The Insignificant things - Madrid to Stamford Bridge

End of game celebrations

January 24th 2016. One year to the day. I still can’t believe it happened. But I have proof it did, as I was there.

It was one of those days where you don’t want to forget a single detail. The ecstasy will always be remembered, but the little things, they fade with time. I don’t want that. They contributed to what was one of the best days of my life. On the flight home, I decided to make notes on everything, both significant and insignificant from that day. Why insignificant details? Well, as an example, on the flight over, I had a window seat. I needed the toilet, but the women on the aisle was asleep. I did the typical polite british thing and waited till she woke. It took nearly the whole flight, and I was desperate! Why did I write this down? Well, it was part of my day, and I didn’t want to forget a single detail.

I was one of the fortunate 6,000 city fans to have a ticket. There were thousands more who were not so lucky. I had to plan my trip with military precision. I was travelling to the game and back on the same day from my home in Madrid. I was advised it was too risky and I wouldn’t make it back to the airport in time after the game. I knew I had to run from Stamford Bridge to London Victoria station to catch the Gatwick Express to the airport. I knew it was risky, but I had to do it.

Driving in a foreign city, especially a capital, is not always easy. I was driving to Madrid airport for a very early flight to London Gatwick. I managed to find the car park at Madrid Airport with ease, which was a relief! First barrier of the day managed and one less thing to worry about it.

As it was a unique trip, I decided to treat myself. I bought a first class return train ticket on the Gatwick Express. The Airport to London Victoria. I was the only one on the carriage, until a male in his 40’s got on, and didn’t seem to realise I was there. This was obvious due to his phone conversation. He was a doctor at a hospital, and he was advising a colleague. It was clear a patient had died, and he was blaming a duty call manager who was unavailable at the time. Why am I sharing this insignificant detail? It was all part of one of the best days of my life.

Upon arriving at London Victoria station, I had hours to pass before I met with my Aunty and cousin who were on the coach down from Bradford. I decided to walk to Stamford Bridge as I figured this would help me remember my route on the way back, which would have considerably more time strain than getting there. As I was walking through the streets, I remember thinking “wow, I don’t belong around here”. The buildings, the houses, the cars, the shops. So this is why Chelsea has a posh reputation. And here was I, just a man from Bradford, wearing a claret and amber scarf.

Another insignificant detail. On the walk to Stamford Bridge, I happened to walk past the Spanish Embassy. To most people this wouldn’t mean anything, however to me, living in Spain, it was another insignificant sign. A sign that this day was meant to be. I was meant to risk the journey to get home to Madrid after. I just had no idea how much it was meant to be.

My first impression of Stamford Bridge was bizarre. I was not used to football stadiums like this, in such a built up, affluent area. I decided to walk round to sample the atmosphere. I was there hours early, and even then, there were City fans doing the same as me. I walked past a family, and the man gave me ‘the nod’. You know, the ‘hello fellow bradfordian and city fan, can you believe we are here? Have a great day’ kind of nod.

With a couple of hours still left till my family arrived, I decided to take a ride on the underground to Hyde Park. I asked at the ticket booth for a return ticket to Hyde Park. The attend found that amusing and said that it doesn’t work like that. He showed me how to use my bank card for contactless payments. I have to say I was impressed. Technology, ey? I walked around Hyde Park, and paid my respects at the 7/7 memorial site. We should never take for granted that I was able to ride the underground freely that day (don’t get me started about cost!).

On the underground journey back to the stadium there was the first signs a football match was about to take place. Plenty of Chelsea and City fans. Some having friendly conversations between each other, which is nice to see in football. I wanted to join in, but I was too shy.

I was now hanging around the stadium with anticipation. My family would soon be here and we would be heading inside. As I was waiting, I was people watching. So this is how Chelsea fans watch football? This is a different world. The stewards were shouting “aways fans this way” using a megaphone. The banter was flowing between the city fans and stewards. I remember one steward in particular, who said “you have no chance”, with a huge grin on his face. I agreed with him. I think even the most optimistic City fan would have agreed with him. I looked for this steward on the way out, but I didn’t see him. I would have loved to have seen his face.

Along came Harry Gration picking people for interviews. I moved out of the way of camera shots, not wanting to be in the background. Then, with the opposite attitude to me, obviously fueled by alcoholic beverages, groups of city fans crowding in the background singing “everywhere we go”. That was the first time I heard that song that day. Everytime I hear that song now, I am automatically transported from where I am to that moment in time. Funny how singing and music can do that to you.

My Aunty and Cousin arrived and we headed towards the turnstiles. We were directed through a passageway whilst we were searched and herded like cattle. “Everywhere we go”. It was getting louder. I bumped into a friend in that passage way. He happens to be the singer of the “Take me home” song played at Valley Parade on a matchday. It was great seeing familiar faces. The ones that you recognise from school, your local pub, your local gym, your local place of worship, your block at Valley Parade, wherever it may be. You just recognise faces. That sense of community and belonging. You are all brought together for one purpose. That purpose is to support Bradford City. To make as much noise as possible for 90 minutes in the hope you can somehow influence what happens on the pitch. I miss that. That makes occasions like this, and the other games I fly home for, extra special. I feel that sense of belonging. This is my home, and these people are my family. We are Bradfordians.

We finally got in the stadium. We were sat on the bottom tier, behind the goal, 2nd row from the back. When the seats were filling up around us there were plenty of complaints about the view. The tier above hung over and it covered most of the view of the stadium, and if you stood, some of the pitch. It all contributed to the atmospheric camaraderie between us all. The man sat next to me was a stranger. He was not one of the faces I recognise. We all know the experience of getting to your seat in the stadium and hope your not sat next to a certain type of person. The hope the person you're sat next to doesn’t spout drivel for 90 mins. I wouldn’t have cared that day. I wouldn’t recognise the man again if I saw him on the street. But for those couple of hours at Stamford Bridge, we talked tactics, shook hands, hugged, sang, jumped and danced. We were best mates. Thank you to the man sat next to seat 0131, row 15, in the Shed Lower. You contributed to one of the best days of my life.

The game. I don’t know what to say. Performance aside, the first 41 mins probably went as most people predicted, and nobody would have expected any other score line. But the performance was good. The battles were being fought, and won. One of the highlights of the first half for me was seeing Davo ruffle the feathers of Drogba. He took him out at one stage, and Drogba didn’t look happy. That was the foundation for what was to come. That warrior attitude displayed by every single one of the players, the manager and his staff, and the fans.

The Stead goal was amazing. I mean, we never expected to get a result, and to score at Stamford Bridge was probably the most we could have expected. And it happened. We went crazy. The players were roared back to the halfway line to go again. Half time came and I said “If they don’t score again, I will go home a happy man”. Those were the expectations, to keep it respectable.

Even halftime was significant. The applause the old Chelsea players got for beating Leeds in the 1970 FA Cup Final, and the 25 grand cheque given for the Burns Unit. Every single insignificant detail matters.

I am now writing this from outside El Vicente Calderon, in anticipation of Atletico de Madrid against Sevilla. There are thousands and thousands of people lining the bars and streets, eating and drinking cans of cerveza, enjoying the unusually hot sun for this time of year. This wouldn't be allowed in England (and I don’t mean the sun). A far cry from Valley Parade and Stamford Bridge. I hope the game here is half as good as the second half at Chelsea. I don't need to run through what happened there as you already know. The impossible happened, and it was deserved. The tide was shifting, and the goals were worthy of any top side in the world. As unexpected as it was, it felt like it was coming. I know that doesn't makes sense, but it didn't feel lucky or like a smash and grab. But at 2-3 up, with a few minutes to go, I was praying we would hang on for a replay. I mean, it's Chelsea. They will score. And then that goal. That could have been a Barca/Messi goal. And then it was actually happening. The mass exodus of Chelsea fans began and as my Aunty says, “I will always remember the look of disbelief on your face”. I found it hard to celebrate the fourth goal. I just couldn't understand what was happening. Holding back the tears in my eyes and laughing and jumping at the same time. So surreal.

Full-time came and the impossible had been achieved. “Everywhere we go”. The players, the manager and his staff, all celebrating with the fans. I wanted this moment to last forever. As I was singing my voice broke like a 13 year old boy. It couldn't last forever though. I had a flight to catch.

I had to say a quick bye to my family, which is always difficult. As I only see them a few times a year I always get emotional saying bye. But this had to be short and sweet. I had to run, and run fast. I saw my friend again walking away from the stadium. Another insignificant but important detail.

As I ran, I rang my girlfriend in Madrid, my Dad, my Grandma, my Aunty and Uncle. I wanted to speak to anyone who would listen. The adrenalin fueled my body running to London Victoria Station. I have never felt so proud, running with my scarf flapping in the wind. It felt like everyone wanted to speak to me and say congratulations.

That run was 2.5 miles. I have never ran so fast in my life. I have never been so happy running in my life.

And then the calm came on the first class carriage to London Gatwick airport. Silence. Apart from my heart beat and emotions running through my mind. And I got to the airport in time. Another stress ticked off the list. It was just meant to be.

I was boarding the flight and a Spanish family were congratulating me as if I had played and scored the winning goal. This was a result celebrated my many Madrilenos, as they have a dislike for José Mourinho. It was also covered in many Spanish national newspapers the following day, of which I bought them all!

I flew Norwegian airlines for the first time on the way home and had a row to myself. Why am I telling you this insignificant detail? Because it was part of one of the best days of my life. And it was on this flight I made my notes of what happened on January 24th 2015. Parking the car with no trouble at Madrid Airport, needing the toilet on the outbound flight, the doctors conversation, the Spanish embassy, the nod, the underground ticket attendant, Hyde Park, Harry Gration, the stewards, seeing faces, the man sat next to me, running after the game, the phone calls, Spanish congratulations. It all contributed to what was one of the best days of my life. Insignificant details to everyone else, but priceless to me. And I don’t want to forget a single one of them.

Arriving back at Madrid later that night was surreal. Madrid to London to Madrid in the same day. Different languages, road signs, cultures etc and then throw a load of Yorkshiremen into the mix. The only thing I remember about the drive home was singing “everywhere we go” at the top of my voice, non stop all round the M40 motorway. If that was caught on camera, someone would have thought I was crazy.

And I was. I still am. That's what football can do to you. That's what Bradford City can do to you. It makes you crazy, and the impossible become possible.

PS If anyone cares Atleti and Sevilla was a drab 0-0!