It wasn’t about ‘destiny’, it wasn’t about ‘history’, it won’t require 12 public inquiries (because Liverpool won) and it wasn’t a very good game. But it was just that. Two teams massively underplaying the immense potential they demonstrated in the respective semi-finals. Of the two Spurs definitely played better. The Scousers (one Geordie, one Yorkshireman, a Scotsman, two Brazilians, one Egyptian, an African, Dutchman…) played their worst game of the year. Spurs just managed to out-worse them, even playing better. Ok there was a quite ridiculous penalty but that, after 1 minute, didn’t decide the match. Only Arsenal games and Manchester United games are, according to the vast sea of whinging fans and managers, lost as the result of such ridiculous and ridiculously timed events.

But it was about ‘the journey’. Which, for Spurs was a magical, mystical, mysterious one which flew in the face of all known gods. And all known statistics. We blew away so many ‘never before has a team come back from…’s that they need a new statistician at UEFA. Old one was probably corrupt anyway.

And every fan has his story of ‘where he was and how he/she got there’. Because it wasn’t easy to avoid the exploitative shark disease which afflicted all airlines and Spanish hotels as soon as the final was known. Worse still is the UEFA ticket distribution, which, like everything in our ‘beautiful game’ on the European level, works on a “one for you, two for me…” system. So the proper fans were allocated less than half of the total tickets and the rest went to ‘the clubs’ and to ‘the hoy-poloy’ who all sell them to the touts who fleece the less lucky real fans for all they can.

Other fans went to watch at Spurs ground, where for just a tenner you could sit and enjoy the spectacle with thousands of ‘brethren’, which is probably what I’d have done, except… Kevin was born.

So we decided to watch all together. Thus I’ll relate this fan’s ‘journey’ to the match.

I walked to Lila’s house, 4 minutes away, in my flip flops, because it was hot and I know you’re keen on detail. And with both daughters (one post-natal, the other over from Berlin for the game… and ok, the birth and a few other things), my son-in-law (who was blessed to have been at the semi-final in Amsterdam but wasn’t allowed to go to the final, obvs) and with Lila in bed (ok, with Mel for most of the first half) and Kev lying on my lap being forced to learn the players’ names, we watched. And taught Kevin the value of swearing excessively when the penalty was awarded. Well, its a skill for life. Then the curry arrived just after half time and that was probably the high point of the match. Because it was really good. And even better washed down with Jack Daniels and coke. In roughly equal measures.

Then we walked home.

Everyone has their story. And will always remember exactly where they were when… well, something happened.

Happy Sunday.

A xxxx