| MANCHESTER
– It figures. The year I finally decide to plunk down
the money and travel abroad to attend the Champions League
final – the same year two teams from Italy’s Serie
A are in the final – what happens?
The
game ends in a penalty shootout.
I
suppose it was meant to be.
After
120 minutes of scoreless football in Wednesday's final at
Old Trafford, A.C. Milan finally claimed victory over Juventus
3-2 on penalties. Andrei Shevchenko coolly stepped up to the
penalty spot and blasted the ball past Gianluigi Buffon to
give the Rossoneri its sixth European crown.
Don't
let the 0-0 score line fool you, folks. This was not your
typical 'boring Italian' football match.
Quite
the contrary.
The
first 90 minutes was one of the better 0-0 draws you'll see,
as both sides stroked the ball around with guile, elegance
and skill. It was not scoreless because the teams were gun-shy,
or because the game was sterile, passionless and lacking invention
— something Italian football has long been unfairly
accused of being.
No,
this was a thrilling game, pitting two brilliant, intelligent
teams that looked to use their cunning to secure a victory,
only to find that their wily opponent was equal to the task.
Considering Juve and Milan split the season series this past
year in Serie A, it shouldn't come as a complete surprise
that Wednesday's final ended in the cruellest of fashions.
Even
though a penalty shootout is a terrible way to decide a game
of this importance, it still could not take away from the
beautiful football that was on display before more than 63,000
fans in Manchester.
It
was fitting that this breathtakingly dramatic performance
was staged at Old Trafford, known by many football fans as
"The Theatre of Dreams".
It
was classic theatre featuring two veteran method actors trying
to outwit each other on stage.
I
have been at the Air Canada Centre for heated Leaf-Senators
games. I have sat inside Ivor Wynne Stadium for TiCat-Argo
Labour Day battles. I was sitting a dozen rows up from the
first-base line in SkyDome for Game 3 of the Toronto-Atlanta
World Series.
But,
in 20 years of going to live sporting events, I have never
ever experienced anything like I did Wednesday night.
The
game between these two giants of European football transcended
mere sports. Inside the hallowed home of Manchester United,
we were treated to a colourful tapestry of song, dance, art
and music.
Juventus'
fans, known as the Black and White Army, were camped out in
the West Stand, while Milan's Brigate Rossonere set up in
the East Stand. Both sets of supporters displayed their colourful
banners for the entire stadium to see before the opening whistle,
offering just a taste of the artistry that would follow from
the players.
Once
the game started, both the Juve fans and the Brigate were
in excellent voice, singing the full catalogue of their respective
club songs while they fervently waved their flags, mercilessly
pounded on their drums and danced up and down the aisles.
The
singing never stopped for a moment, as these football diehards
serenaded the entire crowd, providing a lovely, stirring soundtrack
for the action on the field.
The
longer the game went scoreless, the louder they became, as
they tried to motivate and encourage their football heroes.
But as each goalless minute passed, and as the pressure built
and built to unbearable levels, no goals came.
By
the 70th minute, I was as anxious as anybody, hoping —
praying — for a goal from the Bianconeri.
The
sheer tension and drama of it all was too much to take as
both teams squandered glorious chances in the final 15 minutes
to put the game away, giving their devoted fans ulcers and
heart attacks.
Thirty
minutes of extra time only served to do more damage to my
brittle nerves, as by this time I was an absolute wreck. Once
more, I looked to the gods from above for some divine intervention,
knowing full well that they could not possibly deny me the
chance to see my beloved Juve win its third European title.
I
hung on for dear life with every penalty-kick, burying my
head in shame with every miss, leaping out of my seat with
every goal. It was pure torture. But there was still hope
after Allesandro Del Piero scored to tie the game 2-2.
But,
somehow I knew it was over when Shevchenko stepped up to the
spot to take Milan's final penalty-kick. By this time, Old
Trafford was a cauldron of electricity. When his shot bulged
the back of the net, the place went off like a stick of dynamite
and pandemonium ensued as the Brigate joyously celebrated.
Of
course, the game was only half the story. The day started
for me early in the morning when I trekked into the heart
of Manchester. By then, hordes of fans from Italy had taken
over the city and began to party all along the Piccadilly
(Manchester's major road).
Manchester
Airport experienced the busiest day in its 67-year history,
as both of its runways had a plane either departing or arriving
every minute of the day.
By
the afternoon, more than 50,000 Italians had invaded downtown.
Both sets of fans danced, sang and mingled with each other,
bringing a little taste of Italy to this industrial English
city.
Young
Italian teenaged boys, clearly feeling romance in the air,
got down on bended knees and jestingly proposed to pretty
English girls. The English lasses, much to their credit, lapped
it up and chatted up their new Italian suitors.
Manchester's
Albert Square might as well have been renamed Piazza Alberto
as streams of Italian fans walked around, soaked up the sun
and made friends with the locals.
"LITTLE
ITALY!" was the headline on the front page of the Manchester
Evening news. That it was.
It
was a carnival. It was a party. It was passionate. It was
magical.
It
was the kind of camaraderie and joyous revelry that only football
can produce.
Both
sets of fans, though dire enemies, carried on as if they were
old mates. There was no spot of trouble. No fights. No violence.
Not a hooligan to be found anywhere.
The
Italian fans were on their best behaviour, proving to be worthy
visitors to a city that acted as a gracious host. The entire
day had been brimming with pageantry, both on and off the
pitch.
Not
only did the Italians’ exemplary conduct do all of Italy
proud, but it also served as a testament to the fact that
sport, as clichéd as it sounds, can bring people together.
All
of this was in the back of my mind when Milan accepted the
championship trophy later that night. Though Juventus had
lost the game in agonizing fashion, it was still a day I won't
soon forget.
As
I finally left Old Trafford that evening, U2's Beautiful Day
blared over the public announce system:
“It's
a beautiful day, the sky falls and you feel like it's a beautiful
day.”
It
was a beautiful day. It really was.
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