Roll on Paris, as super Jens brings tears to our eyes

STANDING on a small corner of foreign terracing that was destined to become forever Arsenal, as dusk fell on a balmy spring evening, there were big fat Gooners taking the wrappers off proportionately sized cigars.

Intermingled with the aromatic cigar smoke, one caught the occasional fragrant whiff of ‘whacky baccy’, as many of the travelling faithful found their own individual means of marking such a special occasion. If only I’d set aside my own Cuban corona to celebrate the birth of a child, I’d have definitely tucked it into a pocket to take to Spain. It was that sort of night! After schlepping all over the Continent this past decade or so, we all deserved to be standing there, sucking on a ‘Romeo y Julieta’, lapping up the semi-final high, awaiting the start of the 90 minutes of football which might at long last affirm the top table status of Arsène Wenger and his team.

Prior to such a pitifully uninspiring performance, the cigar lighting might’ve been somewhat premature. Nevertheless despite several heart-stopping incidents and the dramatic 90th minute denouement, when with Germanic reliability, our crash cart keeper revived this Champions League baby with his enormous paddles, it all came good in the end. It’s a tired cliché but I can’t imagine any other similar deliveries bringing genuine tears to the eyes of so many Gooner grown men.

The drama though wasn’t confined to the 90 minutes. My nightmare trip of delays and redirected flights had seemed like a good idea at the time, as I’d assumed my prospects of securing a precious ticket would be improved by travelling with the official party. Yet in addition to our limited allocation of 1,100 tickets, there was at least another 1000 Gooners who’d obtained tickets elsewhere. But if a Champions League semi was a big deal for us visitors, the same was true in spades for the 40,000 Spaniards living in this small town, 70km from Valencia.

Mingling with the locals in a bar, as I sought to get some grub, the mood felt more like some sort of fiesta. They were all so friendly that I felt quite sorry for pooping their party before the night was out.

Cream-crackered even before kick-off, I honestly cannot recall watching a more exhausting match. There was always going to be an instinctive tendency to sit-back and attempt to protect our slim single goal advantage. But considering it was the biggest game in most of the Gunner’s young lives, I couldn’t believe they were quite so passive. As a result, I spent virtually the entire match alternating between imploring the Arsenal to “get out” and watching the clock, as the seconds ticked by agonisingly slowly. It seemed as if there was more chance of willing past the sands of time, than witnessing any sort of test of the home team’s keeper! Mercifully our own goal minder passed his with flying colours. In light of the huge banner behind Lehmann’s goal, expressing the home fans hopes for a fair referee, the award of a last minute penalty might’ve been recompense for the previous match. The moment Jens pulled of his save, I immediately thought of the Spurs fans back home, who must’ve hit the ceiling when the ref pointed to the spot and how they were floored a few seconds later. The contrasting peaks of euphoria and troughs of despair encapsulate everything that is beautiful about the game.

We sang our songs of joy, suggesting they can stick 4th place where the sun don’t shine! Amongst all the celebratory TV pictures of Arsenal fans rightly making fools of themselves, I imagine you won’t have seen the scenes outside the stadium afterwards, where the locals stood serenading the heroics of a home side that’s travelled from non-league obscurity, to the penultimate pinnacle in football.

Considering how the fates seem to have smiled upon us in Europe this season, unfortunately for Villarreal they came up against an Arsenal side for whom at long last “the force” appears to be with. Roll on Paris!