DEUTSCHE BANK PARK
Europa League Semi-Final Second Leg
Eintracht Frankfurt 1 West Ham 0
Tonight is the apex of the season, a game most West Ham fans of my age have waited for, for well over 40 years. I had half-imagined we might be playing Barcelona, though a journey to the Nou Camp to reverse a 2-1 lead might have looked less plausible a task. This German team have an appalling home record in the Bundesliga, but in this competition they have yet to lose, home or away.
I have planned this away trip from the off, buying tickets for trips to Barcelona and Frankfurt, the early purchase guaranteeing a reasonable price, rather than the laptop lurch to avoid three train journeys and an interim flight to Helsinki. The hotel was sorted early on, an Ibis am Maine, and I’ve already enjoyed a four mile trot navigating the river towpath.
A small point to make is that I have travelled all this way with no ticket for the game. Mad? Certainly. There are at least a thousand like me in the city, but I have at least a traveller’s dog’s chance with a referral from the ticket office yet to journey to those with power at their laptopped fingertips. As it happens, a text last night has confirmed the necessary miracle that I am to be with the West Ham fans this evening. I knew somehow that it would happen. If only I could have the same good fortune with the full time result of this semi-final tie. Frankfurt’s allocation for the first leg was a little over 3000, though they sounded like 30,000.
Ours is therefore the same, hence the difficulty with tickets.
Frankfurt has been described by a German friend of mine as one of the dullest places in the country, but she’s a Southerner, so unlikely to be a fan. She has nevertheless directed me to Goethe’s house, which we visited yesterday, though he wasn’t in. He died 190 years ago, so that’s as good an excuse as any to be in absentia deo. Our decision to head to the Jewish museum was a worry, as the exhibition on there was called ‘Rache,’ which translates as ‘Revenge’. This would be exactly that for Eintracht Frankfurt for what happened in 1976.
The journey to the ground is quite surreal. A short trip on a special police chaperoned train to a small wood outside the city, from which we walk a mile through a quite dense forest to the three acre site, custom built for control over the fans. Bizarre, but probably sensible in the circumstances, especially with the generously cheap tickets the Germans charge their supporters.
The two sets of fans are segregated when we arrive, which seems predictable if a little overbearing. Hard to imagine where our fans would go if they did do anything to upset the local Stasi.
More flares make the first few minutes of the game like life in a London soupy smog. West Ham force an early corner, and Craig Dawson shapes to hit a spectacular volley from inside the area, but miscues. The noisy atmosphere is like a mental soup after the early flares. I cannot remember being so unable to enjoy a game this early on.
West Ham have the good fortune to see Hinteregger off for Frankfurt after a handful of minutes with a hamstring pull following a clash with Antonio. ‘Eintracht’ is German for ‘Unity.’ Seems a good name. Touré comes on for the hamstrung one. God, the noise in this stadium. I cannot bear it.
Coufal is in for Johnson, the only change from the first leg, and offers his additional talent with a long throw into the area after quarter of an hour. The Frankfurt fans are astonishingly loud, and they are everywhere.
Now a long ball from Kamada flat foots the Hammers’ defence, leaving just Cresswell chasing Hauge, and as he is brought down with a clumsy challenge, the referee pulls out a yellow. Those of us who know how this works, are already anticipating worse.
The Germans are rightly furious, and even in my most wild optimistic praying state of mind, I can still see this is worse than the one he got sent off for against Lyon. VAR again takes centre stage. After a minute or so the referee hot foots it over to the monitor, and as sure as eggs is eggs, replaces his original yellow with a red. The Spanish head official’s name is Jesus. Will he turn the other cheek? No. This is our ignominious end from the competition. Still a goal down, away from home, and with just ten men. In this situation, there can be only one outcome.
Cresswell is beyond consoling as he heads to the bench, even after Kostić’s free-kick skids narrowly wide. Johnson comes on for Lanzini as Moyes strengthens the beleagured defence. It’s an early appearance he would never have wanted. Antonio is floored by Kostić at yet another corner, but no pen.
The noise in the stadium having gone strangely quiet, has now rediscovered its earlier volume. And with just seven minutes since the sending off, Frankfurt take the lead. And what a terribly soft goal it is. Hammers have the numbers in defence but look chronically disorganised as Knauff collects the ball out on the right, and his reverse pass across the area picks out Borré, who slides the ball into the opposite corner with a sweep of his right foot. A horrible, horrible goal.
By now I am already in a sustained rant of choice Anglo Saxon epithets that has led to most of the fellow West Ham fans around me stepping away to create a gap of around ten seats in every direction. I can’t see anything but my feet, and all I can hear is my voice swearing loudly, passionately, disjointedly. It shouldn’t be ending like this. Why am I so angry? Sometimes these things happen in football. Yes, of course it’s 46 years since we won a European semi-final, but it’s just a game of football. Isn’t it?
Rangers are 2-0 up against Leipzig in the other semi-final, someone is saying. Like I care. We aren’t going to be playing them, so why does it make any difference? Who cares about the what ifs and why notbys? Not happening means just that. Not Happening!
Two minutes before half time, Bowen’s free-kick skids across to Zouma who looks to just have a tap in, but his feet get confused and the ball goes wide. Dawson misses a headed chance just after half-time from an Antonio cross, but it is all half-baked hopes. Moyes gets a red card a quarter of an hour from time for kicking a ball in anger. Well if you’re going to lose, you might as well lose badly, it seems.
The penultimate action of the game sees Antonio chasing a long ball from Rice which he controls expertly only to cushion his volley directly into the midriff of Trapp. Von Trapp. The Sound of Muesli. As injury time beckons, a brilliant inswinging corner from Bowen is headed inches wide by Souček, with the goal at his mercy.
Is this the last genuine chance of West Ham’s European trophydom of my miserable life? Well, what do you think? My italics, of course.
13 Alphonse Areola, 3 Aaron Cresswell, 4 Kurt Zouma, 5 Vladimir Coufal, 15 Craig Dawson, 41 Declan Rice (captain), 28 Tomas Souček, 8 Pablo Fornals, 9 Michail Antonio, 10 Manuel Lanzini, 20 Jarrod Bowen
Substitute: 31 Ben Johnson, 22 Saïd Benrahma, 7 Andriy Yarmolenko
