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Posted by PaulJ on 2009-02-27 @ 1:44:24 -0700

On a Night Like This

John had to work in the morning so we cut it fine, the afternoon plane out of Gatwick, from Sussex drizzle to a cold, fine Lombardy evening. A few hours later at Lotto on the Metro the Carabinieri were behind their shields, segregating us onto a shuttle bus. Everyone else had a luxury coach but it would have been wasted on us; we had a wire grill-windowed military bus. London living taught me to cram on board; there is plenty of room for all so please don’t elbow me. John and I had had no time for food or drink and were the only ones hungry and sober.

The Carabinieri outriders, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing for Gabriel Hanot’s lost dream of international camaraderie, carved a way for us through the hopelessly jammed traffic. The singing got progressively louder, the lads got livelier, feet stamping and hands bashing the side of the bus so that the vehicle rocked and the locals gazed in wonderment at us from their genteel villas which have seen nothing like European Cup nights since the Americans fought their way through here in 1944. There was I perched precariously and painfully on the edge of a stair to avoid dismemberment from the opening doors, supporting not only myself but this sack of a man now partially comatose; put your body next to mine and keep me company.

The journey seemed so much longer than the map had promised, the thought crossed my mind that they could easily just take us to the Swiss border but no, we stopped, the air so cold outside and as I gratefully left the bus there in front of me was the fantasy that is the San Siro.

Television does not convey the truth. I do not know what it looks like in daylight but in the February night it is a wonder of the world. White with cylindrical turrets, it is a fairytale castle towering above us so huge that you do not take it all in at once. Hovering above it high in the night sky like a magic carpet for the gods is a vast network of steel and a thousand lights and around the massive citadel are the gaily lit medieval market stalls with portly characters high above the fans selling all sorts of Panini and coffee and beer.

Temporary immigrants, however, are not permitted. We are rounded up and funnelled through steel fences and lines of riot-geared Carabinieri. Everyone is searched. They have imported stewards from Manchester because the contraband search of those incapable of standing through alcohol is a skilled business. It is all relatively good natured but what do they think we are smuggling? They know we each have a ticket because every ten yards we have to show it. Eventually, fence by fence, gate by gate and grope by grope we are herded towards the foot of a great bastion but as we enter its dark doorway from which gushes a small rivulet, we enter Gormenghast.

Up the concrete steps we tramp, the young, the healthy, the old, the infirm, the men and the women, against the brook which trickles around our shoes until we reach a dungeon whence comes the stream. It is a toilet in which there are six cubicles for six thousand away fans who have drunk, I estimate, three thousand gallons of beer between them. There are no urinals. The place is awash. Unhappy women wait to use the cubicles, men are pissing against the walls. John and I, for whom the relief of bladder is a sensible idea rather than a burning necessity, look at each other and decide not to join in. It is only when we leave the dungeon that we see the remains of a skirted logo. This was meant to be the Ladies. Across the heaving, singing, chain gang of humanity being driven up the stairs is a similar dungeon, unpleasant but containing half a dozen urinals and almost devoid of users.
Up the staircase and into the open. Our tickets have seat numbers but these are merely a part of the fantasy.

Detainees do not get seats. They are driven into a pen of the correct dimensions and left to be policed by their own. Either side of the aisle which plunges steeply toward the pitch each seat seems occupied by three people, two standing in front of it and one standing on it. There is nowhere to go and more and more detainees are entering; it is another Hillsborough or Ibrox waiting to happen, time and again the crowd lurches forward and bodies go flying with cracked shins over blue plastic seats. We shove our way uninvited into a seat sharing scheme and I am condemned to watch the game standing on the floor behind a nice but very big bloke who is (through no choice of his own) standing on the seat. It is like the terrace of my childhood, looking over his left shoulder, then his right and jumping up and down if I want to see more of the action.

When I look up, towering on all sides is a huge bank of humanity. It is a breathtaking sight. At first this populace is curious to gaze upon the foreign detainees, safely in their cage, singing their curious songs. You can imagine them asking (in Italian, of course), who is this Spaniard of whom they sing? Does he really look like a girl and wear a frock and sell himself around Albert Dock? And what is Leeds Come; why did they eat it?
Then the teams are announced and the most amazing chanting reverberates around. It is spine tingling. I am in this huge castle of light, the air misted with the breath and smoke of eighty thousand people, several thunder flashes and a bonfire. Across the chasm there are thousands holding what seem to be lighted candles and as the chanting rebounds from side to side of this great vertiginous pit I understand; this is the Coliseum anew. From out of the tunnel on my left come the gladiators. The plebeians, thirsty for action, cry out in orchestrated discipline as if to a tyrant emperor.

The gladiators; Ferguson has dropped Rooney. I received a text in the Metro and wanted to tell everybody, but I figured they were either Italian or they knew already. Edwin is back, of course, and the fresh injuries seem to have healed or been covered up as we field a back four of John O’Shea, Rio, Jonny Evans and Patrice Evra. Fletcher and Carrick are in the middle with Ronaldo and Park on the flanks and Berbatov is up front backed by Ryan Giggs.

I felt we were in for a hiding. Vidic missing, Inter managed by the Special One and in great form, runaway leaders in the Italian League. How wrong could I have been? For forty five minutes we played them off the park. Every man in a red shirt played his part. Evans masked his injury, Rio showed his captaincy. Ronaldo and Evra had as good a game as you can hope to see at this exalted level, Fletcher and Carrick ran the midfield and Giggs was magnificent. We had command of the ball and we harassed them so that it kept coming back to us; we appeared to have smuggled extra players onto the pitch. The best chances came when Ronaldo headed Giggs’ right wing cross inches wide, and when Giggs turned Maicon brilliantly to take a ball from Carrick. Clear through on the left of goal he shot hard at goalkeeper Júlio César’s face when he might have chipped him or picked out Berbatov. The goalkeeper brought off two excellent saves from Ronaldo and I counted seven further moments when I thought the ball was going in. By half time the Coliseum crowd was silenced except to bay at the Spanish referee, Medina Cantalejo, who was having none of the sly trips and shoves and who had shown a yellow card to their bench as well as to two of their players on the field.

In the second half José Mourinho moved Zlatan Ibrahimovic to the left to double up on O’Shea, whom they had identified as our weak point. This change paid immediate dividends as Ibrahamovic’s work gave Adriano much more freedom; four times in the five minutes after the interval Inter could have scored. The problem was not only at the back, where O’Shea was holding firm with help, but up front where our full backs were no longer free to roam. Now the great crowd was in huge voice. They seemed to be chanting “Bidet, bidet”; I applauded the concept of mass protest about the sanitary facilities but thought their request a touch ambitious.

The pivotal moment came when O’Shea put in a hefty tackle and regained his confidence going forward. As players from both sides tired Evans was limping, Fletcher had lost his timing, Carrick, Evra, Giggs and Park had run miles but United had the upper hand again and substitute Iván Córdoba proved as good as a match winner, first blocking brilliantly a shot from Giggs after a lovely run, and then rugby tackling Berbatov in the area to prevent him getting near Ronnie’s cross.

By the end of a thrilling game it was United who looked more likely to score, especially in the last ten minutes when Rooney came on for Park. Fuelled by the testosterone that comes from being dropped, Rooney got booked for a couple of lively fifty-fifty challenges. He also got himself within a whisker of a through ball from Ronaldo, Júlio César somehow managing to save legally inches outside the area. The final kick of the game was Ronnie’s free kick which swerved and dipped and hit the goalkeeper in the chest. There was a sense of missed opportunity, of disappointment. Five shots on target to nil, fourteen to thirteen overall, six corners to three, better passing, better tackling, marginally more possession, and no goal to take back to Old Trafford.

As the players warmed down and showered and ate their post-match pasta the detainees were spat upon from above; not horrible gobs of green Mancunian mucus but a fine spray of sophisticated Latin spittle. I donned my Manchester United woolly hat to try to avoid head injury from the thrown coins. The locals entertained us with a thunder flash and the officials tried to ameliorate the situation first with piped middle of the road English pop music and then with United videos on the big screen. The best entertainment was a game of impromptu catch in the compound.

Release came at a quarter past eleven. Detainees were allowed, under strict supervision, to go to the brightly lit stalls. There we enjoyed a ham roll (a very nice ham roll, admittedly, with a fresh tomato) and a bottle of beer for ten quid before the big steward advised us that walking to the Metro was out of the question and we must take the tram. The tram does not go to Lotto. Nobody who will speak to us knows where it is going because there are no announcements, there is no route diagram in the carriage and the windows are steamed up. John and I decide upon the great escape and by some miracle we make the last Malpensa bus at half past midnight with seconds to spare after two tube rides and a quarter of a mile run.

I can’t get any sleep. Dawn in the suburbs, back we fly on the early departure, climbing over the grey foothills and lakes and through the clouds away from the fantasy castle and over the magic land that is the snow covered Alps, still in with a chance of qualifying.

Paul James

Posted by Barry on 2009-02-25 @ 12:36:30 -0700

UNITED reign in The San Siro - quick fire Milano match report by Barry

Dateline Monday 23rd Feb Denmark, lunch time flight from Billund to Bergamo near Milan.
Checked into hotel in the middle of town by 17.00 hours. We then met Duncan Drasdo & the gang for a meal, Italian style and a few hours RED chat, a RED time was had by all. Back at the hotel by midnight Alan, Graham, Snowy & company had checked in and we sat for a couple of hours, as I called it, in respect of Mike Dobbin RIP. The meet was complete with traditional Danish bitters and other various titbits, Mike style, I’m sure he would have approved.

Tuesday morning flew by and by lunch time in the city square near the fantastic Duomo Cathedral the atmosphere was warming up with police, Inter & UNITED fans but no trouble. I would like to emphasize that there was no trouble at all in Milan before during or after the match. By 17.00 hours we moved to Lotto by the Metro train and we found a fairly quiet restaurant for pasta, beer and more RED ARMY CHAT before walking the 20 mins. to San Siro. Arriving at the Stadium Dave, Dave, Dave & the 5 other Dave’s were all in good spirits and proceeded to take our places behind the goal in the blue seats lower tier. Plenty of singing, Mourinho chants, Viva Ronaldo whilst the players warmed up in front of us. Great to see Johnny Evans so no problem midfield. San Siro is a fantastic stadium both from the outside, a large spaceship, and on the inside with it’s towering 4 walls 2 big screens and great sound system.

The match – 1st half started NO Rooney or Scholes but the boys did us VERY proud. The whole team were superlative and made the great? Inter seem ordinary! Park on fire but so was Giggsy, Ronaldo, I could name the whole team! Inter did not turn up in the first half it was just a question of time and we would score [or so we thought]. After 4 free kicks near goal, Julio Cesar saved the lot! Giggsy went close, we were all happy and sang nonstop at FULL strength to help the boys. Mourinho waved at us but then decided on several walks/run abouts, outside his managers area and the Ref finally booked him 
THE RED ARMY sang “F off Mourinho” again & again.

2nd half and the REDS attacked the goal in front of us. Inter started a little better, they had not existed in the first 45 but after the blues had a few attacks UNITED gradually took over but did not dominate enough to threaten as much as in the first half. First when Alex finally brought on Rooney for the last 10 mins we did look like finally breaking through, Rooney was so enthusiastic he was booked after his first real run at goal, tackling back. It was not to be and even Christiano’s last minute free kick cannoned off the Julio’s chest. He was their MOM not Adriano or Imbrahimovic. THE REDS reigned in this match but without a goal. The RED ARMY had been screaming for Rooney with 30 mins left, lets hope Alex does not regret not scoring the all important away goal in 2 weeks time. I think not.

We all left happy? [yes but not due to the fact we were kept in for a FULL HOUR in the empty stadium after the game!] The Metro was closed by now it was after midnight but there were trams running into the town centre so there we were, squashed like sardines into a seething metal tin for about 30 minutes, the RED ARMY singing their heads off 
Check out my videos.

This mornings headlines in the Milan papers were “AVE JULIO!”
It is now Wed. evening I am back in Denmark after the treck back over the alps and up to Aalborg from 6.00 am – 15.00 hrs. IT WAS WELL WORTH THE TRIP. Great to meet everywone that I new & many NEW FACES 

The photos of this quick fire report are to be found here – 62 photos & videos
<a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/BJLeeming/MilanoFeb24th2009InterVManchesterUnitedSanSiro">http://picasaweb.google.com/BJLeeming/MilanoFeb24th2009InterVManchesterUnitedSanSiro</a>

Enjoy and see you next time!

Copyright webmaster Barry Leeming The Maddane

Posted by Bill on 2009-02-25 @ 6:25:55 -0700

Sir Alex Ferguson will have to do something he has managed just once in 13 meetings and defeat Jose Mourinho after a masterful Manchester United display went unrewarded in the San Siro.

Despite a succession of clear chances, including one in the last seconds that Cristiano Ronaldo cannoned into Julio Cesar's chest, a vital away goal would not come.

So while Ferguson's men will be confident of getting a goal in the second leg at Old Trafford, they remain vulnerable to Mourinho's guile.

It was expected a meeting between the undisputed kings of Italy and England would be a keenly-fought affair with little give on either side.

In fact the first half turned out to be a landslide in every respect but the scoreboard.

The sheer speed of United's movement caught Inter napping almost as much as Ferguson's decision to leave Wayne Rooney on the bench.

Their swift snappy passing, allied to movement off the ball gave Inter a problem they struggled to solve. Indeed, they would not have managed it without an outstanding individual performance from Julio Cesar.

Brazilian goalkeepers may have been derided down the years but no-one was complaining among a noisy and increasingly agitated home contingent as Cesar made a string of saves to keep United at bay.

Ryan Giggs was denied at one point but the main victim was Ronaldo, who took aim with a series of free-kicks and found the Brazilian in the way every time, sometimes theatrically but always effectively.

Ronaldo did beat him once with a point-blank header but it flashed wide.

The world player of the year was a conclusive winner of his head-to-head duel with Zlatan Ibrahimovic though.

Mourinho rates the Swede as number one on the planet right now but there was precious little evidence to back up such a lofty claim as United's defence, reinforced by John O'Shea and Jonny Evans - who both overcame fitness concerns to start - kept him at bay, with Adriano virtually non-existent.

The major worry, especially with a coach as wily as Mourinho in the opposing dug-out, must be United's failure to score.

It was not as though they lacked the opportunity. Lone striker Dimitar Berbatov surged clear in the box at one point, only to look up and see no-one in support as he prepared to cross.

Inter's frustrations were summed up just before the break when Cesar's deputy, Francesco Toldo, was booked for protesting on the touchline at another decision that had gone against his team.

Ferguson must have sensed Inter would finally flex their muscles after the break, and so it proved.

Adriano had already flashed one shot wide when he crashed to the turf under Ferdinand's challenge as Javier Zanetti crossed.

The Brazilian screamed for a penalty but TV replays suggested Spanish referee Luis Medina Cantalejo was right to say no.

But Inter tails were up and Stankovic was narrowly wide with another shot before attempting to release Ibrahimovic, who had strayed narrowly offside when otherwise he would have been clear.

United were not quite clinging on as their opponents had been earlier. However, they were being tested and it took them some time to regain their earlier composure.

Their goal threat had become sporadic with Zanetti's far-post clearance to prevent Giggs reaching Ronaldo's low cross the summit of United's danger until the veteran Welshman was allowed to gallop into the Inter box, where his shot was blocked by Ivan Cordoba and Carrick fired the rebound over.

After seeing Cordoba fail to make the most of a Mario Balotelli corner, Ferguson gave Rooney seven minutes to make a difference, and was no doubt not meaning for Rooney to pick up a booking for a foul on Stankovic.

However, it was a peripheral moment, with Ronaldo taking centre stage one last time to unleash another 20-yard thunderbolt. Cesar remained defiant and saved with his chest.

Teams:

Inter Milan Julio Cesar, Maicon, Rivas (Cordoba 46), Chivu, Santon, Zanetti, Cambiasso, Muntari (Cruz 76), Stankovic, Ibrahimovic, Adriano (Balotelli 77).

Subs Not Used: Toldo, Maxwell, Figo, Burdisso.

Booked: Toldo, Chivu, Maicon, Cordoba.

Man Utd Van der Sar, O'Shea, Ferdinand, Evans, Evra, Fletcher, Carrick, Giggs, Park (Rooney 83), Berbatov, Ronaldo.

Subs Not Used: Foster, Nani, Scholes, Fabio Da Silva, Gibson,

Tevez.

Booked: Fletcher, Rooney.

Att: 84,000

Ref: Luis Medina Cantalejo (Spain).
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