final it felt like the journey had been completed in a very Arsenal way. There was just one massive, juggernaut standing between us and the trophy – Barcelona.
The Catalan giants had Ronaldinho in their ranks, but with Thierry Henry still in his pomp I was unusually confident in the build-up to the game. That was until the whistle sounded and utter panic set-in, “What if we lose? What if we never get here again?” They were the two questions that kept racing through my mind.
I was already in an emotional state having decided to travel to Paris despite going through a tumultuous phase in a relationship. To say my decision to up and leave for France was greeted negatively is an understatement, but what did I care; this was the holy grail. I mean…it was the final of Europe’s premiere competition, a trophy I’d watched other teams win and dreamed one day we’d lift as well.
When Jens Lehmann was sent off, it was obvious that it was going to take a monumental effort. Then Sol Campbell gave us the lead and things descended into a blur. I can barely remember anything, but did take note of the clock when Henrik Larsson came on just after the hour. “Watch him,” I was thinking, “He’s a danger.” Then Juliano Belletti took to the field ten minutes later and my mind again worked overtime, “He can do damage.”
After the 70 minute mark, every 60 seconds seemed to take an hour. 19 minutes, 18, 17, 16, 15 left…and then it happened. Samuel Eto’o skipped though on goal and slid home to equalise at Almunia’s near post. 1-1 and extra-time was on the cards. Except we’ve only got ten men and we’re looking tired. 13 minutes, 12, 11, 10…
A Larsson pass to Belletti and the Brazilian scored in the pouring rain from a tight angle. I knew we were done for at that moment and despite superstars dominating the pre-game headlines it was an unassuming Swede who’d made the difference.
To this day I’ve never felt so bad about a result. To be so close to a dream only for it to be taken away felt incredibly cruel. Worse still was the coldness - the way defeat was delivered like a sudden stab. I’d never before cried because of Arsenal. I’d often been euphoric when we won and desolate when we were down, but I’d never been reduced to tears. Maybe it was my own emotional immaturity or because I’d always been told that real men don’t cry.
However, in that moment, and recalling that I’d have to endure the cold shoulder when I returned to England, I gave in and the tears rolled down my cheeks. Luckily it wasn’t caught on TV and shown endlessly on repeat – that really would have been the cherry on a shitcake nobody would have wanted to eat.
In normal circumstances I’d have waited a couple of days and then forced myself to watch the highlights again. I’ve never again watched the Champions League final though and I don’t think I ever will. To quote Antony Keidis: “I don’t ever wanna feel, like I did that day.”
