Early autumn, 2022
“If football is a religion, Cruyff is a god”
Xavi Hernández
Music: Three little birds, Bob Marley
Let there be footie! The bar is filling up, and the patrons, slightly confused at first, are now slowly realizing that the bar won’t be theirs. Not this night anyway. Tonight, the bar belongs to Ajax. With every passing minute more scarfs and shirts are dripping in. As they do the atmosphere changes. Normally this bar is pretty much owned by its patrons. A group of mostly old men who drink heavily and somehow never run out of things to talk about. They will talk about almost everything. I, unlike some of the bar personnel, take great pleasure in that. Even if, as the night progresses, they become harder and harder to understand. Not only for me, but more importantly for each other. None of this, however, is going to happen tonight.
This night is dedicated to football. One can almost grapple with the atmosphere. Here we all exist somewhere between hope and fear. I have seen more confident Ajax fans in my life. You can feel the expectation of defeat. Yet my beer is half full for now, and that can only mean one thing: there is always hope. This opinion isn’t shared by everybody. Two gentlemen are stuck in a conversation about everything that is wrong with Ajax these days. Or rather, they are criticizing everything Ajax these days. That what always happens when you comprehensively criticize something, happens once more. They start to feel like crap because they forgot to stop themselves from tearing down the whole damn world. Say what you will about the overly self-critical but at least they only tear themselves down. The feeling is equally crappy but at least they won’t bother me with it.
Next to me the mood is a little better. Some young lads are recounting tales of battles past. How, a few years ago, a group of (mostly) teenagers, turned the world upside down. Led by a nineteen-year-old Dutchman they brought glory to the city. They didn’t win, but their campaign was glorious. “The Ajax boys have kicked over the Old Lady” the commentator exclaimed. It still makes me chuckle. If you would hear these guys, you might think they were there. Right on the pitch, battling it out. It is only fair, watching football is like reading a good history book. It sometimes gives you the feeling that you participated in the unfolding of history. I feel it too, that feeling that I was there, which I was, but not quite.
The bartender is talking to an older group. They are talking about the good Lord himself: Johan Cruyff. If this atheist city has one deity, it is the messiah of Mokum. Maybe not the greatest player ever but certainly the greatest football personality ever. A player, a coach, a football philosopher. Easily in the top five in all those categories. Though he has passed away, his hand still guides the sport. The group talks about him as if he were some mythical hero. Recounting his deeds, reciting his words. For those who adopted football as their faith; Cruyff must be in the pantheon. The patron God of Ajax and Barcelona. The Total Football prophet! In this city the old religions don’t organize our lives, but for some, football has taken up that role. She makes our myths and legendary heroes now.
Tension continues to build. The match will soon start, and everybody is getting nervous. Even the cynics. Their nerves betraying that they have some hope left in them still. History will never stop being made. Suck it Hegel, it hasn’t ended just yet! The tension is here, the hope is here, the fear is here. It is now only minutes before battle is joined. A legendary Dutch coach once said: “football is war!”. It is the only type of war I look forward to. I am going to stop writing for a little while. See you at half-time!
It is not going well. In fact, it is going far worse than that. We drew first blood, but we are getting stomped on for the rest of it. Hope is ebbing away. The cynics are sad, the lads, the older group, me, and everybody; everybody all sad. There is only a fools hope left. I shall be a fool then. There is always hope, though the ambiance in this place has certainly changed. Nobody is talking about Johan Cruyff any more, nobody mentions the young heroes who kicked over the Old Lady. Everybody is tense, tense and living in the present. I’ll have a beer and some hope please! Wish me luck!
We got creamed. Creamed and chopped and carefully smothered in molten chocolate and then thrown to the pigs for good measure. Put a ribbon around the city and give it to the devil. Nobody here would notice. I don’t remember any loss like this one. History has certainly been made, just not the right kind. Almost as bad as the loss are the cynics, who now feel vindicated. Nothing is worse than a self-righteous critic, except for losing like this. The other people are leaving the bar as if it was on fire. I guess we all want to go sleep and forget about the whole damn thing. Even Cruyff, as scattered ash, is probably trying to forget this night.
I am not sure if there is a word in English for the feeling of losing one to six at home. If there isn’t we should certainly get one. A word that can capture all the dread and disappointment. How about Luton? I think that word would do quite nicely. I am very Luton tonight.
