When Football Doesn't Matter
A man slumped to the ground on a summer evening, the world tilted off its axis and took us all with it.
The plan was to write about the Finnish fans.
It was their first time at the finals of a major tournament.
They came streaming across Faelledparken in their dozens a few hours before the kickoff, singing and drinking and just glad to be there.
Olli Jantunen told me how he’d waited his whole life for this moment. He gave me his number and promised to let me know after the game how he felt, what he thought when he heard the national anthem.
Three minutes before halftime Christian Eriksen slumped to the ground, and the plan went out the window.
Crowds work in a weird way. Made up of maybe 17000 individuals, the Parken crowd acted as if it had its own consciousness.
Thomas Delaney and Martin Braithwaite and Joakim Maehle signalled to the bench. Simon Kjaer came in and took over. I think it was his hands I saw starting to pump Christian’s chest, but I couldn’t say for sure.
I was too busy preparing the news flash that would tell the world that one of its best footballers might be in the process of dying right in front of us.
The medical team trotted on. The Finnish fans behind the goal and snaking around the corner into the bottom of the stand were silent too. None of us knew, but we knew it was serious.
The Danish players gathered around their stricken comrade, protecting him from the gazes of the outsiders and the prying eyes of the cameras.
Their faces were ashen. Some cried. The tension was thick in the summer evening air. There were murmurs, but mostly there was silence.
We waited.
The waiting was the worst.
White sheets - the kind pulled over the faces of the dead in Hollywood movies - were brought out to shield Christian even further.
We still didn’t know.
Then there was motion.
Something like a cheer, but it could have been relief that something seemed to be happening.
Wolfgang told me he saw Eriksen’s hand gesture to the crowd through his zoom lens.
We still didn’t dare to hope.
The rest is a blur.
We might have been there a minute. or an hour, or a week.
Time didn’t matter. All that mattered was being there and staying in the moment, because the alternative was unthinkable.
The Finns shouted “Christian”.
The Danes roared “Eriksen” back at them.
It wasn’t much, but in the moment it was everything.
Incredibly, Eriksen spoke to his team mates.
He told them that he was OK, and he sent them back out into battle.
The game began again.
The Danes dominated again.
Some of them weren’t able for the fight, and that’s understandable.
They were loose. Edgy. Out of sorts.
As if they couldn’t summon the last few vestiges of aggression needed to put the game away.
They conceded a goal, but their emotions still couldn’t be tamed.
The sportsmanship was forgotten as the the Finns played for time.
Whistles rang out form the Danish fans.
Then the final whistle echoed loudest of all.
The Finnish fans celebrated, the players a little less so. You’d have to.
A man nearly died, and then he asked you to go out and finish the game without him.
The least you could do is enjoy winning it, no matter how absurd the circumstances.
But it didn’t matter.
And after tonight, for those who were there, nothing might ever matter again.
This game taught us nothing.
But this night taught us that it’s later than we think.
well said Philip...also liked your contribution to the Brendan O'Connor radio programme on Sunday.