The Wake

It was two Sundays ago that I went down to the Oxford Arms in Camden to watch the Carling Cup final with Charles, his uncle Ola, and the usual rowdy crowd. Tottenham vs. Chelsea, two London clubs going all out for a some coveted hardware. The die-hard fans were out in full force all across London. It had been 9 years since Tottenham had last one any title, and win would salvage their lack luster year in the premiership, and ignite a celebration of riotous proportions.

Given Camden’s proximity in North eastern London, and it was primarily Tottenham fans filling the pub with their crisp, white jerseys, scarves and t-shirts. I had on my own Tottenham jersey, number 25 Aaron Lennon, which won me the favor of some particularly boisterous Spurs fans in the back.

The spurs came out flying, applying thick pressure and 6 shots on net in the first 20 minutes. They failed to capitalize on this momentum, and they were down a goal at the half, courtesy of a Drogba free kick. He was the last person anyone wanted to see score, as he had been flopping to great success for half an hour preceding the strike from distance. The Spurs leveled the score on a Berbatov penalty kick in the second half. It remained scoreless from there despite several close bids from both sides. A few Spurs fans were on the edge of their seats with their hands over their eyes. Others were jumping in nervous excitement; they could taste it, a victory within their grasp. Loud cheers filled the crowded pub. Passionate songs of a hundred years descent united the fans as their team took the pitch for another 30 minutes of play.

Blows were exchanged, 15 minutes with no result. The teams swapped sides and they were back at it. “Just give me a goal! From either side! But this can not go into PK’s!!!” pleaded a stumbling fan holding my arm for support, overwhelmed by the severity of the game coupled with the upwards of 8 pints he’d downed over the course of the crucial match. And then it happened… Defender Jonathan Woodgate, a defender for the Spurs found himself on the fortuitous end of a mishandled ball by Chelsea Keeper Peter Czech, who helplessly watch the ball trickle into the net. The top flew of the now golden walls, and hugs and kisses were on the house, no one was exempt.

The joy spilled out on to the drizzling streets. I went out back to soak it up with my newfound friends. They enjoyed the fact that an American had come out and supported the Spurs, and they were in a particularly generous mood. “You’re coming up to Tottenham, and we’re gonna get you DRUNK!”

5 minutes later I was in cab headed north through the winding streets, little did I know it was a 50 minutes journey. Crammed in the back with four others, it didn’t take long for me to learn the songs that rang my ears and floated out the window, frequently soliciting strangers to approach and shake hands and exchange shouts of unbridled glee. By the time we arrived, I was ready to hold my own at the pub. We walked down the main drag that led up to Tottenham’s home stadium, White Hart Lane. It took a good 20 minutes to make it a few short blocks, as the streets were filled and traffic at a near stop. Fans hung out the windows of every car and building, singing and shouting. Grown men danced and embraced, unable to control their emotions; it was like Christmas times 100 plus 5 pints apiece. We made it to our destination, a pub called the Brick Layers Arms. It was an exclusive joint, located immediately outside the stadium. Admission required that you produce a ticket stub verifying your status as a season ticket holder. My companions explained that I was a special guest, an American Hot Spur with a jersey to prove it. With a slap on the back from the beefy doors woman, I was weaving my way through a sea of screaming fans. But these weren’t just fans, these were people who lived and died Tottenham football. I could go on for ages about the madness that ensued over the next 2 hours, but I will cut to the climax. Let’s just say the beers and ciders were free of charge and the chants of “YID-AR-MAY” and “OH WHEN THE SPURS, GO MARCHING IN” were among a dozen others that we sang arms over shoulders as we watched the highlights over and over, the smiles so genuine and dancing so hilarious, it was a night I’d never forget… and then it got dangerous.

Please email me at carpe197@umn.edu for the rest of this story