There's something about the last day of the season: games played on the same day, at the same time, all over the same country! Genius move. If only someone had thought of it before!
It conjured up memories of fans crowding around tinny, crackly transistor radios, usually belonging to the strangest, scent-natural members of the crowd (yep that was me!) waiting for the inevitable updates that would seal your team's fate.
These were the same individuals who used to shout out random scores throughout the season, which were usually met with complete indifference. Nevertheless, they soldiered on regardless and final day would be their reward. Their day in the sun. It is an image that belongs in the 60s to 80s when transistor radios descended upon the young and-not-so-young. The calls for hush as results were relayed to the crowd via the chosen tranny-man (they were usually male). Endearing image?
Mobile phones and staggered kickoffs, at the request of tv companies, has meant those individuals have lost their power as the oracle of vital matchday information. In these modern times, there are usually hardly any other matches to relay results about and those pesky mobile phones will tell you straight away what's the crack. No crackly reception or inhaled body odour as you leaned closer to hear! Such a shame.
The one exception is the final couple of days of most countries' football seasons when the authorities decided that in the element of fairness, all the games should start at the same time. Grrreat.
The final evening of the season hoping for promotion or playoff qualification were behind Lens for a second successive season, thankfully, but all the memories of what might have have been still niggled at each fan. Today's goal was the amazing prize of European football: not the Champion's League or its less popular brother, the Europa League but the afterthought Europa Conference. The big clubs considered both Europas as beneath them but for Lens, it would mean the difference between losing or keeping a good number of our top performers. As always, I travelled in hope rather than expectation: "Blind faith, it'll be okay?"
Friday
Friday morning's plan were generally smoothly operated. The Metro successfully delivered me to a packed Newcastle Central Station at 7:30am. Sunderland had reached the playoff finals and their fans were there en masse, dreaming of Wembley victory. Even though I was brought up a Newcastle fan, my years living in London and working in Sunderland means I have a strong desire to see every North east team do well, for the simple reason, it sticks two fingers up at the South, which (IMHO) patronises or ignores the region in equal measures, unless it wants something. It's a bit of a bugbear to me so I often mention this. Oh, and yes, I did vote labour in the last few elections. Don't get me started on the Red Wall!
Getting off my political soapbox and taking a few sedatives... the journey down and across the channel went fairly well. The French customs official was a Lens fan and wished me well and there was another supporter on his way home and he was going to the match. We carried on a conversation every time our passport queues looped past each other. Like distant voices in the darkness of passport control.
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| Ignoring each other! |
With only a few delays to the train to Douai, where I was to meet Nico, the journey was relatively painless. I was delighted to see him sporting the Whitley Bay FC polo shirt I had bought for him last time. He's a class act, that one!
I was never going to get away with a quite night in Cambrai once the phrase, "just 5 minutes" had been uttered. Even though Pipo was working and Thomas had the homme-flu, Yannick and Nico still had plenty of friends to call upon and we were joined by Will the policeman and his manic wife, Blandine, who instantly bonded with me as a fellow disgruntled teacher. For the first half of the evening, we moaned about our respective educational lots. Then I was led down the memory-lane steps: The Metropolitan Club-Bar!
Just those few steps down into the depths and the way the solid metal door swung open, seemingly by itself to lure us in filled me with dread. I was fading fast. The fantastic food and drink combined with a long day of travelling was now draining my old bones.
Blandine, however had rediscovered a new lease of life and she was pulling out the shapes from every corner of the room. Nico gamefully joined in but I was glad to see that Will the policeman had also last his energy, He did have to go to work the next day, policing the match, so I felt he had good reason to want to find the sanctuary of his bed. But Blandine and co weren't having it.
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Will maintains his manly stance
at the bar despite his fatigue! |
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| And you'd want to do that because.... |
Being positioned right outside of the club's Fumoir meant that we could have a view of the majority of comings and goings in the club. Those Frenchies certainly still enjoy a tab!
Like a magnet, it drew the revellers to it. Its nicotine-laden delights meant that the door had to be closed at all times. No drinks were allowed in and had to be left outside. Its a good job nobody spikes anybody's drinks in France!
Finally, the draw of the fumoir and the never-ending beats, that everyone agreed were not to their tastes, wore off. I finally got the chance to lay my tired little head down, at 3:30am, as the sound of Gallic arguments drifted away below me.
Saturday
Cambrai was bathed in a golden sunlight when i surfaced.
To add to this piece of meteorological good fortune, there was also the fact that my body had survived the previous evening's onslaught. The switch to cokes had done the trick. I would be able to enjoy today's excitement.
On my way to collect breakfast, I walked past the scene of last night's finale.
The Metropolitan looked so innocent in the daylight. Its sturdy doors hiding the scenes of any great drunken debauchery that might have taken place. It was like on a horror film when the vampire's crypt is visited in the daylight by the heroes. If I could have forced open the doors, would I have found its denizens all sleeping, waiting for the night to return? I decided that it was probably better to move on and gat my breakfast... I certainly wasn't going to share any of it!
Yannick arrived a little later than planned and I was extremely glad he decided not to insist on the morning run he had suggested. It was off, instead, to hero Pierre's house for a barbeque. A much more sensible option.
In between sausages, the main attraction was Pierre's collection of retro Lens shirts from the 1980s and beyond which led to an impromptu fashion show...
Maybe a life as a male model is awaiting me... they said they'd let me know.
The one thing about making arrangements to meet people when I go to Lens games is that everybody I know seems to want to meet at opposite ends of town. Trying to meet up with Jean-Marie to pick up my ticket then Pascal was proving as difficult as ever. The BBQ crew were quite happily chatting, while Pascal kept texting every time he moved location. When we finally arrived in town, Pascal had headed off to join the Red Tigers' ceremonial march to the stadium. With Jean-Marie also on the move, I decided the best bet would be to meet him outside the ground an hour and a quarter before kick-off. That just gave me time to follow Yannick and his mates to the hotel where the players were having their 'siesta'.
Their chances of getting any rest and relaxation definitely looked remote as a few thousand fans had turned the street outside into a veritable party. Joining the throng, we waited, sang and generally enjoyed the sunshine. Eventually the lads emerged, heading over the road to the waiting bus.
Before the players could get across the road however, there was the little matter of a 2 foot barrier to overcome. Being professionals though, they took it in their stride, awkwardly howking their wheeled club luggage over it, as fans reached out just to touch their heroes. It was bizarre to think of players worth millions risking an unnecessary injury just an hour or two before a game... do Real Madrid or Liverpool players have to do this? This is just proof of how grounded each and every one of this squad are. They are treated like heroes but are still accessible to the ones who have made them what they are. Professional football without fans would be non-existent, something the bigwigs who run the game often forget.
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| Kalimuendo's final farewell. |
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| The last time for Jonathan Clauss? |
This is what Lens is all about for me. Humility. All my years watching Newcastle all over the country and players were rarely seen by fans away from the pitch but occasions like this strengthen the bond between both sets. The town, team (including the board of directors) and fans all in it together: what better recipe for success can you have? When one part feels it is bigger than the others, the problems begin. At the moment, in Lens, the perfect equilibrium exists. It hasn't always been this way.
Once the players' bus had disappeared into a swirl of red and yellow smoke, we joined the throng on its picturesque walk to the ground, a route I haven't taken for a long time. Passing the new mural dedicated to the heroes of these last two seasons... it really was a new treat artistic around each corner. A contender for the nearby Louvre Lens?
I arrived at the meeting place with Jean-Marie just as the Tigers appeared with their fanfair and flares. Chances of finding him dropped dramatically in that instant. After shouting at each other over a phone call, I thankfully spotted him. Profuse apologies later, I had my pass for the sold-out game.
Ticket in hand, I realised that the others had disappeared and there was no sign of Pascal. I would have to brave the turnstiles on my own!
Memories of previous escapades with sniffer dogs, suspicious riot police and the rest suddenly gripped me. I would just have to be brave! As it was, there was none of it. I was straight through. My reward was the smiling face of Pascal! A sight for sore eyes!
We'd been promised a spectacular tifo and it was a bit unusal to see that yellow and red flags had been taped to the Marek terracing.
We've done this before, I thought but as we waved them, the effect for L'Epagnot opposite would prove to be spectacular. Like a rising sun, the old Lens badge rose, shedding its yellow and red rays across the Marek and Xerxes. It was a belta!
The sense of anticipation filled every part of the stadium and every touch, tackle and turn was greeted with roars of delight as the lads pressed for the all-important goals. Monaco were being swept away in a tidal wave of yellow shirts. Despite calls for phones to be ignored for the duration of the game to focus on the team and its efforts, the temptation for some was too much and news began to filter through: Reims were winning 2-0 at home to Nice. Then the goal came.
Jonathan Clauss charged forward then crossed. Alexander Nubel palmed the ball away, but only into the path of Frankowski steaming in from the opposite wing. His shot beat the forlorn keeper, bouncing up into the top of the net via an unfortunate defender. Bollaert erupted.
Then came the news that Marseille were beating Strasbourg. In disbelief, I turned to Pascal:
"We're fifth?" Like the veteran he is, and really I should be, he replied:
"Ce n'est pas fini!"
How right he was!
Sadly the euphoria died just four minutes later when Benoit Badiashile forced the ball home during a moment of panic in Lens' six-yard-box. Like a pin popping a balloon, the atmosphere fell flat. Try as they might, the Capos couldn't raise the volume back anywhere near its previous level. The ground was in shock.
Into the second half and with results still going our way, the crowd was lifted once more. Just one goal was all that was needed. The shock of going behind had been replaced by a determination to push the team on... whatever the result. The Capos led and we followed. At times, even the Capos were mesmerised by the soap-opera opening up before them as we filled in the gaps they had left for us to sing.
But the lads were struggled to make clear-cut chances and were certainly not troubling Nubel too much. Then, it happened. A quick break up the wing, a cross to Monaco's annoying top scorer (I don't like the Musketeer tiny beard and moustache thing he has going on there), who stooped to head past Farinez: 1-2.
Europe was now a long way off for us and Monaco were in the driving seat to finish second. You'd have understood if the Lens fans had given up, especially when the news filtered of a goal back for Nice, yet, if anything, they grew louder. All four stands (a lot quieter in the posh seats, obviously) pushed disappointment to one side and roared the team forwards.
David Da Costa, whose tiny frame belied his competitiveness, battled on but eventually joined Sotoca and Frankowski on the bench as their best efforts came to naught, yet we still hoped. On came Corentin Jean, whose highlight of the season had to be his late equaliser to delay Paris' coronation as Ligue 1 Champions. Kali came off and on came Ganago. None of the other substitutes had a recent track record of scoring. All seemed lost, yet still Bollaert sang and danced.
Into injury time. Nice's Andy Delort, who had at one time seemed destined to join Lens, had inspired Nice to a match-winning hat-trick in little over 15 minutes. Bollaert didn't miss a beat.
Stoppage time ticked by, 4 minutes... 5 minutes... A free kick in the 6th minute, close to the Marek touch line was fizzed in, and when the ball landed at Ganago's foot, he didn't waste the opportunity to blast in the equaliser. 2-2.
This third time I had witnessed this exact scoreline between these teams became the sweetest. Monaco players dropped to their knees as we celebrated. They would have to settle for third place and a qualifier to get into the Champions League. They had deprived us of European football twice in the past two seasons, knocked us out of the cup but the last laugh was ours.
Bollaert was determined to celebrate and celebrate we did. This small town team, with the 4th smallest budget in the league and achieved so much. Three derby victories out of three. Unbeaten against Paris. Winners in Marseille and Monaco, lead superbly by the indefatigable Seko Fofana, their never-say-die attitude had rescued so many late points. Their points tally had been the highest since the early 2000s. this was a team to celebrate. A team with humility and loyalty. Each and every man lined the tunnel entrance as Captain Cahuzac left the field for the last time as a player, his retirement confirmed weeks before at the ripe old age of 36, they applauded him, the fans applauded him. His manbun had driven the team forward in the Ligue 2 days and he had earned this accolade.
Long after the players had disappeared down the tunnel, the fans were still partying all over town. Shame I had an early Eurostar the next day... but that is another story!
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| Sing-a-long-a- car park? |
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| Chez Muriel still going strong at 1am. |
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