Worst. Day. Ever.
Well that was a clusterfuck. I’ve needed over a week to calm down enough to write this without frothing up into a cappuccino of rage.
The May bank holiday weekend was up there as one of the worst sporting weekends of my life. I think this has been a familiar lament for anyone who lives in or is from Cardiff. First there was Cardiff City crashing out of the playoffs. Well, crashing describes some sort of effort and commotion on the part of City. In reality it was more slipping away in a coma. Then we have cruel fate denying the Blues a place in the Heineken cup final. This is the story of my day:
It all started off so well. I had tickets for the semi-final of the Heineken Cup semi-final, and there was a big group of us going to the match, with more people coming out in the evening and a day off the next day so a perfect excuse for a day out on the booze. I set off for the pub to meet people and started listening to the City match on Radio Wales.
Normally I enjoy the frisson of excitement walking into the Millennium Stadium. Turning the corner halfway down Westgate St and seeing the stadium looming over you, hordes of people streaming their way into the gates. Not this time. All the colour had drained from my face while walking along Castle St when Sheffield Wednesday scored what turned out to be the winner against City. I walked down Westgate St with my hands crossed behind my head, elbows jutting forward. My friends didn’t need to be listening to the radio to know from my stance and pale face that City had just conceded.
The real kicker came just as I was walking up to the gates of the stadium. And it kicked hard and directly into my stomach. Preston had just scored against QPR to throw us out of the playoffs. I bent double, feeling my stomach churn and bile rise to the surface of it. What colour was left in my face disappeared. I don’t remember walking to my seat in the stadium. I don’t remember the first 10 minutes of the Blues/Leicester match. I sat, head in hands, listening to the City match on Radio Wales, desperately trying to summon some sort of hope that we could actually recover this, that it’d be alright. I knew though that we were done for. As the final whistle went and I realised the enormity of what had just happened I was glad to be wearing my sunglasses, because I knew that my eyes were starting to redden from the bitter disappointment and anger that was brewing inside me.
After trying to compose myself I threw myself into supporting the Blues. I’ve never supported the Blues and cheered them with such ferocity as I did that afternoon. I was desperately willing them to victory, to somehow make-up in a small way for the hurt inflicted by City. When the Blues scored 10 minutes from time to get back to within a converted try my hopes soared again. We might actually do this. We might actually come back! When Tom James went over for the final try, barely minutes from full time the relief was unbelievable. We’d avoided defeat, we had the momentum to take into extra time. Within 30 minutes of this elation I was once again left with bitter bitter disappointment as Martyn Williams hooked his penalty wide to leave Tom Croft to slot his kick with obscene calm and take the game for Leicester.
On top of it all, the day before I had played my first cricket match of the season and we lost.
The May bank holiday weekend was up there as one of the worst sporting weekends of my life. I think this has been a familiar lament for anyone who lives in or is from Cardiff. First there was Cardiff City crashing out of the playoffs. Well, crashing describes some sort of effort and commotion on the part of City. In reality it was more slipping away in a coma. Then we have cruel fate denying the Blues a place in the Heineken cup final. This is the story of my day:
It all started off so well. I had tickets for the semi-final of the Heineken Cup semi-final, and there was a big group of us going to the match, with more people coming out in the evening and a day off the next day so a perfect excuse for a day out on the booze. I set off for the pub to meet people and started listening to the City match on Radio Wales.
Normally I enjoy the frisson of excitement walking into the Millennium Stadium. Turning the corner halfway down Westgate St and seeing the stadium looming over you, hordes of people streaming their way into the gates. Not this time. All the colour had drained from my face while walking along Castle St when Sheffield Wednesday scored what turned out to be the winner against City. I walked down Westgate St with my hands crossed behind my head, elbows jutting forward. My friends didn’t need to be listening to the radio to know from my stance and pale face that City had just conceded.
The real kicker came just as I was walking up to the gates of the stadium. And it kicked hard and directly into my stomach. Preston had just scored against QPR to throw us out of the playoffs. I bent double, feeling my stomach churn and bile rise to the surface of it. What colour was left in my face disappeared. I don’t remember walking to my seat in the stadium. I don’t remember the first 10 minutes of the Blues/Leicester match. I sat, head in hands, listening to the City match on Radio Wales, desperately trying to summon some sort of hope that we could actually recover this, that it’d be alright. I knew though that we were done for. As the final whistle went and I realised the enormity of what had just happened I was glad to be wearing my sunglasses, because I knew that my eyes were starting to redden from the bitter disappointment and anger that was brewing inside me.
After trying to compose myself I threw myself into supporting the Blues. I’ve never supported the Blues and cheered them with such ferocity as I did that afternoon. I was desperately willing them to victory, to somehow make-up in a small way for the hurt inflicted by City. When the Blues scored 10 minutes from time to get back to within a converted try my hopes soared again. We might actually do this. We might actually come back! When Tom James went over for the final try, barely minutes from full time the relief was unbelievable. We’d avoided defeat, we had the momentum to take into extra time. Within 30 minutes of this elation I was once again left with bitter bitter disappointment as Martyn Williams hooked his penalty wide to leave Tom Croft to slot his kick with obscene calm and take the game for Leicester.
On top of it all, the day before I had played my first cricket match of the season and we lost.
posted by Hagg at 3:39 pm
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