Sandro > you
It wasn't pretty. To be honest, it was unexpected. I didn't think the balance and tempo would be so one sided. Be it plenty of hot steam rather than a pummelling. Didn't think the game would be orchestrated by a Milan side that decided to actually turn up and play.
This was not vintage. It was Glory Glory, in the end, tinged with spirit and guile rather than assured swagger. Altogether a different facet to this quite extraordinary European journey. Backs to wall, defending our lead. Mindset: You shall not pass. Actually more like you'll pass but you wont get past.
Some things didn't quite work out on the night. We rode our luck. Grinded it out. But amongst men stood giants. We never stopped believing, even with the uncharacteristic lack of swashbuckle confidence.
Heart in mouth. Nerves ruined. That sick, gut wrenching feeling that consumes you. You don't enjoy everything that came before until the final whistle is blown. That sick gut wrenching feeling we all endured for ninety or so minutes? It's the emotional side-effect, the relentless desire to avoid the devastation of defeat. The tension engulfing. And yet somehow, it makes you feel completely alive. I could get use to feeling this sick.
Gallas. Dawson. Sandro. My God.
Sandro.
Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro. Sandro.
Beast. What a prospect.
How many superlatives have we produced in performance during this competition? Memories, moments.
Goodbye Milan, your sister awaits you. She also left North London broken hearted.
They said we wouldn't qualify. They said we wouldn't get out of the groups. Out of our depth they said. The Rossoneri would be too strong. Not quite.
0-1. 0-0. Cancelled out. Apart from that one gem of a counter in the San Siro.
Love this club. Best Champions League début ever.
Lest we forget Defoe the philosopher. He predicted this.
COYS.
Full match report in the next day.
