Many regrets but the boys did us proud

COME the final whistle those of us in the front few rows at the Stade de France looked like a load of drowned Gooner rats, all our hopes and high expectations having disappeared down the stadium drains along with the torrent of rain which soaked us in the second half.

The yellow and grey hues of our end of this vast arena might not have looked anywhere near as colourful as the garish blues, reds and fluorescent yellows behind Barca’s goal. Yet as I turned to survey the impressive scenery for the last time, I was pleased to see that the vast majority of the Arsenal faithful had lingered long enough to exalt their heroes with a final loud and proud show of appreciation for all their efforts.

In fact I got the sense that the team were so wrapped up in their own massive disappointment that they were all about to trudge straight off the pitch, until our raucous serenade pierced their consciousness, reminding them that there were still some dues to be paid to their vast army of travelling fans.

After such a depressing defeat, usually the more fickle members of the Gooner faithful would have been heading for the exits while the shrill toot of the ref’s whistle was still echoing around the stands. Whereas on Wednesday night even they remained in their seats.

We might not have been dashing back to London, so we could dance through the streets of Islington, parading the big-eared prize that has eluded us this past decade.

Yet in spite of our misery, in our heart of hearts we all knew the Gunners had produced an against-all-odds performance that truly deserved this display of our gratitude.

There were plenty of “if only” regrets. If only Lehmann hadn’t been sent off, he might not have conceded at his near post, or through his legs. But any criticism of Almunia should be tempered with a reminder that he hasn’t had a first team run-out in many months and lest we forget, Sol Campbell’s soaring header would’ve been cancelled out by the break, if it wasn’t for our reserve keeper’s fingertip save on the stroke of half-time.

If only Hleb’s second-half strike had hit the target, or if Thierry had shown his customary composure instead of stabbing our best chance to secure a two-goal lead, straight into the arms of a doubtless mighty relieved Valdes.

If I have one complaint, it is perhaps that Wenger shouldn’t have tinkered with the team that appeared to be coping with the Barca onslaught. Possibly Fabregas was feeling the pace, but I couldn’t help but think that if Arsène believed we were beginning to flag then perhaps he should’ve been a little more decisive.

We might lack anything like the squad depth of Chelsea, but in Wenger’s shoes, I am pretty sure Mourinho might have thrown all his subs into the melting pot and I’m pretty confident the likes of Bergkamp, Van Persie or Clichy wouldn’t have disgraced themselves in such exalted company.

However, it wasn’t a night for recriminations, as I’m a pretty much convinced that no matter how redoubtably the Arsenal raged against it, it was destined not to be our night. From our perspective it felt as if fate and the footballing authorities were conspiring against us, as at times, from our perspective, it seemed as if we were playing 10 v 14 (11 plus all three officials).

As we bayed for the half-time whistle, one got the sense that the somewhat less than neutral Norwegian ref was scared of being sacked on the spot, should he dare blow up for the break before the Catalan giants had got their equalising goal.

After brandishing the yellow at young Manny Eboué’s first over enthusiastic challenge, there were cries of “Hallelujah” when the ref finally got around to recognising the cynical efforts of our opponents, by eventually booking one of the Barca players. I have every respect for him as a captain, but if I don’t ever see the ugly sight of Carlos Puyol running the length of the pitch to admonish the officials again, it’ll be too soon.

From the moment Wenger was forced to replace Pires after Lehmann’s sending off, one got the sense that our assault on the Champions League mountain was going to fail, within touching distance of the summit. With Henry isolated up front, we couldn’t retain possession in their half of the pitch and their was no respite for our defence.

Without that crucial second goal, which might’ve knocked the stuffing out of the Spaniards, despite our incredibly obdurate efforts, as time wore on it grew increasingly inevitable that we’d be breached by Barca’s brilliance at some stage.

It was strange how the storm which had raged for the duration of the second half, seemed to abate the second the match ended. There were more than a few grown men at our end of the ground glad of the rain dripping down our faces, to obscure the odd tear or two.

Mercifully there are many in this Arsenal squad with time on their side. Yet looking through my binoculars at the distraught faces of the likes of Touré and Eboué, who’d given of themselves body and soul, I couldn’t help but feel they didn’t deserve to end on the losing side.

I could’ve done with some radio reception on the couple of hundred mile drive back to Calais. I wanted to know how the match had been received and whether we’d been as hard done by from a neutral viewpoint.

Meanwhile, overheard an electrical storm lit up the night sky for the entire length of the journey, as if the gods themselves were still arguing the toss. It remains to be seen whether this disconsolate defeat will break us, or make us stronger?