Anthony McIntyre ⚽ It was our first time at a European level cup final.
Tickets for myself and my son as an early birthday gift from my wife, bestowed on us the day before the final, was a huge surprise. Never any chance of them being passed on as unwanted gifts; in any event, a practice I have never indulged in throughout my life. Given that my first attendance at a soccer match was back in 1963, turning up at a European final was a long time in coming. My wife, as ever, delivering the goods when they are least expected.
Our cup final quartet - the same one that made the Bohs-Pat's final back in November - was lucky to be able to assemble for this one. The Drogheda assembly point being beyond us, we opted to rendezvous in Dublin after earlier attempts to secure tickets for all four had not quite worked out. Paddy and his son managed to get theirs before the prices skyrocketed. That was it then, we thought: no final for us. Until my wife worked her magic. By the time her wand had waved, Paddy had already made his plans to be in Dublin early on to make the most of father-son quality time.
So, unlike our November odyssey, this time we improvised rather than planned. My son's friend, 'Sylvester', tagged along. He started the day with two shoes but didn't quite end it that way for a reason to be explained later. On the hoof might not just be the most appropriate phrase to describe a journey with a shoe short.
The train ride to Dublin was lubricated by a few sips of Scotch, and then some, along the way. We met Paddy and Jason at Connolly Station from where we set off for pre-match drinks, using the bars along the route as pint stops. The beers for me at any rate were supplements to my Jack hip flask and reserve travel bottle . . . just in case. In one of the watering holes we teamed up with a crew of Bayer Leverkusen supporters who were in high spirits. Given the outcome, better to have met them before the game than after it.
Three hours later we arrived at the Aviva. Fortunately for Paddy but not for ourselves, he followed the colour code correctly whereas we had to trudge on what seemed like a route march to get to our designated section of the ground. About an hour later, the worse for wear and with probably more alcohol imbibed than I should have, I told my son I was going into the pub to watch the game: no more walking for me. He tried to talk sense into me and at one point phoned his mother, inquiring what he might do with his ornery auld bollix of a da. I explained to her in a state not best characterised as sobriety that 'those bastards in UEFA' had sold more tickets than the stadium could accommodate so they had sent us off on this endless march to stop us congregating in one spot but at the same time keeping us out of the ground. I must have sounded like some paranoid conspiracy wingnut on a mission to explain that the EU is orchestrating the re-plantation of Ireland through a strategy of great replacement.
My wife, used to my impatience and petulance, told my son to ignore me and head on in, that I was a 'wee baby having a temper tantrum.' He mocked me - somebody please help my grumpy old da. He can't walk anymore!! My wife's prediction that I would catch up came to pass, but only after I had bumped into a Drogheda guy we had met earlier in one of the bars along the way. He was knackered, having walked the same endless route, but he did persuade me to reverse direction. Within little more than five minutes we were there. It as as well I can laugh at myself, because with everybody else laughing at me, it would be a lonely stand from which to emit self-indulgent scowls of indignation.
Once inside the Aviva the atmosphere was intense as the fans from Leverkusen and Atalanta vied for decebilic supremacy. The seats we had, almost at the half way line, give us a panoramic view of the pitch. It was our hope that Leverkusen would emerge as victors. Xabi Alonso, the former Liverpool midfield maestro endeared us to his team but Leverkusen also stood on the cusp of a historic achievement which we wanted to feel part of: were they to win, followed by a victory in tonight's German cup final clash, they would have gone the entire season without losing a single game.
It was not to be, and that opens the door to another Liverpool dimension - if you play against Atalanta the way Liverpool did you can only lose, and lose big. That's precisely what Leverkusen did. On the night they simply failed to turn up. A neat Atalanta hattrick from Lookman sealed their fate. It was a brilliant individual performance, matched by no other on the field.
We left the stadium, disappointed but not deflated. While my son got animated during the game neither of us really had a dog in the fight. It was just a great experience to have soaked up the atmosphere of a major European final. That, earlier in the year, we had hoped to see Liverpool there before they imploded is a story best left for another day.
The five of us met up again at Connolly Station close to midnight. Sylvester for some inexplicable reason opted to board the train to Howth. Upon realisation of his error he backed out just before it pulled out of the station. The doors closed on his foot: his runner rather than he made the trip to Howth. We told him not to worry, that he would be a shoe-in for a taxi once we reached Drogheda.
So ended our trip to my first and probably last European soccer final. TMY syndrome (Too Many Years) has worked against me. There are only so many heartbeats in a human body and I have used up the vast bulk of them. Now, off to watch Leverkusen compete with Kaiserslautern in the German cup final from the comfort and sobriety of my settee. If it is as good a game as today's FA Cup final between the two Manchester sides, it will be pulsating from start to finish. Either way, no howling, no scowling, no ill-tempered, foul mouth old curmudgeon. Just a senior citizen rocking in his chair watching a game of soccer!
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