A Night Of Missed Chances.

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Last week I went with my new colleagues to watch my first game of football in Ukraine. A magazine later asked me to write an article about it, and I've included it below.


My Article...

Ukraine is not the greatest footballing nation in Europe; but no-one has told that to the people here. The game gets people talking and arguing, just as it does anywhere else.

Fate has been very kind to me this month: not only is my new job in the centre of a fascinating, football-mad little city on the River Dnieper, but my office is only a two minute walk from the impressive Olympic stadium. Better still, there was a Champions League tie to look forward to the week after I arrived - Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon, with third place and a UEFA Cup place the most likely prize in a group also containing Manchester United and Roma.

You won’t find a more proud nation than the Ukrainians; and you won’t meet a prouder bunch of them than the bolelshchiki of F.K Dynamo Kyiv. Stepping off a packed metro train at the Respublikanskii Stadion station on the way to the game I was swept almost off my feet, into a crowd of ten thousand fans wearing the dark blue and white of Dynamo. They were yelling “We are Kievans! We are the strongest!”, and while being dragged along the platform almost in a headlock under a big fan’s armpit I was in no position to disagree with them. The town was going to show Europe what it was made of tonight. We spilled onto the street where I work, where the Eastern European chic, immaculately dressed businessmen and old ladies selling flowers in the daytime had made way for the raucous singing, drinking and nervous energy that comes an hour before every big match.

It could be that the businessmen had just been home to hang their ties up and take a few bottles of Chernihivske out of the fridge. The men I work with - Roman, Oleksandr and Volodymyr - certainly had, and I pushed my way out of the crowd and went up to our office for a quick drink with them before the game. It was a traditional Ukrainian picnic: we each downed a large cognac out of a plastic cup, sipped some grape juice, gave a toast to the Byelo-golubye and took a handful of crisps with us as we grabbed our coats and left for the stadium.

It wasn’t just my beer that I had to leave with the soldier at the gates, but my preconceptions too. When I was young I loved watching British teams on television, scraping nervous away wins in obscure parts of the former USSR. The atmosphere in the grounds had always seemed so passionate, so partisan, and often so hostile. I had expected to walk up the concrete steps into a stadium full of patriotism and macho energy and to feel scared - my mood sank when I realised that this time I was barely nervous.

Perhaps the scratchy tannoy and men chanting didn’t seem so intimidating any more because I knew the language. Maybe on such a beautiful autumn night there was no need to jump up and down or to light flares to keep warm. Sitting so high up with three lawyers made the occasion feel more like a night at the Opera than the Bullring. There was something missing. The fantastic atmosphere and bravado from the streets earlier hadn’t filtered into the stadium, and 60,000 of us were just sitting and waiting for the game to start. It at least made for a more welcoming experience. Thankfully the Ultras stomping their feet in the terrace below us were throwing nothing more than confetti on to the pitch. The man shouting behind us was funny as well as rude, and the man with the trumpet knew when to shut up. Volodymyr’s wife was having a brilliant time.

In truth, when the game began Dynamo didn’t give any of us much cause to build up a head of steam. For a team with five Brazilians on its books we didn’t play with any elegance or rhythm. The second half didn’t start until 10.45, by which time I had already started thinking about a cup of tea and a shower at home. Roman even took to reading the newspaper which he had brought to sit on, when another clumsy attack came to nothing. Had Serhiy Rebrov not missed a chance that most of Chervonoarmiyska street’s flower sellers would have belted into the top corner, and had 81-cap goalkeeper Oleksandr Shovkovskiy not been as shaky in the six-yard box as I had been on my first day at work, it would have been us taking home a 2-1 win and the three points, not Sporting. The red smoke of the flares lit up the stands later on, but too late: the empty yellow and blue seats behind the goals told us that that many fans already had the kettle on.

As Oleksandr said, after we had let out some half-hearted boos and climbed over the empty seats to get to the exit, the insulting thing wasn’t that the Portuguese team won, but that faced with such a massive away trip and such a big home crowd that they could do so without ever really having to play well.

And so 50,000 of us piled back on to the underground, as loud as ever but humbled and a little bit depressed. It was an enjoyable night, but without the surge of adrenaline that I hoped a Champions League game in this part of the world would bring. Maybe it looked better on T.V. The four of us were back in the office seven hours later, with only bags under our eyes and un-ironed shirts to remind us of last night’s disappointment. Manchester United arrive in a few weeks, when it will be very cold and there will be much more Ukrainian pride at stake. The goose-bumps will have to wait until then.

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Photos

Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon.
Kyiv.

Bolelshchiki.
Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon.

"Pride".
Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon.

"Dangerous moment".
Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon.

Bolelshchiki.
Dynamo Kyiv vs. Sporting Lisbon.