A Day of Football and Unfathomable Loss

Tuesday, 9^th September 2001

The dawn of a new Champions League season beckoned, and with it, the quintessential Arsenal away day unfurled. It was a venture not just across borders, but into the very heart of European football spirit. In the pre-dawn hush, while the world still slumbered in dreams, I embarked on a pilgrimage to Stansted Airport, driven by the fervent pulse of anticipation. The flight’s destination: the sun-kissed isle of Mallorca, a jewel in the Spanish archipelago, where the opening match awaited like a promise. The year was 2001, a time still etched in the pages of history, and the journey that lay ahead promised the unfolding of an odyssey, a tale of sport that would be recounted for ages to come.

The air was thick with anticipation, the collective breath of the crowd held in suspense. The opposition, once formidable, now seemed on the brink of yielding, their defences worn by the relentless advance of The Arsenal. It was not merely a match to be won, but a statement to be made; for The Arsenal to emerge not only victorious but dominant, returning home not just with the spoils of three points, but also with a goal difference that would echo through the table. In this dance of strategy and skill, every pass, every move was a brushstroke on the canvas of triumph, painting a picture of a team not just playing, but transcending the game.

Upon disembarking from the bus that had ferried us to the heart of Palma, I found myself amidst a throng of fellow wanderers, each of us drawn to the allure of Estadi Mallorca Son Moix. There, we meandered, allowing our gazes to dance over the architectural marvels that stood as silent sentinels to countless games and cheers. The promenade under the tender caress of the late summer sun was a symphony of light and warmth, a gentle reminder of the languid bliss that only an island holiday can bestow. In such moments, the spirit soars, unshackled from the mundane, and one cannot help but ponder the simple perfection of existence under the open sky. What indeed could be more splendid than this serene communion with the elements, this unspoken kinship with strangers, all basking in the shared joy of the sun-kissed promenade?

In the transient sojourns of my travels, I found not the companionship of friends in the traditional sense, but rather, a fellowship of kindred spirits encountered on away days. Amongst them, a cadre of European aficionados, with whom I shared a bond not easily defined by common labels. Together, we traversed the cobblestone paths back to the heart of Palma, to that central square which became a temporary abode for The Arsenal’s faithful. There, amidst the anticipation and camaraderie, we awaited the pilgrimage to Son Moix, where the true test of our allegiance would unfold under the floodlights.

Our return was one of unhurried delight, a promenade through the warm afternoon as we paused at various taverns. There, upon each veranda, we partook in the amber nectar of beers, our laughter mingling with the twilight air. In those moments, a profound truth settled upon our spirits: life, in its boundless beauty, could ascend no higher. We were not mere mortals that day; we were sovereigns of time, monarchs of our fleeting, perfect kingdom.

Between the last bar and arriving in the Palmer central square American Airlines Flight 11 flew into the North Tower of the World Trade Centre.

Oblivious to the seismic shift that had jolted our existence and the world into a surreal tilt, we found solace in the universal language of football chants. Our voices rose in unison, a call and response that resonated with the heartbeat of fans worldwide. We draped ourselves in the vibrant hues of red and white, a declaration of allegiance that transformed this corner of Palma into a temporary enclave of North London. For a fleeting moment, the camaraderie blurred the lines between here and home, as we claimed this foreign land with the fervour of our shared passion. The city’s ancient stones bore witness to this colourful assertion of identity, a testament to the unifying power of sport that transcends borders and time.

In pursuit of the liquid solace that eases the weariness of a traveller’s journey, I found myself crossing the threshold of a tavern. As I engaged in the customary exchange for a pint of ale, a murmur from an unseen television spoke of a calamity unfolding—a plane had struck one of the World Trade Centre’s stoic towers. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a wayward small craft, a Cessna, lost and confused as a bird against the glass. Yet, when I turned, it was not the folly of a small mistake I beheld, but the North Tower, a monolith of human achievement, now marred by a plume of dark smoke rising defiantly against the cerulean September sky.

Under the initial impression that a mere light aircraft had met with misfortune, my mind wrestled with the perplexity of such a calamity. As the murmur of surrounding dialogues became a distant hum, my attention was ensnared by the news broadcast, a solemn narrator to the unfolding tragedy. Then, with a harrowing clarity, the screen replayed the grievous moment Flight 11 collided with the tower, an image seared into the collective memory of a world forever altered.

Incredulously, I watched live as United Airlines Flight 175 hit the South Tower, and the news of American Airlines Flight 77 hitting the Pentagon, and the confusion of United Airlines Flight 93 crashing in a Stonycreek Township field, near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. One could have been an accident, but two? The odds seemed to point to a co-ordinated attack and three and four simply confirmed it.

On that fateful day, as the Towers succumbed to tragedy, the world stood still, witnessing an unfathomable event unfold live on screens everywhere. Countless lives were extinguished in a moment, leaving a void that could never be filled. I found myself among the global audience, gripped by the unfolding horror, moments before attending a football match. The juxtaposition of such a catastrophic event against the backdrop of a scheduled game struck a dissonant chord. It seemed almost inconceivable that amidst the chaos and mourning, a sport event would proceed. Yet, in the face of adversity, the match went ahead, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a collective endeavour to find a semblance of normalcy in the most abnormal of times. The game was played, not just as a mere sporting event, but as a symbol of defiance against the forces that sought to disrupt our way of life. It served as a reminder that even in the darkest of times, life persists, and so does the indomitable will of humanity to continue, to remember, and to honour those we lost by living the life they can no longer lead. The game that evening was more than a game; it was a small beacon of hope in the overwhelming darkness, a step towards healing a wounded nation, and, in some small way, a tribute to the enduring nature of hope and unity.

The Game

Real Mallorca 1-0 Arsenal

In the theatre of European football, a game unfolded that would linger in the minds, not for what happened in the field of play, but for New York, an ocean away. Ashley Cole found himself ushered from the game’s grand stage, an unprecedented dismissal in his illustrious tenure with Arsenal.

The Gunners, a squadron of ten after Cole’s departure, faced an uphill battle, a test of their mettle as they trailed following Vicente Engonga’s masterful penalty. The atmosphere, thick with anticipation, saw Thierry Henry—a maestro in his own right—grace the Mallorca box, only to be met with controversy as the ground beneath him claimed his balance. The lifeline, it seemed, was but a mirage, as the arbiter of the game, Knud Fisker, deemed the fall a mere act of theatrics.

As the match waned, Francis Jeffers, the substitute, sought to alter the scoreline with a late shot that strayed just beyond the post. Arsenal’s efforts to dismantle the Spanish defence were valiant, yet the night belonged to Mallorca, whose victory was as deserved as it was hard-fought, a testament to their fortitude and tactical acumen. The echoes of the final whistle would resonate a solemn reminder of the capricious nature of this beautiful game.

In the nascent moments of their continental quest, the Gunners found themselves in a crisis, as Alberto Luque, with a mere six minutes elapsed, was granted an unobstructed view of the goal. Yet, fortune smiled faintly as his header sailed but a whisper above the crossbar. The eleventh minute heralded further misfortune; Cole, in a moment of desperation, felled the vibrant Luque within the confines of the penalty box. With a countenance of grim resignation, Cole received his expulsion from the fray, and Vicente Engonga, with a composure as warm as the night air, dispatched the penalty into the net’s embrace.

The Gunners, in a bid to stem the tide, repositioned Giovanni van Bronckhorst to the left defensive flank, whilst Sylvain Wiltord was summoned to fortify the midfield. Yet, this tactical shift invigorated only Mallorca, who, with newfound zeal, compelled Seaman to execute a pair of splendid parries, thwarting both Etoo and Engonga from amplifying their advantage with ambitious attempts from afar.

Amidst the tumult, Wiltord emerged as a beacon of prowess in the Arsenal ranks, crafting the sole glimmer of hope with a venomous drive from his left boot, which was alas, ensnared by the vigilant Leo Franco. As the second act unfolded, Mallorca, with a renewed vivacity, squandered an early chance through Fernando Nino, and Luque, ever the inquisitor, carved an effort that kissed the side netting of Seaman’s domain.

In a gambit to reclaim their fortunes, Wenger summoned Kanu, Parlour, and Jeffers to the pitch. Jeffers, with a spark of vitality, endeavoured to alter the course of the match. Despite his effort, the Gunners’ European odyssey commenced with a lamentable chapter, as they struggled to find their rhythm in the game.

Mallorca: Leo Franco, Olaizola, Nadal, Nino, Miquel Soler, Campano, Marcos, Engonga, Ibagaza, Luque, Etoo. Subs: Paunovic, Carlos, Diaz, Soler, Novo, Vicente, Miki.

Arsenal: Seaman, Lauren, Keown, Campbell, Cole, Ljungberg, Vieira, Pires, van Bronckhorst, Henry, Wiltord. Subs: Jeffers, Parlour, Grimandi, Inamoto, Upson, Kanu, Wright.

Referee: Knud Fisker (Denmark)

To my eyes, The Arsenal’s performance was bereft of spirit, a tableau of disconnection where the players, akin to strangers at a masquerade, danced disjointedly, each to their own silent tune. I have borne witness to countless matches where the choreography of play unravelled, where every pass was a misstep, every strategy a mere shadow of a plan, and victory an elusive dream just beyond reach.

Amidst this arena of delayed aspirations, Giovanni van Bronckhorst emerged as a beacon of determination, stepping into the role of left-back following the absurd dismissal of Ashley Cole for a trifling misdeed. His performance was a testament to tenacity, a solitary figure of resolve amidst a sea of inertia. Yet, his gallant efforts were cast adrift, unanchored by the languor that besieged his comrades-in-arms, rendering his valour a poignant echo in the marble halls of The Arsenal’s storied legacy.

Homeward Bound

In the vast expanse of Mallorca’s airport, time seemed to stretch indefinitely, each minute a lingering echo of the last. Our departure was ensnared by delay, a tedious span of hours unfurling before us. It was the restless throng of English football fans, spirits high yet tempers flaring in the absence of their customary ale, which hastened our embarkation. The Spanish authorities, eager to be rid of this boisterous assembly, ushered us onto the aircraft, thus transferring the mantle of responsibility. As the night enveloped us, three vessels of steel and ambition soared into the obsidian abyss, bound for London’s embrace. I watched them depart, these harbingers of the night, and with a heart both heavy and hopeful, I tallied their number. Upon their return, under the same shroud of darkness, I marked their safe passage, a silent witness to the continuity of our journeys.

The journey was enveloped in the profound slumber of a day stretched long and thin. I emerged from dreams just as we circled above Stanstead, the earth below a tapestry of lights and shadows. We were suspended in this aerial dance for an hour, and then another pair, before the earth beckoned us down with a grudging nod. Once grounded, I sought my carriage, its wheels ready to roll towards the unwritten chapters of tomorrow. What strange fates would the future unfurl before my very eyes? The road stretched out, an inky ribbon against the twilight, and I, a solitary traveller, ventured forth with a heart both wary and expectant.

What did the Future Deliver?

You can answer that for yourself.

In the shadowed corridors of power, a war was conceived—not in defence, but in aggression, an illegal war to finish a prior conflict, it was an incursion into lands sovereign, with justifications as fragile as a spider’s silk. The casus belli? Fantasised weapons of mass destruction and terrorist cells, woven from tales and whispers of weapons and fighter’s unseen, unfound, unproven.

“You are with us, or you stand against us,” they proclaimed, a dichotomy as stark as night and day, leaving no room for the greys of doubt or discourse. It was a war that claimed to spare the lives of its champions, a conflict broadcast for the eyes of the world, turning tragedy into spectacle.

In its wake, the air grew heavy with suspicion, the once open skies now veiled with the fog of distrust. Airports, those crossroads of humanity, became arenas of scrutiny, where every traveller was a tale untold, a mystery to unravel. The ESTA—a key to the gates of freedom—became a ledger of names, a scroll of the judged.

And in the West, a narrative uncoiled, a dark fable that painted every Muslim as a harbinger of terror. It was a default setting, a prejudiced program etched into the consciousness of societies, a stain not easily cleansed.

This is the world that unfurled when the Towers came down, from paths taken in the name of security, of retribution, of fear. It is a failure of human making, failure of action and consequence of action interwoven into the lives of our shared history. And as we stand amidst the ruins of these events, we must ask ourselves—what do we want tomorrow to be? What legacy shall we craft with the choices of today?

For in the end, it is not just the story of war, or a story about a football match on a Spanish island a long time ago, but the story of us—of humanity in all its facets, its brilliance, and its darkness. It is a tale that continues with each breath, each word, each deed. And it is ours to write.

Empty Sky

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NO DAY SHALL ERASE YOU FROM THE MEMORY OF TIME

The Aeneid – Virgil