This is the year of 2009, but I feel like I’m standing in Camp Nou. My own Camp Nou. Because it’s in the present, should I call it Camp Now? The Catalans wouldn’t be too upset, I think.
As I gaze around the joint, there are the Lancastrians on one side and zee Germans on the other. Eww, grey and burgundy is never a good combo. It looks like you spilled some Cabernet Sauvignon on a French knicker which hasn’t been washed for 3 years.
I just can’t get my eyes off La Orejona. The best damned thing in the universe. With all the colorful ribbons tied to the both ears, it’s simply amazing, irresistable, and, oh, Pier Savalas has blown the whistle. Gotta pay attention to this.
I can see with my bare eyes the ghost of Clive Tyldesley roaming around the colliseum. I know him from the showdown 10 years ago. He’s aging, I can tell by his appearance but it doesn’t weaken his verbal skills. His commentary are still brilliant and tonight he will do what he does the best for me.
For the next hour and half, I already know the outcome. Suppressed by the marauding Germans. Zee Germans. I have no desire to explain the details, so I fast-forward it to the dying minutes.
The Lancastrians are praying to the sky. A real nail-biting moment for them. Just after The Big Great Dane comes upfront, my mate Clive delivers his famous remark, only this time he dedicate it to me.
“Can Il Principe score? He always scores.”
The next second, Camp Now erupts.
It’s not Teddy, it’s Timey.
Clive continues his verbal rally by declaring, “Name on the trophy!”
I feel a goosebump behind my neck like I didn’t know any shit about what would happen.
Clive Tyldesley embraces me and ask, “What must Lothar Matthaus be thinking?”
I stand in silence. He latter adds, “Well, with the greatest respect, who cares?”
And I say, “Name on the trophy”.