Today I met a cute and talented Spaniard: Cesc Fabregas. Indeed, a lot more has happened.
After parting ways with the Germans yesterday, I decided to take advantage of the nice weather in Hyde Park. But first I stopped at a bookstore to pick up
Brilliant Orange (the store had eight copies). My approach has been relatively simple: in nice weather, take advantage of the outdoors, and when not, visit the many museums and shops around town. In between, always try a new restaurant.
When I arrived at Knightsbridge, though, clouds loomed above and the wind chilled the air. So I went to Harrod’s instead. I wandered quickly through the “Rooms of Luxury” on the ground floor, passed the women’s fashions (the exchange rate is cruel), and accidentally went up to the fifth floor sports and leisure department.
Lo and behold! I saw an inconspicuous sign announcing that Arsenal midfielder Cesc Fabregas would be in the store on Thursday to meet customers and sign merchandise. I couldn’t believe my luck. Furthermore, none of the shoppers seemed to notice or care. Talk about wrong clientele for football: society women from Notting Hill and Kensington. I grabbed some jerseys and tried them on in the fitting room. I settled for a classic red and white jersey in a Boys size (Generation XXL has reached the UK, too).
Then I bombarded the clerk with questions: What time should I arrive in order to be first in the queue? How many people did he expect? Has Harrod’s ever done anything like this with other Arsenal or Premiership players before? Which jersey would be best for signing? Are photos allowed? How far in advance does Harrod’s book these events? Where is it advertised, other than the store? He gave me a quizzical look and seemed to scrutinize me more closely as time wore on, but he answered my questions (for inquiring minds, here are the answers in order: one hour before scheduled appearance; he didn’t know; no other Arsenal players, but Harrod’s has had events with rugby and cricket players recently
—was I interested in either sport?; red would be fine; photos are permissible; it depends; the Web site and in store).
I bounded out of the store with my brand new jersey, wrapped in plastic, tucked away in a green Harrod’s bag. I decided to walk towards Sloane Square in search of the Saatchi Gallery, which still appeared on my map, even though I was certain it no longer existed following the huge sell-off of artwork. The rumor proved true, so I took the Tube to Pimlico station and found the Tate Britain.
The museum, like many other British art spaces, has free admission. It was practically empty by the time I arrived. I walked through the contemporary art section. My favorite was Tim Head’s “Displacements” in Room 31. It uses a mix of projected images and real objects within the room to play with your sense of reality and time.
I walked into the adjoining St. Martin’s Sculpture (
She studied sculpture at St. Martin's College) Department room. The first thing I noticed was a big pile of real oranges on the floor. It’s a piece by Roelof Louw called “Pyramid (Soul City).” I read the sign. It said that the sculpture starts off as a pile of 6,000 oranges. The artist intended to have each viewer take an orange to see how the sculpture shifted over time. Anticipating my next question, the sign reiterated in bold writing: We encourage you to take an orange to eat outside. So I walked up to the display and, examining the fruit as I would produce at a grocery store, I plucked a ripe orange. As soon as I had straightened up, I made incidental eye contact with an older, matronly woman who had just entered the room from the opposite side. She gave me the sternest look, as if I had just been caught spray-painting her silver Bentley. I was Eve, fallen from grace after picking the forbidden fruit. I knew exactly what she was thinking, shrugged, and moved on. When I glanced back, three other people followed my lead and grabbed oranges.
I walked into the 1960s room, holding the orange up to my nose to inhale the fresh smell of the rind. The room was quiet except for the sound of my footsteps; the experience became personal, visceral. As I walked into the Francis Bacon room, I realized I was alone with my orange in hand. I remember saying this aloud: “I am just so happy to be here.” I have thought this statement several times in the past couple of weeks (the first time was at the Getty Center, when I raced up the steps to look at the gardens and take in Meier’s white structures glowing in the California sunshine). I spent more time wandering through the hallways, reading placards, and sitting in rooms looking at paintings from different eras. The museum closed at 17:50, so I exited the building and joined the crowds heading towards Pimlico Station.
Arsenal had an away match against Aston Villa that evening, and my preliminary plan involved watching the game at a pub near Emirates. I went home first to lighten my load. The night before, I had posted to a soccer message board to get a list of recommended pubs for watching the game in the company of other Arsenal supporters. I checked the board to see if there were any final words of advice. A local informed me that the game would not be televised in the UK, and suggested I go to Emirates Stadium instead to watch the FA Youth Cup semi-final against Manchester United. Tickets would still be available; they expected a crowd of 20,000.
I had my coat on in six seconds and was out the door. The game had a 7 PM kick-off, and the Arsenal stop on the Tube required one transfer. It was already 6:30 and I still needed a ticket. I raced past the crowds on Oxford Street (Londoners are no match for New Yorkers when it comes to speed walking) but came to a slamming halt into the person in front of me at the corner of Regent Street. A yellow light flashed in the Underground’s entrance, and nobody was allowed to move past. I waited impatiently for five minutes, and when nothing happened, I turned on my heels and raced towards Tottenham Court station.
Once I secured a spot on the Piccadilly train, I had a moment to catch my breath. I noticed a boy, aged eight or nine, with big brown eyes framed with long eyelashes looking at me from across the aisle. He had a burgundy Arsenal Youth scarf tied expertly around his neck; he held a pen in his right hand and what must’ve been an autograph book covered with hearts in the other. His dutiful father stood next to him on the train; it is likely he rushed home from work to take his son to the game. The boy looked to be of African-Caucasian descent, based on his father’s darker skin tone. His delicate features resembled those of Theo Walcott. He was beautiful. Father and son did not speak, but an air of warmth and closeness emanated from them. I could tell by the father’s body language that he was keeping an eye out for his son. When a couple of fat, hooligan-wannabe teenagers in track suits boarded the train smelling of fast food and cigarettes, the father shifted his position so that his body blocked these eyesores from his son’s view. I remembered
The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup mentioning that many young boys around the world have their first football awakening when they are eight or nine. I felt lucky to catch just a glimpse of that development, with a father introducing his son to a great tradition.
“Next stop, Arsenal,” announced the automated train message. Everyone piled out, and we began the climb through the tunnels of the station. I began to worry. The hooligan-wannabe types with bad haircuts were everywhere. I noticed the father and son were almost out of sight. How did that boy move so quickly? Did they hurry because we had missed kick-off, or because it was unsafe?
Among the Thugs was still fresh in my mind, and visions of steel pipes and chants of “Wogs out!” filled my head. I had also read in the papers that there were several stabbings and violence following the Chelsea-Tottenham game on Sunday. I picked up the pace until the father and son came back into view.
Soon the crowd grew, and I realized I had nothing to worry about. People just wanted to watch the game. As I crossed a bridge, Emirates Stadium came into view. I heard the roar of the crowd, reacting to what was happening on the pitch. I, too, was eager to get inside. I found the box office, bought a ticket for ten quid, and walked through the turnstiles.
Seating was unreserved, but most of the lower sections were full. I went up another level and found a seat. I couldn’t believe I was there. During the interval, I walked briskly to the lower level. I had spotted some seats very close to the pitch, and I was determined to make one mine.
I found a fantastic seat about six rows from the pitch. In any other circumstance, I would never, ever get a seat this good. The action resumed. The chants and songs began. A group across the stadium started the Wave. People participated with gusto. It was the longest-running Wave I had ever witnessed; it made the US-Mexico Wave seem like child's play. Each time the next ripple approached, the crowd stamped their feet, creating a thunderous rumble. Then we stood up, shouted, and sat down again.
The energy was incredible. There’s nothing quite like seeing a match live. Television deceives; you cannot grasp the speed, dexterity, and violence with which players move on the pitch. The two men behind me analyzed the moves of #9 and #4 and went through a brief history of the Arsenal youth team. The father and sons to my left started to chant “Arsenal! Arsenal!” The dad stood up and yelled, “Come on, boys!” It might as well have been Henry and team out on the pitch from the way the crowd cheered.
Over 38,000 people attended the match, a record attendance for a Youth game. I joined in the chanting of “Arsenal! Arsenal!” and then…goooooool! Everyone was on his feet cheering and clapping. I was so close to the pitch that I could see clearly the features of each player. I realized, at that moment, that I was starving. So I peeled the orange from “Pyramid (Soul City)” and consumed it rapidly. Arsenal beat Manchester United 1-0. I had never tasted fruit so sweet and delicious.
To be continued...
Labels: Arsenal, art, football, London, travel
