“Two-nil and you f*cked it up” sang the away fans to their home counterparts, along with “10 men, we’ve only got 10 men”. But 2-2 wasn’t enough

Match Review – Bolton 2 Arsenal 3 – Premier League

If ever there was a game we were destined not to win, it was this. And here’s why:

1.Post-internationals
2.Pre-Champions League
3.Shoddy form going into the game
4.Bolton – our bogey team
5.At the Reebok, where we hadn’t won in the league since 2002
6.It was raining cats and dogs
7.Two goals behind
8.Down to 10 men

Yet somehow, someway, we managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. And for all of those Gooners fortunate enough to be present it turned a grey, wet afternoon into a day for the ages.

As I awoke at 8am, sunlight blaring through my curtains, I questioned my sanity. Why on earth was I about to traipse the length of the country to witness, in all probability, a rerun of our draw with Wigan? Yet knowing that this was probably my last away trip of the season I emerged from my stupor. Given my own personal horrible record in away matches oop t’North (five matches, no wins), the last words I heard from Squid Father and Squid Mother before I departed were not “take care” or “have a good day” or even “good luck”, but the more daunting demand of “make sure you win!”.

The further north we got on the M6, the more dreary, drab and drizzly the weather became. We arrived in Middlebrook at about 1pm so had plenty of time to spare. The fact that the area was called Middlebrook raised a few laughs from my pal DJ, in reference to the name of the Bolton team on the Pro Evolution Soccer games. So we parked up and with time to burn decided to grab some much-need food. Having visited Pizza Hut prior to the Wigan game, it was off the agenda this time round for the sake of superstition. Thankfully we found a Nandos, which given the end result will now end up being the restaurant of choice for the customary pre-match meal. So if anyone sees me in a Pizza Hut prior to an away game, you have my permission to shoot me.

After lunch and a visit to the pet store(?), the sofa store(?) and the toy store(?) we entered the stadium. As it emerged that Ade was getting a well-deserved rest and that Big Phil had been rightfully restored to the first XI, the drizzle turned into a downpour. When we were walking to the stadium DJ questioned whether the players would be up for it on such a horrible day, a legitimate claim to make. However we looked decent from the off, shading the first fifteen minutes but unable to fathom a goal, although Robin and Nicklas Bendtner had efforts saved. And then of course came the sucker punch, one which we are so accustomed to as the opposition scored against the run of play. Diaby was caught napping on the left as Steinsson (who?!) got in behind him and whipped in a cross, which was met by Matthew Taylor who had come from the left and gotten in front of Kolo. That was bad defending in my opinion and highlighted the fact the Kolo is not a right-back. In fact I can remember more than one occasion where he was suspect positionally and failed to provide the quality of crosses that a natural full-back would. Taylor’s header did hit Almunia’s foot on its way in so one could make an argument that the keeper should have done better, but it was from point-blank range and he stood little chance unless it was straight at him. The moment it went in I saw Clichy literally roll his sleeves up (which takes some cojones in that kind of weather), and hopefully the whole team would follow suit.

We went pretty close just before the half-hour when Kolo had a shot deflected wide by Gallas of all players. And then came the red card. Although those around me were furious at the fouled Bolton player and the ref, it was a clear sending off. In this day and age you simply cannot go in with your studs showing, even if it is one-footed and even if it isn’t too high above the ground. So we were down to 10 men and it would be up to the away fans to redress the balance. However our spirits were further dampened when we conceded a second just before the half-time whistle. Again it was Matty Taylor, the Spurs supporting c*nt, and again it was all our own fault. Deep in our territory we had a throw and came under pressure, yet instead of clearing the ball we opted to pass our way out of trouble, an option that was doomed to failure. Between them, Cesc and Flamini contrived to lose the ball and Diouf laid it off to Taylor. Such is our luck these days that it required a deflection to creep into the bottom corner. And I have to tell you that William Gallas was absolutely FURIOUS, whilst Cesc wore an apologetic look on his face. “Easy, easy” shouted the northern monkey fans, backed up by the most annoying of drummers. Flamini blazed over just prior to the whistle as half-time came and we were staring down the barrel.

With most Gooners in attendance spitting venom at anyone they could find fault with, me and DJ decided to adopt a look-on-the-bright-side perspective. We even started half-joking about our plight in a vain attempt to mask how dour we had been, coming out with the following conversation:

“So…4 points out of 18, eh?”

“You know what most ridiculous thing is? That we’re gonna have to care about the Liverpool/Everton result tomorrow”

“Just think, if we lose to Liverpool in the league next weekend then we could be looking at 4th place…” (cue giggles from both of us)

“And if we lose to Everton in May, we could be looking at 5th!” (cue more inane giggles)

“Do you remember that time when Kanu scored a hat-trick at the Bridge to claw us back from 2-0 down? You never know…” (that last comment was made more in blind hope rather than expectation)

There is no more perverse sight in than fans avoiding the reality of a situation by trying to laugh it off, but I think that taking this stance helped me and other Gooners in attendance. It was a kind of: “Oh well, the title has gone, maybe this game has gone, but through our sheer love for the players, the team and the club, let’s sing our heart out for the lads”.

The first 15 minutes of the second period were no improvement from the first-half. In fact we had probably regressed as we were camped in our own box amidst a flurry of Bolton corners, one in particular forcing Manuel to pull off a very smart save. The Gooner faithful were baying for the arrival of Ade and Theo, who was striking the ball very well in the pre-match training. Le Boss obliged by sending the pair on for Phil and Nicklas, who I felt were two of our better players on the day. Oft criticised for the timing of his substitutions, Wenger got it spot on this time. The introduction of Theo gave us some width and pace down the flanks, whilst Ade would stretch the play more than Bendtner. To be honest though, we were freestyling it. After the sending off I couldn’t tell if Wenger had altered the tactics to compensate for being a man lighter in midfield, and with these two on it looked even more like a gung-ho formation. But it certainly paid off, and then some.

We won a corner on 60 minutes and DJ said to me that he’d be delighted with even just a solitary goal to go back home with. And cometh the hour, cometh the man. Much derided in the press this week, it was our venerable skipper Monsieur Gallas who set the wheels in motion as he got on the end of a Cesc corner and neatly volleyed home at the back post. That was some finish, I’d venture to say that a fair few strikers would have struggled to control it that well. We smelt blood, and the introduction of Ade paid dividends five minutes later when Hleb – looking ten times more comfortable on the left – fed it into the channel for the Togonator to latch onto, and he backheeled into the path of the Flam who had steamed up the left-wing. The Frenchman had his shot saved but the rebound fell to Hleb, who of course declined to shoot but managed to nick it beyond the defender and was clipped for a stone cold penalty. You sensed that if we converted it, there would only be one winner. After the penalty was awarded I saw Robin trudge over to pick the ball up whilst Ade hung around the penalty spot. I thought there might be an argument over who took it seeing as Ade has been the man in Robin’s absence, but instead he simply high-fived his mate and wished him good luck. The bloke two rows in front of me could not watch and turned his back to the field and as Robin strode up the tension was nigh-on unbearable, but he was ice-cool as he hammered it into the bottom corner. Cue more pandemonium in the away end and more laughter from me and DJ – laughter brewing from unexpected joy.

“Two-nil and you f*cked it up” sang the away fans to their home counterparts, along with “10 men, we’ve only got 10 men”. But 2-2 wasn’t enough. The players knew it, and the fans sensed it. Bolton were well and truly on the rack, their defensive discipline had gone and they took up and incomprehensibly high line which allowed Ade and Theo to get behind them. And with just over twenty minutes to fathom a winner, it was one Theo Walcott who really stepped up to the plate. Every time he got the ball his marker was back-pedalling and on more than one occasion did the ENGLISH youngster skin home. One particular time saw him get to the byline and cut it back for Robin, but instead of taking a touch and opening his body up he decided to hit it first time and sent it wide of the near post. He had another chance when Hleb laid it back to him from the left but he couldn’t wrap his foot around the ball. It has to be said that we are such a different prospect with him on the pitch as he is willing to take these chances the moment they come to him. Ade too spurned a couple of opportunities, placing his first one too close to the keeper and ballooning his second one.

As injury time beckoned it looked like there would be no fairytale ending despite the best efforts of the players. A 2-2 draw would have had a poetic symmetry with the season in general – doing so much good work to get in a decent position but then failing to seal the deal. But screw poetry. Once again Alex did well to get free down left and get in a position to cut the ball back. He did so to the onrushing Fabregas, whose rather scuffed left-footed shot took TWO deflections to divert it past the hapless Bolton keeper. Madness. It’s just like London buses, so devoid of luck have we been recently that when we do get a helpful deflection, two come at the same time. The players’ celebrations said it all, more on which later.

There was no way back for Bolton and as the final whistle blew the away end erupted. The players came over, knowing full well the part played by the travelling support as some of them chucked their shirts into the crowd. Included in this was Flamini, who by the way he celebrated ain’t going nowhere. For two-thirds of the game we average at best, yet we pulled it out of the bag. On the way home we listened to the commentary of the Manc-Villa game and any lingering title hopes we harboured were all but banished by an exemplary Manc performance. To spank a very good Aston Villa side – who lest we forget deserved to beat us on our own patch three weeks ago – is no mean feat and sums up the momentum they have. Only a remarkable run of results will see them not being crowned Champions ago, as much as it pains me to say it.

But let’s not dwell on them or on our own faults which were cruelly exposed in the first hour at the Reebok. Mean Lean has covered the main gist of it – we need to play at a high tempo from the off to try and recapture the days where we’d be over the horizon by half-time. Instead, I want to give a testament to the character of this team, and in particular one player. The thing I love about away games is the sense of us against the world. At home it feels like if the players don’t deliver then the fans are liable to turn their backs on them. But not away from home. If it’s going pear-shaped on the road, the fans simply raise their voices and become one with the team. When goals are scored, the players come right up close to us to celebrate, and you can gauge their mood and their reactions so much more. That is exactly what happened here with a certain Francesc Fabregas Soler. Whenever he scores, there is none of the perceived arrogance or nonchalance of when, for instance, Thierry or Ade hit the net. This boy is often on the verge of tears when he does the bizzo, such is his unconfined joy (see the goals against Liverpool and United for further evidence). After the customary mass celebrations amongst the players, he remained in the corner while his team-mates went back to face the kick-off. Cesc applauded the fans and pointed to us en masse, making the signal “this is all for you.” Had the boy been born in Islington, people would already be calling him Mr. Arsenal. He is the epitome of this side, the creative hub, the go-to guy when the chips are down. Although he has been struggling of late due to fatigue, his passion never wavers. And it is his actions following the winner that will be my abiding memory from the game. Even as I type this 24 hours after the event, I cannot help but a raise a smile and a giggle at the day’s events. How we did it? We don’t know. How we did it? We don’t care. All we know is that against all odds, come full-time we were truly singing in the rain.