Monday 2nd May 2016

Monday 2nd May 2016 - Chelsea (2) - (2) Tottenham Hotspur

The point at Old Trafford had left Leicester 8 points clear of Spurs with two games of our own left to play whilst they had three left, starting with a tough looking fixture against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. Their goal difference being superior by 9 goals effectively gave them another point over Leicester as well.

Chelsea had endured a bad season by their standards and were barely in the top half of the table having been champions the season before. Guus Hiddink had returned to take charge until the end of the season and it seemed that the only thing that Chelsea had left to salvage some crumb of comfort from their season was to deny Spurs the chance of a first-ever Premier League title. 

I’d particularly enjoyed some of the quotes coming out from the Chelsea players in the weeks before their game against Tottenham as Eden Hazard, who’d had an awful season, vowed that they would do everything that they could to beat Tottenham and Cesc Fabregas had done similar. A video had circulated online of their away end at Bournemouth singing: “Beat fucking Tottenham. You’d better beat fucking Tottenham!”. We seemingly had a side with some very good players vowing to do their best to help us to the title.

The game fell on a Bank Holiday Monday so I’d had a pretty chilled day after only getting back into London from Manchester fairly late the night before. I was going to watch the game by myself on my laptop in my room and toyed with the idea of getting some booze in (particularly questioning whether or not I should buy some champagne). I eventually decided on doing so and made a fairly late call when I was actually in the shop (without wanting to be presumptuous) of purchasing a bottle - this could be a once in a lifetime thing so a large part of me just thought “why not?”...

I settled down to watch the match and had learned my lesson from watching the Tottenham vs West Brom match that my computer screen would be a few seconds behind my phone and I would inevitably get messages through from mates as things developed. The phone was put out of reach on the side. For the next 90 minutes it would be just me, the computer screen and some bottles of beer.

Tottenham started very well. They came flying out of the blocks, the game was fast-paced and at times Chelsea were clinging on. In the 35th minute their pressure paid off as Harry Kane slotted a neat finish in to put them 1-0 up - this wasn’t how I’d hoped it would go. That said, all hope was not lost as just one goal for Chelsea would hand Leicester the title, but, just one minute before half time, that hope was ebbing away as Son struck to make it 2-0.

It was now looking as if we’d have to beat Everton at home to win the title and the prospect of that made me nervous. We’d be without Drinkwater who had been in many ways the heartbeat of the team and Everton had some good players despite the fact that they’d had a very mediocre season under manager Roberto Martinez. Even so, I’d seen all too recently how a dodgy refereeing decision could decide a game and I didn’t want us to be in the situation of needing to go to Stamford Bridge on the last day of the season needing anything (Spurs had two winnable fixtures to come in their remaining games of Southampton at home and relegation-threatened Newcastle away). 

At half time, as the pundits on Sky Sports eulogised over Tottenham’s first half performance (Graeme Souness in particular had appeared very pro-Spurs and pre-match had put just two Leicester players in a combined eleven), I was in touch with my dad who was at my mum’s cousin John’s house in Blackpool having stayed in the North West after the Manchester United game:

Me: Are you watching? Everton at home it is then!

Dad: Barring a miracle

Me: Be nice if Hazard puts his money where his mouth is! Told you we’ll draw with Everton and Chelsea and do it in a way that takes 10 years off my life

Dad: How long til a yellow card turns to red?

Me: Can see that Clattenburg doesn’t want to send anyone off so will take a lot but Dembele’s season is over retrospectively. Walker should be too

Dad: Come on Saints!

The match had been pretty enthralling for the neutrals just because of how spicy it had been. The Tottenham players were more than ready to do whatever it took to win and almost seemed to take exception to the Chelsea players wanting to beat them so much. Kyle Walker had already put in a pretty meaty challenge and in the midst of a fracas Moussa Dembele had tried to gouge a Chelsea player’s eye (something that would surely end his season with a suspension to come from the FA post-match). It felt like there could be a red card waiting for someone in the second half.

The second half got underway and instantly Chelsea looked better than they had been before the break. Eden Hazard had come on as a substitute and looked in the mood for it. The season before he’d been the best player in the league but this season he’d looked like he would only turn it on when it suited and that hadn’t been often. I was re-assured by the fact that it looked like tonight suited him.

Just 13 minutes into the second half, Chelsea put a corner into the box. The ball bounced around and with a slice of fortune dropped to Gary Cahill who lashed a shot into the back of the Spurs’ net. Game on. The phone was back in-hand now with it having looked unlikely that tonight was the night. Text from dad: “one more…?”.

The longer the game went on the more Spurs lost their cool but also their rhythm. All of a sudden the game had changed and Spurs were offering very little in an attacking sense whilst Chelsea were pressing on. Every Leicester fan, including myself, had their hopes up.

And then it happened. With just 7 minutes left Eden Hazard picked the ball up and drove towards the Tottenham box. As he approached he played the ball into the feet of Diego Costa who turned with it on the edge of the area, looking to get a shot away. As the ball ran away from him, realising that the best he could do to salvage the situation would be to find a team-mate, he slid to play the ball back to Hazard. With one swipe of his right boot he curled the ball into the top right-hand corner with an unstoppable shot past a despairing Hugo Lloris. In any season it would have been a ‘Goal of the Season’ contender and I’ve never cheered the goal of another team so loud in all of my life. Chelsea were back level and if they held on Leicester City would be Champions of England.

I spent the next 7 minutes of the match trying to stay calm, hoping that Chelsea could hold out for the draw and trying not to think too much about what it all meant. It’s all very well thinking that it would be nice to see Leicester win the league in a match they win or in front of the home crowd but, faced with the option of having it secured by Chelsea holding on for the draw, those thoughts soon went out of the window. There were some nerves but Tottenham had clearly lost their heads (they ended up racking up a Premier League record nine yellow cards) and did not look like they had anything left to muster up a winner.

With the score still at 2-2, for the dying minutes I muted the Sky Sports commentary and loaded up the BBC Radio Leicester commentary which was actually ahead of the tv due to being a quicker radio feed. It just felt right that, if there was to be the expected crowning moment for Leicester in a game that I was not at, I should hear it via the local radio. Just as I’d listened to many a Leicester match over the years from Yeovil Town to Manchester United on the airwaves.

The full-time whistle blew to spark celebrations from the Chelsea fans and players and then the tv pictures cut to Jamie Vardy’s house where the Leicester players had gathered to watch the match. They were going crazy, jumping up and down and shouting but my reaction was somewhat more subdued and I think I just sat there smiling taking it all in (without it having sunk in).

My phone began to go crazy with messages of congratulations pouring in and, just as I had my phone in hand to ring him, a call came through from dad. I can’t really remember what we discussed but I think it was along the lines of how good the game against Everton would be on the Saturday (as Leicester would now be presented with the Premier League trophy and crowned Champions of England) and just sharing a mutual delight in what had happened.

When I was off the phone, I cracked open the bottle of champagne that I had bought, took a swig from the bottle and sat back to savour the moment. And that’s when it hit me. I absolutely balled my eyes out! I couldn’t tell you why I was crying but they were happy tears. I’d invested so much time, energy and effort into following Leicester and they’d just achieved something that I never dreamed would be possible.

I thought about all of the crap times that I’d seen as a Leicester fan. Of a period in between 2005 and 2008 when year after year I turned up each week to watch mundane and dire football from bang average players, of trekking up and down the country to at times see them not turn up or even try, and the numerous times Leicester City had got my hopes up only to dash them. In that single moment, as I sat there in my bedroom, they all became worth it. Suddenly, none of them were wasted times because for what Leicester City had just achieved to feel so incredible they had to have happened.

As a Leicester City fan, I was part of a now privileged collection of supporters who had got to experience something that most other supporters would never get to. I wondered how many people would be thinking about me on that Monday night, enviously wanting to know what I was thinking, feeling and what this meant to me. In case there were any, I posted a status on Facebook: 

“I couldn't possibly encapsulate what this means in a quick status. I've followed Leicester since 1997, at times questioning why but I've persevered because it's about more than just the football, more than just the winning. Those of you who know me well will know that most of my weekends are dictated by where those 11 men are kicking a ball around that weekend. I've stood next to my dad through it all, good and bad, and the best thing about all of this is that, whichever one of us dies first, we'll look back and know that we shared in this most unlikely of stories together this season…”

When I stripped away the goals, the red cards and the final whistles, there was one thing that made following Leicester worthwhile regardless of the result, the horrendous place to which we had travelled or the cost incurred. In the main, I’d done it all with my dad and I appreciated that having watched this season unfold first-hand at many of the matches together, there were memories that would last a lifetime.

Dad had never been on Facebook so I copied and pasted the status over to him in a text message and, having made a good dent in the bottle of champagne, thanked him for taking me to that first ever game. He then thanked me and asked me if I’d seen the footage of the players at Vardy’s house so I replied: “You don’t have to thank me, I mean it. We’ve seen so much together and if it wasn’t for you taking me to see them then I could be sat here tonight enjoying the story as a neutral or disappointed as a Spurs fan. You (and mum) have dedicated so much time and money to allow me to experience this and we’ll get our reward next Saturday. Yeah, saw the players. Glad for them to have their party, bit of a shame it didn’t happen at a match but this was done over 36 games and we were there for most. How many people can say that about a story that people will talk about in 50 years’ time?” His response summed it up perfectly: “Not 50, forever”.

What followed was the best one-man party ever as I made my way through the rest of the champagne, finished the beer I’d bought and topped it off with some rum and RedBull that I had in - all to a soundtrack of ‘We Are The Champions’ by Queen and ‘Rocking All Over The World’ (Status Quo) and ‘The Best’ (Tina Turner), two songs that evoked memories of Leicester success as the paraded League Cups round Filbert Street when I was a boy.

I’ve no idea what time I got to bed or how I got up on time for work the next day and I was horrendously hungover (not that I cared). Upon his arrival into the office (I had somehow got there first) me and my Leicester supporting-collegue Tom shared a congratulatory hug and then recounted our tales of the previous night whilst predominantly male colleagues congratulated us. My mate Jonny messaged me at two o’clock to ask if I was getting much work done and I replied; “So hungover, no idea what time I went to bed! There were tears, there was vomit… Kind of wish I’d been in Leicester but Saturday will be one hell of a party”.

When I got home from work in the evening I put the Channel 4 news on and they were broadcasting the national news from the King Power Stadium: “Watching the first 15 minutes of the national news and it’s all about LCFC winning The Premier League. Somebody pinch me!” (via Twitter). It looked like the party in Leicester hadn’t stopped since the final whistle at Stamford Bridge the night before and a large part of me yearned to be there but I knew that the real party would be on Saturday for the game against Everton where they would receive the trophy and, in my new favourite phrase, be crowned ‘Champions of England’. It was all, without question, stuff that could be filed under: “never thought I’d see the day”.

We were the champions.