My week in Lens between the two games had been a mixture of running and writing. With a backlog of blogs, there was plenty for me to do, plus I had a radio show to record for Saturday. Staying at one of Pierre's gite was the perfect way to do both. On one of my runs, I managed to find my way to Le Parc de la Glissoire: the former sight of Fosse 5 (a former mine) and not far from Lens' training ground in Avion. The run itself was an 11km round trip so I decided that my legs would only stand a brief tour of the park but just like the growing nature trails around Le Louvre-Lens showed the work that had been done to transform the town's mining image. First begun 35 years previously, the park now boasted 6 lakes and as i trotted around a couple of them, I could see that there were places to fish and play water sports as well as a habitat to a number of wild birds, although the ducks and geese I spotted looked quite serene.
I, however was having my own problems with wild animals: Pierre's cats! Not a great cat-lover because of my asthma, I was peturbed to see them appear at the door demanding to be let in whenever I sat down to recording or writing... or just opened the curtains.
There were four stages of cat domination.
1. Muster on the outdoor table to begin the assault but feign complete disinterest in your target.
2. Send forth the scout with the blue eyes to bewitch your target into submitting to your will.
3. If that fails, assume the tallest possible stance to intimidate your victim.
4. Finally attack the door in the hope that it could be opened.
It was a modern day version of the harpies of Ancient Greek mythology, luring hapless sailors onto rocks so that they could devour them. If I had given in to their cries, I would probably have fared little better than those poor wretches of old!
Thankfully, Pierre had built my gite with two possible escape route so it became a game of cat and mouse (I was the mouse), when they appeared at one door, I would head to the other. I'm completely certain that if I had stayed longer, they would have learnt to split their forces; positioning a cat at each entrance.
Thankfully I survived until the Saturday and matchday #2
The win over Seville had been unexpected and, it had to be said, extremely fortunate. The goals had come at opportune moments in the game. Could the team raise themselves once against a reims team managed by the Belgo-Brit Will Still? Rumours were circulating that my neighbours, Sunderland, were interested in stealing him so maybe this could unsettled the visitors. They had won two of their last five (Strasbourg (h) 2-1 and Nantes (a) 1-0) but had lost to the likes of Nice (a) (1-2), Rennes (a) (1-3) and Paris (h) 0-3.
In comparison Lens were undefeated in Ligue 1 since September (a surprise 0-1 home defeat against Metz) and a match which was the final of three defeats at the start of the season (Paris (a) 1-3 and Monaco (a) (0-3)) but featured 31 Lens attempts on goal compared to two efforts from Metz. Despite being unbeaten, Lens had managed to grind out results without looking anything like the Lens of Fofana and Openda. The play had been workmanlike and there had been more draws than the previous year. The newboys were still to really make their mark. Wahi's four goals had been great moments of skill but a mixture of poor service from the rest of the team and composure on his part meant there weren't more. He had drifted out of too many games and lacked the confidence to re-impose himself.
Mayby all that would change! The simple reason for that: a new English friend was joining me at Le Stade Bollaert. The son of my good pal, Wednesday Chris (he's a Sheffield Wednesday fan) was coming up for the game. James followed his dad's leanings (despite his mum being a Newcastle fan) but lived in Paris. He had decided that after 12 years under a Conservative government, there had to be better places to live in Europe. He had managed to get a cyber security job in the French capital and not looked back.
I really needed a job working for the Lens tourist board bearing in mind my love for the area and so today, Matthew, I was going to do just that: unpaid but enthusiastic. First stop... La Loco! Being vegan, he was immune to the lure of both mergez and fricadelles but the chips were definitely to his liking. Despite ordering the large portion (I did try to warn him) he stuck manfully to the task and still had room for another 500cl of Ch'ti lager. His tour continued to Terrils 11 and 19 and Pierre's house before we decamped to Emotion Foot and Chez Muriel.
Just like Matt, James had an advantage over me. His French lessons at school and year in France meant he could converse more confidently and also, more importantly, when the lads got into full speed with their footballing discussions, he was able to comprehend most of what was being said. My O and A-level school French lessons had taken place over 30 years ago and, I'm afraid to say, I had failed to apply myself to my studies. As a result, when a 40-year-old Richard had tried to refresh his knowledge, his brain had shut down in many regards. I've been playing catch-up ever since with varying degrees of success. James, however, fitted right into the group and I was delighted to show them his purchase: a Lens home shirt! None of my English friends had shown any inclination to do that! James was my instant favourite!
He was delighted to be visiting Stade Bollaert: once again he hadn't been bored by my obsession during family get-togethers. Strange lad! A man of the 21st century, he had mastered the art of Airbnb and found an appartment opposite Chez Muriel. After putting the luggage he had been trailing behind him all day into 'his pad', it was time for the walk towards the ground.
A proud moment it was for both of us: James entering the mythical stade for the first time and me taking the paternal role, sorry Chris, but I'll do the same for you one day, hopefully.
The first thing we had to explain to James was that there was going to be a 15 minute strike by the Lens ultras in protest at the government's decision to ban away fans travelling to certain games on a regular basis, including the fiasco against Seville. We told him not to expect too much for those 15 minutes. Having seen the same things carried out in the past, I hoped it wouldn't spoil the occasion for James. Unlike the time the Ultras refused to take their place on the Marek until the game had started, this time, they were there: just silent. Some even scowled as the Lensois was sung at the start: a habit that can only be described as second nature!
There was a large amount of tinsel in the Trannin terrace but even that remained under wraps until the 15th minute. At that point the crowd sprang to life, having counted down from 10 (obviously in French). The yellow and red Christmas tinsel was unfurled while fireworks exploded from behind the scoreboard away to our right. It was worth the wait!
A video later showed a number of masked figures, standing on the train line that runs behind L'Epagnot stand, launching a stream of fireworks from what looked like bazookas. I'm sure British health and safety would have had something to say about that but what a spectacle it made! Hopefully they had consulted the train timetables!
Bollaert was in full swing. Thomasson, one of six changes from Tuesday night thanks to suspensions and injuries, drifted in a cross that was palmed away by Diouf in the Reims goal then Reims surged forward and Nakamura's drive stung Samba's fingers as he pushed clear. The match was much more open than Tuesday. When Reims' Abdelhamid flicked just wide, I wished the home defence wasn't quite so open. Lens were being outshot, despite their dominant possession. This was every bit as nervy as Tuesday night!
Reims caught out the home defence and Reims' Daremy slid the ball under Samba for what seemed to be the opening goal. But no! The linesman flagged offside. Replays would later show it was another one of those toenail jobs. But we didn't care... his toenail was offside and that's what counted. James was bringing his own magic to the evening. Samba looked in trouble soon after when he did an impression of a brick wall, trying to deal with a one on one in the penalty area. Sadly his wall was man sized and very immobile but thankfully the rest of the defence were there to smother then clear the ball.
Two minutes before half time Joseph Okumu headed the ball away from his own keeper's clutches on the edge of the Reims penalty area. The ball fell to a delighted Wesley Said, who thrashed into the roof of the net from an extremely acute angle. The injury-prone striker was enjoying sharing the limelight with Wahi (or stealing it really) , who had played in midweek and was rested. This was his third goal in five appearances and each of them had shown how skillful he was: if only he could remain injury free!
The makeshift Lens defence, without the injured Gradit and suspended Medina, were at full stretch in the second half. Ito flashed wide as did Abdelhamid. Each time, Samba was flatfooted.
On came Oscar Cortes, for only his third appearance for Lens and within seven minutes he had settled the tie, diving to flick past Diouf for his first goal and suitably, he was mobbed by the rest of the team.
The celebrations began for the final home game of 2023. What a year it has been!
At the final whistle, the players toured the stade, applauding the fans. They looked knackered but had come up trumps once again. Although I missed the players coming over to the Marek to sing Chicoté or shout Lens! Lens! Lens! I understand why they don't do it any more. The club is more than the Marek. With every home game this year having sold out, it was about everyone. As easy as it is to dislike the money men and women in L'Epagnot, they were the ones driving the club onwards and upwards. However, if it is to really succeed, the club needs to recognise every single Lens fan: rich / poor / young / old. The ultras may be there on a wet night in Le Havre but everyone contributes in their own way. As long as everyone is recognised and respected then the future for Lens is bright. The major failing of the Premier League is that it cast aside the poor: mostly the young. I wonder: will this come to bite them in the future?
For James and I, we felt included and part of a club moving forward. Isn't that what being a football fan is all about?
On the way out, there was a chance to sneak into the Delacourt to enjoy their own celebrations.
James couldn't wait to come back.
Epiloque:
Just like the 1950s tv dramas, this story has an epiloque: a little unexpected add-on to tantalise and titillate (but not in a sexual manner).
Having discovered that my Eurostar back to London left Lille at 8:35, I booked a hotel room near the stations for Sunday night. After an afternoon nap, I am getting on a bit, I set out to find something to eat. There were many options for a change as most shops were still open, even on a Sunday, in the run-up to Christmas.
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I was in the mood for pizza (cause I'm well classy) but didn't want to go through the rigmarole of sitting down on my own so I looked for a takeaway. Google maps directed me towards an innocently named Pronto Pizza. This brought back memories of the first pizza delivery company in Tynemouth in the early 1990s. London, where I was studying for my teaching degree, was filled with them, but the Northeast of England was slow to catch up.
The counter man asked me if I was English: even when I speak French I still have an english accent he told me. There was something familiar about this conversation! A young trio of students arrived and he chatted away to them as he prepared all the pizzas. Mine arrived on very posh crockery (it had a pattern on it) and once again my memory circuits began buzzing. Checking through my previous blogs, I found an entry from 2014. I was getting quite nostalgic and emotional. Memories of Lens' promotion under Kambouaré and the fall out from Mammodov sprang to mind. Also springing to mind was waiting until 11:30pm for the Eurolines bus back to London Victoria. I asked the man if he had worked here long. At first he was guarded... was I a health inspector? I could tell he was wondering. I reassured him that I wasn't and showed him a picture of my friend Bashir from nine years ago. His face lit up... "C'est moi!" Reunited once more!
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