Nou Camp '99

I wrote the following piece 4 years ago for the company magazine..

I am often asked “Where were you the night United won the Champions League?” My response is a simple yet proud one; “I was there”. I was one of 90,000 lucky souls there to witness one of the greatest finals the European Cup has ever staged. Just like United, my road to the famous Nou Camp stadium of Barcelona was by no means an easy one. It all started
on……

Wednesday, April 21st – Juventus stumbling block?

Semi Final day, United away to Juventus. I went to the Yacht in Clontarf with some friends to see the game. We had been there for every United game of the tournament so far, 8 of us made a ritual of it. I had barely taken my seat when disaster struck! Utd went 1 down in theng minutes. Faces all around the bar were looking ragged. 11 minutes into the game, the unthinkable happened. 2-0 to Juventus, and heads were dropping faster than David James catching a cross. Something told me not to panic just yet. Besides, I had put a fiver on at 20-1 for a 2-2 draw. All we needed was for Utd to get 2 goals in the next 79 minutes and I’d be a happy chappy, £100 richer. Who better than Captain Keano to get the ball rolling with a superb header from a corner to pull one back. Dwight Yorke soon got a second and £100 was within my reach! My thoughts had now switched to making plans to go to Barcelona when the Yacht erupted! Not only had Andy Cole secured United’s passage to the final with a third goal, he also stopped me winning my hundred pounds! Ah well, not to worry, I had a month to raise the cash to get to Barcelona.

Thursday, April 22nd – The Beginning
Scheduled to work in Waterford that day, so I headed down early on the train. Equipped with my mobile phone, a list of phone numbers and a calculator I tried desperately to find someone who can supply me with a match ticket for the final. I went online to book my flight with EasyJet, only to discover they have increased the price of flights to Barcelona by over 400% for the weeks surrounding the match. Very unsporting, I feel, but they were still the only option I had to get to Barcelona, even if it is via Luton airport. I booked flights for myself and my friend Glenn, the only other friend who shared my optimism of miraculously getting tickets. Great stuff, 7 days in Barcelona. All I needed now was a match ticket, somewhere to stay and a way of getting to Luton Airport. I left the latter up to Glenn, while I searched for a hotel.

Friday, April 23rd – Plans made
Aaron, another colleague of mine wanting to make a trip with a friend of his contcs us to let us know he found a great deal on a 4 bed apartment in the centre of Barcelona, so we book it between the 4 of us. Glenn informs me he has booked us flights to Luton on Sunday. Great stuff Glenn, but we don’t fly out of Luton ‘til Monday you gobshite! Disaster is averted, however, when we remember an old friend of ours living in Luton who will put us up for the night. Still no sign of match tickets. Next few weeks are spent on some serious fundraising, and fruitless ticket searching.

Saturday, May 22nd – FA Cup Final
FA Cup final day. Utd comfortably beat Newcastle thanks to an inspired performance from Teddy Sheringham. Hmm, maybe this fella can play a bit after all.

Sunday, May 23rd – The Journey Begins
Fly to Luton, and get the train into London for the day. Narrowly miss appearing live on MTV by about 3 minutes, but that's another story.

Monday, May 24th – BARCELONA!

Finally get to Barcelona, and things couldn’t have got off to a better start. Greeted by hundreds of photographers at the airport, but our illusions of thinking they were there to see us didn't last long. A quick look out the window revealed the Concorde had just landed with the United team onboard. 5 minutes later, the whole squad casually stroll into the airport. Alex and the boys pose for photos, sign autographs and have a laugh with the fans. Gary Neville even responded to the fans’ chorus of “Stand up if you hate scousers!” until Ferguson gives him a clip 'round the ear, much to the delight of the rest of the United squad.
We made our way to our apartment courtesy of a taxi driver who thought he was the reincarnation of Ayrton Senna. He eventually dumped us out in what looked like the Spanish equivalent of Beirut. We made our way to the apartment, dropped off our belongings, and headed straight for the Nou Camp Stadium to see if we could get our hands on some tickets. The best offer we got was £300 for the lowest category ticket, with a face value of £8. We declined, and decided to hold our nerve ‘til the last minute if necessary. Checked out the local bars that night, and discovered the delights of a triple vodka for about 90p.

Tuesday, May 25th – The Eve of the Match
The tickets are not getting cheaper, as we had hoped. Some touts (most of whom are 17 to 19 year old students) are asking for up to £2000 for a pair of tickets. I begin to panic, while Glenn is more concerned with getting a tan. Go for a traditional Spanish meal in McDonalds, before heading off on a 3 hour trek to explore the city and see the sights. Ok, we got lost. Easily done, it is a big city, y’know..

Wednesday, May 26th - MATCH DAY
I wake up at 10am spanish time, 11 hours before kick off. Remebering I have no ticket, and the thought makes me nauseous. Head straight to the Nou Camp to resume my battle of wills with the touts. When I arrived at the Nou Camp, I could not believe my eyes - the whole area around the stadium was a sea of red shirts. Most of those red shirts were in the same boat, ticketless and desperate. We try for hours to get tickets for less than £200, but without success. The amount of forgeries in circulation was phenomenal, so we had to be on our guard. 3pm came, and I had to make my way back to the apartment to meet Aaron and his friend Donagh who were arriving today. Glenn stayed around the stadium with the cash to keep an eye out for tickets. Meet up with the lads, who inform me they have a lead on two tickets for themsleves, which means Glenn and I only have to concentrate on finidng 2 tickets instead of 4. At about 6 O’Clock, I make my way to the Nou Camp, where I had arranged to meet Glenn, who had hopefully by this stage managed to secure us some tickets. When I finally arrived at the Nou Camp, my worst nightmare came true. The police had cordoned off the area. Nobody (except locals) without a ticket could get within 1 square mile of the stadium. I could not believe it! Glenn was inside, with my ticket, or at least the only cash I had to buy my ticket. My mind was working overtime to try and figure out a way to get past the police barrier, when I noticed a group of Spanish college students walking up to the barrier, needing passage through to get to college. I quietly joined the group and slipped in past the barrier! Ok, somewhere in the middle of these 200,000 people was Glenn. By this stage it was about 7:30 pm, 90 minutes before kick off. I tried unseccessfully over and over to ring Glenn on his mobile phone but couldn’t get a signal. Eventually I managed to trace him, and he informed me he was outside the barrier which I had worked so hard to get inside of. Getting out should have been easy, but with 200,000 people pushing the opposite direction, it can be quite tricky. It took me a half hour to make the 25 yard journey. I eventually got out, but no sign of Glenn. Several attempts later, I managed to get a signal, and get through to him on the phone. HE HAD TICKETS!! I went bananas, could not believe it. The tickets cost us £200 each, but I didn’t care. The battery on my phone was dying fast, so I had about 2 minutes to locate him before we’d lose contact. We at long last met up at about 8:15pm, a half hour before kick off. Queing up at the turnstiles to get into the game was possibly to single most nerve wracking experience of my life. We had no way of knowing whether the tickets we had were real or a forgery. Many people were turned away at the security checks with false tickets. I saw one grown man on his hands and knees crying and begging the guard to let him in. He had paid £300 for his ticket, which was nothing but a replica. The guards were not hearing his pleas, and ended up forcefully removing him from the area. When I say forcefully, I mean batter the shite out of the guy. We went up to the turnstile, and the 1st security check. The steward tore off my stub and let me through. Security check number 2 was a scanner which was ran over the ticket. 3rd check was an ultra-violet light - I passed through that one also, and then faced the final barrier. A barcode laser was ran over my ticket. Nothing happened. I froze. The steward looked sternly at me, and tried it again. It beeped in acceptance! I almost hugged the steward! Glenn’s ticket was also valid. Our seats were at opposite ends of the stand, so we had to seperate at this point. I searched for and found my seat. I was an official guest of Canon, Champions League sponsors. It was 9:40pm, 5 mins before kick off. The atmosphere was incredible, and forged deep inside me an emotion I will never experience again. United were in the European Cup Final. I was there.

THE MATCH

Soon after Freddie Mercury entertained the crowd with a posthumous rendition of ‘Barcelona’, the players took the field. No Roy Keane. No Paul Scholes. No Sheringham or Solskjaer. There was, however, Jesper Blomqvist. A strange ploy by Fergie, but who am I to argue? 7 minutes into the game, the Germans take the lead. I remained in my seat, silent and in an emotional void. There was still 83 minutes (plus injury time) to go. The rest of the first half, and 1st 20 minutes of the 2nd were not as memorable as the rest of the trip. United never seemed to step out of 1st gear. Then came the 15 minute spell in the second half were Munich did everything but score. They should’ve increased their lead, but were denied by the woodwork. What was going through MR Ferguson’s mind at this point, I wish I knew. He was so close to his dream, yet so unbelievably far away. On came substitutes Ole Gunnar Solskjaer and Teddy Sheringham. The 4th official below me held up his board, indicating there would be 3 minutes of injury time played. Every United fan in the stadium was on their feet. United won a corner, and the crowd roared their team on for one last push. Peter Schmeichel, like a man posessed, ran the length of the pitch to go up for the corner. 90,000 people held their breath. Enter Mr Edward Sheringham. If ever there was a man with the sheer arrogance to snatch victory from the resolute Germans, it was Teddy Sheringham. If ever there was a man with the sheer belief to do in 5 minutes what his team mates couldn’t do in 90, it was Teddy Sheringham. If ever there was one man who so desperately wanted to be a hero all his life, it was Teddy Sheringham. I tried to cheer but I could not. I was in disbelief. I was jumping around like a mad man, but could not utter a word. So many people around me were jumping up and down all at once, I’m sure it registered on the Richter Scale. The match kicked off again, and many people, myself included, mistakenly thought the ref had blown for full time. He had however, granted United another corner. Schmeichel stayed where he was this time. The ball again fell to Teddy Sheringham, who flicked it on to Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. The impish Norwegian instinctively stuck out a foot, and tucked the ball into the roof of the net. 90,000 fans, 22 players, a referee and a nervy Scotsman all looked towards the linesman. His flagged stayed down. I was able to scream this time.

The Aftermath
I could not leave. I just sat there, soaking it all up. I was there. I had witnessed possibly the greatest ever finish to a European Cup final ever. I even managed to secure for myself a unique souvenir, in the form of one the Champions League stars advertising boards which adorned the stadium all around. About 2 hours after the game had ended, I decided it was probably time to leave the stadium. The Munich fans could not. They sat there, faces in hands, many of them distraught. My heart went out to them. They did not deserve such a cruel twist of fate, but such is the essence of sport. Many of the Munich players still lay on the pitch, unable to believe what had just transpired. I myself could barely believe it. I was living in the middle of a fairytale. It was May 26th, what would have been Sir Matt Busby’s birthday. It was against Munich, the location of the tragic air disaster which claimed the lives of almost an entire Man Utd team over 40 years ago. It was fate.

What next?
I adorned my new Champions League Stars cape as I left the stadium, and met up with Glenn. I could not speak. It wasn’t shock this time, I just lost my voice from all the screaming. We made our way slowly back to Barcelona City Centre and met up with Aaron and Donagh and the hundred thousand United fans who didn't make it into the stadium. We invaded Las Ramblas and partied, long, long into the night. We were Champions. Champions of Europe..

Posted by BatmanDar at August 7, 2003 09:48 PM | Email a friend this entry | TrackBack