Paul Mason

Real Betis (a)

From what I can gather a fair few more listees made it out to Seville
than for the previous couple of rounds and may well have far more
interesting tales to tell than me. All I can recount is the tale of a
pleasant and relaxing, if uneventful (mind you, anything will seem
uneventful after Tromso) day spent roaming the centre of Seville,
followed by a not so pleasant and not so relaxing evening spent
studying the minute details of worn concrete, with an exciting and
action-packed football match to conclude. 

Anyway, from our experiences, here is list of ten tips and
observations for any future travellers making a similar trip to the
fair city of Seville:-

1) Seville smells like a garden centre. Or at least it
does around where the coaches dropped us off.

2) Be fooled by outside appearances. As the coaches drove into
town from the airport, we passed the local donkey racing stadium - a
small dilapidated affair, strewn with graffiti. Suddenly the sign at
the top announcing 'Real Betis Oompah-Balumpa S.A.D.' was spotted.
Still, it can't be as bad inside.
To be continued...

3) Do not be surprised if the Spanish Police decide upon a 'softly,
softly' approach. As a veteran of Zaragoza, I was fully expecting
minefields, flame throwers and stealth bombers as we alighted the
'plane. Instead there was a moderate turn-out of baton-twirlers,
horses, dogs and conventional policing vehicles.

4) The Seville - oranges connection is not unwarranted. Orange trees
line the streets like pigeon shit does in London. They bear some very
strange-shaped fruit however but that does not prevent its use in
an impromptu spot of 'Flo-turn' practice when desired.

5) Avoid using your instinctive sense of direction to find the city
centre without proper map consultation unless you wish to visit the
barracks of the local Parachute Regiment or the Courts of Justice.
Familiarity with the location of both these may, of course,
be useful later in the day.

6) Be prepared to develop grave doubts about your own body's
temperature sensitivity. The sun maybe blazing, it may feel as hot as
your average British summer's day and you maybe cursing not bringing
your shorts but the local attire of anything between two and four
layers of clothing, including many dark coloured jumpers and coats
will leave you feeling you have just climbed off some spacecraft.

7) Humour the locals in their obsession with playing 
Predict-a-Score. You will not be able to walk too far without someone
shouting or fingering the score of the match at you. Predictions
ranged from 2-1 to 5-1 although you have to suspect human biology is
capping this spread. At least they seem to have as much faith in
their team's clean sheet potential as we do in ours!
Decorators from above windows were the main players of this pastime
although the most memorable participant had to be a true local
eccentric who looked like a well-groomed Albert Einstein dressed in
country squire tweeds. He exchanged pleasantries with us while we
were sitting outside an eaterie and opted for a modest 2-1 before
heading off down the middle of the road, weaving in and out of six
lanes of traffic.

8) Never let yourself fall into the trap of thinking you have been
around enough to no longer be surprised or amused by the English
supporter abroad's capacity to behave like....well, an English
supporter abroad. Today's top examples include the wearing of those
plastic British Police Helmets; standing (just about) in the middle
of the road chanting, 'Do you come from Manchester?' at the passing
locals, and being driven in groups around town in one of the
sight-seeing horse-drawn carriages while, of course, all standing up,
Union Jacks in hand, serenading everyone with 'Celery' etc.

9) Make sure you take the chance to experience everything Andalucia
and the 'Capital of the New World' has to offer (including full
English breakfast) by holing up for the entire day in Flaherty's
Irish Pub.

Okay I am being a bit snobbish and condescending here but surely you
don't have to be Bernard Levin to want a bit more out of your day
than pissing it up in the darkened corners of a place such as this.
If anywhere was the focus for the more boisterous element of the
travelling army it was this place. We had to visit at various stages
of the day for rendezvous purposes and managed to leave just as El
Viejos Bill outside started to gird their loins, polish their batons
and screw the grills to the windscreen of their vans. By the time we
returned it was not obvious if there had been any trouble but
the police seemed a bit more edgy and swathes of the road had
been cleared. The local lads certainly recognised this as place to
demonstrate their bravado but it is a sure sign of certain cultural
differences that they seem to think they look threatening whilst
driving past repeatedly on something that sounds like an egg-whisk.

10) Do not make jokes about the Cafe owner nipping out the back and
rummaging through the scraps bin to conjure up some tapas you have
persuaded him to supply even though it is not on the menu. You will
only feel a little foolish when it actually happens! Also take care
with the salad. It is well over 50% per cent raw fresh chillies!!

Seville was very much as expected; Plenty of large, old and grand
buildings in the centre - all looking very, ahem, Spanish; Lots of
those medium height tenement blocks, particularly on the outskirts,
which would not look out of place in anyone of a hundred European
cities and wide open parks with fountains galore of varying modernity
(ball-cocks optional).

There is a broad river running through the centre of town with a wide
variety of bridges traversing it including a permanently raised
'broken bridge'. On one of the banks of the river stood the Bullring
(of the place for fighting bulls variety, not the shopping centre
kind) which bore more of a resemblance to Shakespeare's Globe Theatre
than the Coliseum. Not a great effort was made to see if there was to
be any action within that day although the prices did compare
favourably with a game at Kingstonian.

The focus of the city appeared to be the Cathedral and the streets
around it. The Cathedral itself was a pretty hefty affair and most of
it looked a fair old age. The main tower looked a lot newer,
especially as it was built of brick. It was in the shadow of this
that a large proportion of the Chelsea congregation gathered to pay
homage to the twin gods of football and alcohol.

The intention to imprison the official travelling support in the
stadium a long while before kick-off had not been kept a secret from
us and the early rendezvous to collect the coaches to the ground and
the match tickets confirmed our fears. We were dropped off outside
our corner terrace some three hours before the first ball was to be
kicked in anger and the bastards did not even have the decency to
provide one of their normal scenes of pandemonium regarding entry to
the ground which would have at least eaten a few minutes. As
it was, inspite of a few fruitless and pointless protests from a
couple of hotheads, we were straight in.

The reasons for this measure were presumably to have us all out the
way before the home fans started to turn-up and maybe to enforce a
sobering-up period. Past problems with English fans makes it hard to
construct a worthy argument against such action and if it helped
prevent in-ground scenes similar to those witnessed in Zaragoza then
the discomfort and ennui was worth it. This, of course, all falls
down with a hefty bump when you consider the treatment dished out to
the 'unofficial fan'.

Who in their right mind would forego the chance to go with the club
and all its benefits when making your own way only allows you to do
it cheaper, have longer there, be able to buy a seat to one of the
two main stands on the day of the game in a nicely
segregated section amongst other Chelsea fans, have the evening to
yourself and be able to turn up at the game when you want?

The almost uniform disregard for the UEFA ticketing laws abroad must
have Ken tearing his hair out.

The prospect of the eternal wait was brightened for some people when
they discovered the tressle table refreshments counter was selling
beer alongside Coke and lemonade. Whether any of them went through
the whole evening without discovering their plastic cups had been
filled with a placebo is an interesting question. It must have
doubled the yearly sales of 'Kaliber' in one go!

Resigned to our fate and wait, everyone claimed their spot on the
terrace which was in one corner at the end where all the goals went
in. It was a warm evening and a pleasant sunset. However, being
children of the 20th Century we are rather conditioned to some form
of artificial light replacing the disappearing sun.

As I stood there in the pitch black, with only the strange glow from
the hot-dogs providing any real illumination, I was wondering why
everyone was making such a fuss about the state of the stadium. It
really was not much worse, and similar in layout (moat replacing
dog-track), to what we had been used to for years at the
pre-development Stamford Bridge.

Or so I thought until the horror stories came back from the first
wave who had attempted to use the toilets. The womens' were
reportedly particularly horrid with none of those luxuries such as
doors, locks, lights or flushing available. One woman was in floods
of tears having been forcibly made to go in the mens' by the Police!
I managed to hold out experiencing it until just before kick-off so
was not too sure just how long the large amount of certain things
that were not quite where they should be had been there.

Back on the terracing the Dunkirk spirit started to rise up with
some concerted early singing (although the suggesting of a quick run
through '5000 Men Went To Mow' did not meet with much support). With
a mere two hours to go Terry Byrne emerged from the main stand and
ran onto the pitch. This may sound strange to those not present but
never has the sight of an assistant physio seemed so welcome. Just
to have some indication that we would eventually be watching a
Chelsea game was so uplifting. He raised himself to God-like status
by responding to the demands of 'Terry, Terry gissa song' by coming
right over and leading us through several popular classics.

With about an hour to go the floodlights finally came on allowing us
to see that the area of terracing to our right, which we had assumed
was intended for the unofficial party due to the token segregation
(those barriers you get on the road side for demos, marathons, royal
funerals etc. plus a few police), was slowly filling up with home
fans. The rest of the Chelsea Armada were starting to occupy the
seats to our left.

The last hour passed pretty quickly once there were things to watch.
My earlier fears that Mark Stein might be receiving a shock call-up,
initial brought on by the presence of a large net behind each goal,
were allayed when the players came out to warm-up. What was worth
worrying about was no recognised left-back. Let's face it, that
particular weakness in the squad was going to be exposed eventually.
How does a club think it is going to get away with only having four
of them!

As 2130 hours approached the atmosphere really started to build.
You have to hand it to the Spaniards, they certainly know how to get
a cauldron boiling. All the expected features such as twirling
scarfs, whistling, coloured cards and large letters
were present plus some new ones including huge big stars and
flamenco-rhythm clapping. We were by no means in bad voice ourselves
however!

As the game kicked-off it became apparent Sinclair was the emergency
left-back which was of some surprise as Clarke has played there
before and it might have been expected Frank would be more suited to
counter the perceived threat of Jarni's pace on the other flank.
There was nothing unduly concerning about the opening minutes however,
apart from the realisation that the toilet would be required again
before the night was out.

Betis had barely had their first attack before the ball was knocked
into Flo's feet out wide, not too far in front of us. He turned his
marker and started to head for goal. We have already seen enough of
the junior member of the strike quartet this season for the
anticipation to be almost tangible when he sets off in this manner.
The last defender was casually disposed of with a shimmy inside and a
burst on the outside before he hit a cross-shot which always looked
goalbound even from the oblique angle we were watching from.

I cannot say I was one of those people particularly upset by the
demise of the terrace but it was so nice to once again be throwing
yourself around with wild abandon and running up and down five or six
steps repeatedly, not to mention climbing crush barriers and
gesticulating at opposition fans. Speaking of which, the goal did not
half shut them up. The ground went from cacophony to morgue as if a
switch had been flicked.

Within in what seemed like seconds Flo was at it again. As the
defender dived in he knocked a Petrescu pass forward and
manoeuvred himself in on goal, this time much more central. The ball
was summarily despatched through the 'keepers legs and it was our
turn to be at it again. At that moment, if they had kept us
in the ground for three days before the game it would have seemed
worth it. I believe Tore Andre celebrated extensively in front of the
fans. Damned if I was in any position to notice.

Needless to say, a much overdue TAF song was quickly born. To the
tune of, 'Your shit and your bird's a slut' (oh alright then, 'Go
West') sing, 'Tore, Tore Andre Flo (repeat).

Following this explosive start, the game settled down a bit and it
almost seemed as if Chelsea themselves needed a few minutes respite
to recover from the shock. With about 20 minutes gone Betis had
a penalty shout turned down for something pretty innocuous and a
free-kick was knocked well over. There then followed the most nervous
passage of the half as they won three or four corners in a row. De
Goey came for and completely missed the first, but successfully
helped a couple of others on their way with his fist.

On the whole Chelsea were looking very comfortable. Clarke was coping
admirably on his flank, anticipating danger early, and the rest of
the defenders were all getting their challenges in. Newton was the
one player looking  a bit out of sorts. He was up a gear from his
recent past but still seemed to be treating the ball like a timebomb.

Flo and Zola appeared to have a real understanding of where to find
each other and the Betis central defender found wanting by Flo for
the goals (Fernando I think) was having a torrid time. De Goey only
had one real save to make before the break, tipping over a shot from
distance.

The comedy moment of the game came midway through this half when
Duberry, requiring treatment after a challenge, was ordered to leave
the pitch on the back of a golfing buggy. He lay there prostrate on
this transport, not moving a muscle. As soon as it crossed
the touchline, and with the fans expecting him to be out of action
for at least a couple of minutes, he leapt off and instantly
demanded to be let back on.
Perhaps you needed to be there!

As half-time approached Di Matteo arc-ed a long ball from deep in the
Chelsea half into the path of Zola. As he dribbled the ball goalside
of the defender and into the penalty area he was clearly, and not
without force, shoved in the back. Down he went and the positive
reaction and sprint towards the incident by the referee had us all
believing the penalty had been given. I have yet to see Zola dive, he
did not on this occasion, and the booking was wholly unjustified.
He appeared highly aggrieved his integrity had been brought into
question in this manner as he continued to protest his innocence at
the next stoppage in play. I have never seen a player look quite so
submissive as Zola does when pleading like this, with his head bowed
and his hands together as if in prayer.

Shortly after, Wise delivered possibly the pass of the game with a
touchline hugging effort to send Petrescu away on the right. As he
reached the ball just before the defender he knocked it inside him
only to be scythed to the ground. The referee faffed about for so
long it looked as if the perpetrator had escaped punishment which
would have only heightened the injustice of the Zola decision. In the
end the caution was forthcoming.

It was a very happy band of followers that cheered the team off at
half-time albeit one which was no doubt cursing the injustice that
prevented it being 3-0, all over, done-and-dusted and goodnight
Seville.

The crowd was dead, their team was struggling, all Chelsea needed to
do was avoid conceding an early goal...Ahh!

The decisive moments leading to the goal were right infront of us and
our view could not have been bettered. Just before half-time Marquez
had come on as sub and he managed to beat Sinclair in a challenge for
a ball played down the line. Sinclair came back at him and must have
been (unnecessarily) worried about a cross being whipped in as he
dived into a challenge allowing Marquez to pull the ball back inside
him and then take it back outside again before Frank could recover.
The cross was met by an unmarked player who headed the ball firmly
enough from close range for Big Ed to only be able to deflect it on
its way.

Black marks must go down against Sinclair for diving in when he only
had to stand up to prevent the initial danger, and three Chelsea
players who were ballwatching as the cross came in. The scorer had
not arrived late but had stood there unmolested for sometime.
However, these being the only real defensive howlers of the game, it
would be churlish to make too much of them.

Unfortunately, the crowd were resuscitated and Real Betis found it
within themselves to create some serious pressure. There were a
couple of incidents of serious diving which DID heighten the
injustice of the Zola incident and a couple nervously dealt with
corners.

Wise was booked for doing something undesirable with his hands,
exactly what was unclear, and from the resultant free-kick a
stinging shot was parried away by De Goey. At the other end, a superb
turn and pass by Flo put Zola into the danger zone but he dallied too
long and the chance went begging.

By now the action and chances were coming so thick and fast that it
is hard to recall the order it all happened but one of the
overriding memories of the half was a very advanced Petrescu causing
all sorts of problems out on the right. Several times he seemed to
be the last man racing with the 'keeper to reach ball, once heading
wide and once putting the ball in only to be flagged offside. Real
Betis also put the ball in the net only to be treated to
'You thought you had scored...' as it too was disallowed.

Nicholls came on for Zola midway through the half and was immediately
booked for a foul from behind and Duberry was also booked for
a foul, although his seemed a little harsh.

Real Betis continued to look threatening, they have a lot of skilful
players (technical, as Ruud would no doubt have said) but the defence
was holding firm with Leboeuf in particular winning a lot of vital
tackles. Their best chances came from the same route as the goal but
good balls in were wasted as first one was headed wide and another
was very well saved by De Goey.

When that chance went you sensed Betis had given their all and it
certainly marked the start of their fans' departure to a friendly
chorus of 'Adios, Adios' from the Chelsea corner. The trickle away
would surely have turned into a flood had Hughes (just on for Flo)
not made a mind-boggling awful hash of what was almost his first
kick. Running onto Petrescu's pass, he connected with just enough
power to put the ball past the 'keeper but not much else. Once again
the chance to really kill off Real had gone.

The last few minutes were not quite as stress-free as they could have
been with Chelsea unnecessarily conceding possession. Di Matteo in
particular seemed to want to play defence-splitters all the time
rather than play safe but the whistle came before damage was done and
what must surely be one of the club's all-time great European
victories had been achieved.

A couple of minutes of top class baiting between the two sets of fans
ensued with the Spaniards demonstrating some interesting variations
on a few old classic hand-gestures. It all concluded happily enough
with mutual applause all round.

The length of time we were kept in the ground after the game seemed
like micro-seconds compared with beforehand but it was long enough to
watch the subs warm-down and plead with Vialli to give us a song.
Terry Byrne had to explain the ritual to him and in the end he
plumped for rather an interesting choice of refrain -
'Vialli, Vialli.'

There appeared to be a minor incident of someone chasing someone out
on the street as we waited in the coaches to go but nothing worth
writing home about (so why are you doing it??!). After that it was
the standard air-lift evacuation procedure and much caffeine
containing drinks consumed, all served up by Peach Air's very own
Scott Minto lookalike air steward.

Barring disaster in a couple of weeks, Moscow here we come!