Levante v Real Zaragoza

Madder Than A Box Of Frogs. Olé!

Levante 1-2 Real Zaragoza (21:05:11)

It's a path I've worn many times before, but not too much quickens my pulse more than a walk to a new foreign field. You simply can't beat a journey into the European football unknown, blissfully unaware as to what lies around the next corner. In this instance it turned out to be thousands of Real Zaragoza fans climbing lampposts, buildings, and dancing and singing in the streets, together with one Levante fan, looking resplendent with 20 or more frogs tied around his neck. I was back in Spain for another European Football Weekend. Olé.

Away supporters? In Spain? Whatever next? This must have been a special occasion. It was. Real Zaragoza were one of six clubs all of whom could be relegated on this, the last round of La Liga matches. Spanish fans don't get out of bed for nothing, but these ones from Zaragoza not only got out of theirs, they moved them outside the Estadio de La Romareda, and camped out all night for tickets. 3,500 were snapped up quicker than the Argos catalogue, then the Blanquillos President, Agapito Iglesias - previous hobby: collecting scandals - intervened and secured another 1,000. These also went like hot cakes, and thus their usual away following of around a hundred quickly turned into four and half thousand. Olé.

Palm down lads.

Reclaiming the streets, and climbing lampposts, tick. 

As usual, the Spanish FA and television companies couldn't give two hoots about those fans. For no other reason other than to cause maximum inconvenience to all concerned, they scheduled this match just 6 (six) days beforehand, and with a slightly ridiculous - for this time of year - kick off time of 10pm. A Real pain in the culo for those Zaragoza supporters, slightly appeased by the fact the club laid on a fleet of over 100 coaches, many of them for free, to ferry them nearly four hours down to the Mediterranean coast. Olé.

Eight hours before the game, and things were seemingly a lot more tranquil as I rowed my wife across the wide freshwater lagoon of La Albufera, just south of Valencia, in a beautiful pea green boat - earning a golden pass to the football in the process. It might seem obvious to recommend the quaffing of paella in Spain, but here, in and around Valencia, really is the place to sample such foodie heaven. After my Sir Steve Redgrave-bit, we settled down for a traditionally elongated afternoon of the finest food and beer known to man. Cheap as chips as well, only better than chips (better than chips!). Olé.

From the calm waters of the La Alburfera we made a beeline to the Las Arenas beach, Valencia which was awash with thousands of Maños - the word for people from the Aragon region; famous for being friendly, honest and noble. Not bad characteristics to have attributed to you - in full on party mode. A real carnival atmosphere was developing, similar to a cup final. This was their cup final. Let's face it, only two teams can ever win La Liga, so staying up by the skin of your teeth on the last day of the season is as good as gets for most sets of fans. Erm...I've started this thing now so.....Olé.

In response to the endless songs echoing around the beach, some local bar owners belted out versions of the local traditional fiesta song: Paquito el Chocolatero. I've danced to this before, and it gets very messy. It got very messy. Good fun though. Olé.

After a quick and very noisy tram ride it was time to accelerate the pre-match drinking in the surrounding streets of the Estadi Ciutat de València. There was a little bit of silliness - with glasses and bottles of beer being thrown and fans trying to stop traffic - but this was nipped in the bud early doors by a large police presence. One of the bar owners told me that fans had been knocking back the beers since 10am. I did a quick sum in my head and concluded, several minutes later, that would have been a 12 (twelve) hour pre-match. Impressive. Olé.

I could have parked here if it wasn't for you meddling kids

Waiting for the team bus

Hero worship, and look, a woman peeking out of her office window (top right)

Eight paragraphs into this report and I'm finally at the stadium. To be met by chaotic scenes. There were fans in every nook and cranny. It quickly became very clear that even though they'd officially sold 4,500 tickets, many more had travelled. Segregation? Forget it. The Spanish press reported the next day that in excess of 9,000 Real Zaragoza fans were in the stadium. With queues snaking around the block, I was thankful to be ushered through a magic door where I collected my press pass and took up my seat directly behind the Levante bench. Olé.

Behind me in the main stand thick plumes of cigar smoke filled the night air as the Levante fans celebrated another astonishingly successful season. "Plucky little" Levante (nod to The Fiver) have the lowest average support in the division, the smallest budget, sign players for nought pence, and were described by influential skipper and local hero Sergio Ballesteros as being a "miracle of construction on the cheap". And yet, defying all sorts of logic, and proving for once that money isn't the be all and end all of football, they'd comfortably survived another season in Spain's top flight. Olé.

There were frogs (frogs!) everywhere. The home fans wore them with pride around their necks. I now know that Granotes, the club nickname of Levante UD, is the Valencian word for frogs. This lucky charm is exactly the reason that these particular Granotes are jumping up La Liga. They've got, ahem, more ribbit than Sainsbury's. In conclusion, not nearly enough football fans go to matches with amphibians tied around their neck. Danny likes this. Olé.

More ribbit than Sainsbury's

Dear stadium announcers of Europe, when there are fans inside your ground, all of whom are singing their hearts out like there is no tomorrow, wind your neck in, put your head back in the clouds and shut your mouth. And switch off the Black Eyed Peas whilst you're about it. In fact, never put them on your turntable again. Enough is enough. Twenty thousand football fans in full voice in your stadium is all we need to hear. It's all we want to hear. So, callate la boca. Kind regards, Danny. P.S. Olé.

A loss would see the end of Real Zaragoza as we know it. Maybe for good. They're €90m in debt, were more so before they flogged off their training ground, and are a club full to the brim with internal strife, not to mention administrators knocking on their door every two minutes. That was why only 75% of Real Zaragoza fans' songs were in support of their club. 20% of them were anti-Agapito [President] ditties: "hijo de puta" and just for good measure, and because beer had been taken, the remaining 5% concerned themselves with insulting hated rivals, Osasuna. Olé.

Great support, and the deepest goal-nets in Europe

Real Zaragoza fans were everywhere you looked

And a few Levante

The game kicked off. Olé.

It quickly became clear that the home side weren't too bothered about putting in their best performance of the season. Real Zaragoza dominated the game, but for a side that hadn't won in this stadium since 1964/65 - yes, I got a free match programme, well spotted - this wasn't going to be an easy ask. But cometh the hour, cometh the skipper. Gabi chose this game to become an Aragon legend. For his first trick he knocked in a textbook free-kick with his right boot. For his second, he crashed a shot into the roof of the net from outside the box with his left. Real Zaragoza had itself a new superhero. Just reward for those fans who had painted the town blue and white. Perfecto. Olé.

Not quite in the script was Levante pulling a goal back towards the end. Cristian Stuani looked almost embarrassed as he glanced in a header to shred a few more Aragonese nerve ends. But apologies accepted, the teams played out the final 11 minutes and the biggest party in town was about to start. Olé.

Gabi shoots...

...and scores

For hours after the final whistle, bedlam ensued. You know the deal in Spain: flags out of sun roofs, beeping horns and, fittingly for Valencia; swirls of fireworks, explosions of noise and fire. Olé.

It was so tight at the bottom that, incredibly, from starting "relegation Saturday" third from bottom, Real Zaragoza actually finished in 13th place. They only just missed out on a Europa League spot for crying out loud. Deportivo La Coruna ended up filling the last available spot, thus ending a twenty year spell in the top flight. They had failed to score in 21 of their 38 games, and so probably deserved to go down. That sounds boring, this EFW was anything but. It was madder than a box of frogs. I loved it. Altogether now....Olé.

You could hear the noise in Croak (sic) Park, Dublin

My hero. Rafa Jorda + Rafa Jorda's biggest fan*. *I was secretly very smug with this photo

Peep peep. We've done it. A pitch invasion (by journalists, not fans) greets the final whistle and Real Zaragoza players celebrate with around 10,000 of their supporters. Just. Like. Heaven.  

Like this? Try out visit to Sporting Gijon for size.

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A couple of videos of the Real Zaragoza fans both HERE and THERE

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European football road trip

Alan Shearer, Beyonce and Lille

We like the cut of Jamie Cutteridge's jib here at European Football Weekends. So when he offered to write on his recent road trip to France and Spain; we ran the hoover over the red carpet and rolled it out for him....

All good stories begin with a hope, a dream, a vision. This one begins with me sitting up one morning and deciding that I wanted, nay, needed to see Lionel Messi do his thing at the Nou Camp. The desire was one purely born out of lust and desire and hence a plan was made and tickets bought for a weekend in Barcelona to see the side play Bilbao in late February with the plan to sort out flights and accommodation nearer the time.

Simple enough but too simple some would say. Soon after, the Champions League draw was made and threw Lyon and Real Madrid together, putting the Lyon leg a few days after our trip to Barcelona. Consulting a map we saw that this wasn't a million miles away from being off-route and hence plans of a European road trip were formed with a call put out on twitter for those that were keen. Plans to swing by Lille and Zaragoza for games were thrown in as well as a day in Paris, and we were set to go, joined my friends of mine Ben and Andy and friends of the internet Tom Goulding and Chris ‘The Equaliser’ Mann, Europe was ours to conquer in a way not seen since the 1940s.

Of course all great journeys need a vehicle worthy of such a voyage, and far from the expected plane, ours became an old Honda estate nicknamed Beyonce (It has a big boot(y) and can get ‘junk in the trunk) but also known as Emile (Big, slow, not as good as it was 10 years ago but still vaguely useful).

  I don't think we were ready for this Jelly

I could fill many a piece with anecdotes, hilarious comments and japes that we got ourselves into, but in reality, they would never be as amusing in print and it would just be a little bit smug wouldn’t it. Instead, here are some highlights, a taste of our trip, the good, the bad and Alan Shearer’s autobiography.

  The man loves scoring goals

And Shearer’s autobiography seems the perfect place to start. Picked up at Dover Ferry terminal on tape (Weirdly, the only cassette they were selling) for the bargain price of £8.99 is served as the perfect soundtrack for our drive to Paris on glorious French afternoon. Highlights include Shearer’s puzzle at a 20-word ‘brainteaser’ (his word) as a child about why he wanted to meet Kevin Keegan, his meetings with Alex Ferguson to discuss a transfer under the guise of a Bryan Adam’s concert, the wonderful hostess that is David Platt’s mother-in-law and the one point of genuine interest that Shearer was offered the player-manager’s job at Blackburn in an effort from Jack Walker to keep to him at the club.

Carried upon the wings of Alan (who for your information ‘just loves scoring goals’) we arrived in Paris before retracing our steps back up north to Lille for that evening’s Europa league fixture between the hosts and PSV. An interesting fact about Lille is that they are currently ‘between stadiums.’ The old Stade Metropole is currently a pile of rubble, whilst the new one, baring the same name, is currently under construction. In the meantime Lille occupy another stadium which, in their infinite wisdom, they have given the same name to this interim ground, but surely there would be enough information on the interweb to avoid confusion?

No. No there is not. So after a two-hour drive to Lille we arrived at the Stade Metropole, sure we were 40 minutes before kickoff, but the area seemed quiet and the ground was a pile of bricks, being men full of nous we immediately realised that this would not be the scene of a game that evening, and so panicked and drove around Lille for a while searching for any sign of life, or floodlights. Eventually the ground was discovered just before the game was kicked off, but another interesting fact about Lille is that all car parks around the ground require a match ticket for entry. Once we eventually dumped the car nearby our fate was sealed by another fact, that UEFA regulations prevents tickets being sold after kickoff. Yes, our trip to Lille was wasted, a desperate search for touts resulted in two tickets, but solidarity between the five us prevented us taking them and despite seeing one goal through a gap in the fence we departed Lille having failed to take in our first game of football. Not even a re-listen of Alan Shearer could lighten our mood on the way back to Paris (Yes map fans, a silly route), it was easy for Alan, all that mattered to him was scoring goals, we couldn’t even make it around France....

Here's what I think of your world famous art gallery

Day 2 arrived and was the only day of our trip with no sport planned, and hence if you’re reading this site you probably won’t care about our time in Paris, however, as you may expect, football reared its beautiful head. The day was spent perusing the sights of France’s capital (or in the case of Jamie flicking Vs at the famous bits “Showing them what I thought of it”) and we decided to round off the day by hiring bikes and cycling up the Champs Elysees Tour De France style (an unnamed member of our party shouted that they were a ‘more virile Lance Armstrong, and by unnamed, I mean me), round l’arc de Triomphe and down the Eiffel Tower. Two of us decided to catch the metro to the tower, avoiding the bikes, and so when we reconvened under the tower we were delighted to find they had bought a football. It was kicked around a little bit before 5 French lads came over and challenged us to a game, England/France style, an offer too good to refuse.

Game 1- England 1-0 France

A perfect setting under the Eiffel Tower for this game as the touring England side took on the home team. The visitors  stayed compact early, putting men behind the ball and sticking rigidly to their formation in a way that would have Sven purring. Les Blues tested the keeper early on but eventually the ball broke to Cutteridge (1 international cap - 1 goal) who slotted the ball away with aplomb to give England the lead. England then defended their lead not offering the French a sniff of goal, until the game was halted by a Frenchman with a gun (I should note he was part of the police) giving the English a famous victory on foreign soil. 

For Queen and country

The success was celebrated with a trip up the tower followed by beer, snails and steak in the heart of Paris before the overnight trip to Barcelona began.

Spain came into view as we drove through the mountains with the sun coming up on a glorious morning, enough to banish any remnant of Lille-based depression. A long drive fuelled by shifts at wheel, uncomfortable drives and energy drinks gave way to windows down and summer music on the stereo and within a blink of the eye we were in Barcelona, outside the Nou Camp picking up our tickets for the next day. After a quick look inside the gift shop (complete with Jamie showing his vintage Villa shirt with pride) fatigue set in. Rather than stay in the centre we made for the outskirts of town and our hillside hostel, knackered after a long drive and knowing that our first game of the trip was that evening.

  Here's what I think of your tika-taka

 

 Game 2 - Real Zaragoza 0-1 Atletico Madrid

Living in England it is sometimes easy to forget that other countries are bigger than our own, and so when looking at a map of Spain, Zaragoza does not look too far from Barcelona, close enough for a quick nip across country for an evening of football, in reality, it is a long 3 hour drive, but for football? Well worth it. Myself, Tom and Chris made our way through the Spanish countryside whilst Ben and Andy headed for the centre of Barcelona for an authentic Spanish evening spent in the, erm, Hard Rock Cafe.

A lovely bit of Spanish glamour

After seeing in the day in the car as the sun rose driving South, as the sun set we were heading West with a less picturesque view as the rain fell. We arrived in Zaragoza and made our way to La Romareda where (Thanks to Danny and this site) our press passes were waiting. Clearly the fact we were English was enough as no names or ID was asked for and we were shown to our own press box (some seats behind a bench) complete with passes and teamsheets which was all well and good until we realised that we had no pen, nor paper to at least create a pretence of being ‘press,’ and so a Tom headed back to the car in search of anything to make us appear legit. With the wi-fi code secured (relief for our mounting 3g bill on our phones) we were ready for kickoff between two teams having less than stellar seasons. Madrid lay in mid-table despite having one of the most talented front partnerships in world football of Diego Forlan and Kun Aguero whilst Zaragoza were situated perilously on the edge of the relegation zone.

Actual match action

The first half was lively and played at a really high tempo, Zaragoza controlled a lot of possession with the midfield pair of Gabi and Ponzio impressing whilst Madrid looked more threatening despite an odd long ball tactic towards such a skilful strike due. The one clear cut chance fell to Aguero but he couldn’t quite find enough space to squeeze it past the keeper and so at halftime it was scoreless. Clearly the best two players on the pitch were Forlan and Kun and the big question in the second half was whether Madrid could get them the ball enough to win the game.

 Food and drink was needed, however as I went to order I suddenly realised quite how limited my grasp of the local language was meaning I inadvertently ended up with 2 ham sandwiches and 2 cokes, I have no idea what I wanted, but it was not that.

Fully fed and watered we were ready for the second half as were Zaragoza as they pushed straight from the off, somehow the ball didn’t go in following a goal mouth scramble and Madrid went straight up the other end, Forlan feeding the ball to Aguero who beat his man (the aforementioned Ponzio) and belting on into the far corner from a tight angle. It was just about deserved, and came from a touch of class that the hosts lacked.

The rest of the game comprised of heaps of pressure from Zaragoza but very little to show from it until the last few minutes where they managed to hit the bar twice, from subs Uche and Bertolo, by far Los Blanquillos most exciting players. Nay it was not enough and Madrid saw out a win that they hoped would shoot them upwards whilst Zara were forced to face downwards. A fine evening’s football and due to ridiculous kickoff times in Spain a long drive back to Barcelona after a midnight finish that was entirely uneventful aside from Chris almost falling asleep at the wheel. Sleep was welcome, with more football to come over the coming days, with 3 of the planets greatest teams to see. Kerouac may have driven more, but he never came across Leo Messi on his travels and that smug satisfaction saw us cosy in our beds.

 In Part 2, which is coming soon, Mr Goulding takes us through two games featuring players from the adverts. 

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Racing Santander

Life's a Beach

Racing Santander 2-0 Real Zaragoza (19:09:10)

This just in: Santander is brilliant. Want to know why? Then pull up a chair, and I'll try and explain.

Our belly is never far away from our thoughts here at EFW so it was pleasing to discover that the locals in Cantabria take their food very seriously. If you want beer as well, then that's cheap and plentiful, and what's not to like about a stadium that's just a goal kick away from a perfect sandy beach on one side, and surrounded by scenic mountains on the other?

Pretty much every bus heading east on a matchday will take you to the El Sardinero football ground, but why do that when - on a nice day - the alternative is a walk along those beaches having a couple of beers here and a few tapas there? (nope, got me there - Ed.).

Before we got some sand in our toes, we stopped off in Plaza Pombo whereby several hundred Racing fans were kicking off their day by exchanging football stickers. This is common Sunday practice in many Spanish towns. I wish it had been a regular occurrence in Lancing, West Sussex around the beginning of the 80's when I was after completing my Panini album. Spanish football expert Sid Lowe has written more on this fine art. Go and check it out.

Got any swaps? Football stickers are exchanged in the Plaza Pombo.

Back onto the beach then for some pre-match food. Burgers and chips for around a tenner right? Wrong. Fresh seafood for us. Cheap as well. And here's a tip: fancy a small beer in Santander, then ask for a caña. And if it's a lovely, big cold beer you're after, then ask for a cañon. So, altogether now: Dos cañons por favor. Just to make sure, do that 'big glass' gesture with your hands, the one you learnt to good effect in Prague.

Racing Santander had been kind enough to offer EFW a press pass. This being Spain however, it took me the best part of an hour to pick it up. Spain is an unbelievable country, but when it comes to any sort of bureaucracy, then be prepared to be very patient. Luckily, I was stood next to a six-foot cow opposite a giant spaceship in the queue, so that past the time nicely. Turns out his [the cow] name is Tula - the club mascot, and that [spaceship] is their equivalent of Wembley Arena - only six times more architecturally pleasing on the eye.

It's not often a pre-match meal makes it into the photo section, but this is Cantabria. And a starter at that.

Come 'ere ya daft cow. Tula and Danny alleviate press pass queue boredom.

Real Zaragoza announce their tactical plan early on.

Just over 13,000 had pitched up for this, the fourth game of the La Liga season. There was only around 50 odd Real Zaragoza fans there. With very few exceptions, away fans just don't bother to travel in this league. The home fans stuck up with a hearty rendition of 'Feunte de Cacho' (Fountain of Cacho) - a song about a brunette telling you where to drink water at 2am - and we were away.

Imediately, it became clear that Racing's preferred formation at home was the old 4-4-1-1 whilst opposing coach Jose Gay had opted for a 4-2-3-1. My thoughts turned to inverted pyramids. Actually, did they 'eck as like. I read about those formations in Marca before the game, so Zonal Marking and Johnathan Wilson can sleep tight.

My thoughts actually turned to beer. Inside the stadium only beer sin (without alcohol) is advertsied. I had a little word though. Turns out you need to do a nod a wink to the bartender, and then out comes the proper stuff, poured into a big tumbler. Who knew?

There is nothing a Spanish referee likes more than to dish out a few yellow cards. Splendidly, the man in the middle for this match was called Jose Louis Gonzalez Gonzalez. Gonzalez Gonzalez was licking his lips as early as the 5th minute when home skipper Munitis tried to take out Leo Franco in the Zaragoza goal. It was to be the start of a very strange afternoon for Gonzalez Gonzalez (no apologies for heavy repetition of his name). He later to a fancy to disallowing perfectly good goals. One for each side as it happened.

Los Verdiblancas in fine voice.

The Fuente de Cacho. Altogether now 'Ayer te vi que subias....'

Gol, gol, gooooool? Not if Gonzalez Gonzalez has his way. Offside mate. Or a foul. Take your pick.

Manuel Arana was at the heart of everything Los Verdiblancos had to offer. After Racing had taken the lead, I struck up a conversation with a chap called Antonio in the ground. He'd been coming here for 30 years. As such his season ticket was discounted by 35% to around €500 (individual match tickets at Racing Santander cost between €30-€60). Just as we were singing his praises, Arana produced another bit of exquisite skill to set up the second goal and that was that. 2-0 and frantic nodding and high fives all round.

Arana will inevitably end up at Real Madrid. They hoover up all of Racing Santander's talent. Gento, Amavisca, Helguara, Munitis and more recently Canales have all gone to the Bernabeu. Usually, whenever Real Madrid have won the European Cup, an ex-Racing player has been an integral part of their team. I was hoping to catch Canales the week before in the Bernabeu, but there he wasn't. He's signed up for five minute substitute appearances there instead of being the linchpin of another side.

After the game I joined the locals in La Tasca, the bar that is attached to the ground. The fans told me of crazy games against Athletic Bilbao whereby - not too long ago - 5-6000 away supporters would go to both matches. Crowd trouble, and politics put a stop to that though and nowadays just a few hundred brave souls travel. Also, they were quick to point out that Racing are innovators; the first team to be broadcast live on Spanish television, to have a shirt sponsor, sign a foriegn player, and to play in an overseas tournament - in Paris in 1933 I'll have you know.

With all that information stored and the words to 'Feunte de Cacho' embedded in my memory forever, I stepped across the road to rejoin my wife for a walk along the prom. Life's a beach sometimes eh?

Post match analysis in La Tasca.

Followed by more food...

....and a Santander sunset. Good old life.

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