The Calm Before The Storm

It’s quiet here in hotel Sheraton, too quiet even. Players lurking around greeting each other with almost sentimental smiles, casually mingling on about their October highlights, when a familiar voice steals their wavering attention. Bilic, revealed now as the face behind the voice, glances across the room before ushering the inviting words : “It’s time”.

Quietly and without hassle, they enter the room by forming a line near perfect line, a soldier’s line. And these, now don’t be fooled by their neat outfits and tidy haircuts, these were in fact just that, soldiers. Born and bred to do the right thing at the right time. And here they were. Seated down as per instructions given by one of the senior staff members, ready to face whatever life throws at them.

Bilic took the stage. For a moment it seemed he’d try and say a few words, but then eagerness got the better of him. He pushed the button on the remote and, much to everyone’s delight, the channel showing the Ukraine – England match emerged on the screen. The receiver was a new Sony 42″ plasma, one which secretary Srebric got a hold of under rather amusing (or you could say fishy) circumstances. Aljosa Asanovic, Bilic’s second in command, gave someone at the back a signal to close the room’s shutters, further instilling the mood in which this crucial match was to be watched (played). On the 42″ screen, the man in black gave a whistle to signal the start of what would surely be the single most important game our soldiers would be watching (playing) during their professional careers.

The first 45 minutes flew in a breeze. The two sides cancelled each other out, leaving fans (neutral ones at least) with much to be desired for. And a thousand miles away, in a dimly lit room of Hotel Sheraton, everyone was glued to their seats. Well everyone bar Ivica Olic, whose love for the occasional snack kept him circling the room (much to the dismay of those seated around him) like a vulture for a good portion of the first half. Soon enough the second half was on its way.
Ukraine started more positively, with crowd urging them to pile on the pressure and go for the kill. And as the clocked ticked on and the hosts pushed forward, it was in that period, at the pinnacle of Ukraine’s dominance, that this game would get an opener. The home side had a set piece delivery stubbornly defended, only to be caught off guard at the other end of the pitch.

Somewhere, a nation rejoiced in delight. Gerrard was the executioner, Capello the mastermind, and England the saviour. Surely it was over now? And indeed it was, as the home side’s dying efforts lacked the predatory instinct their opponents had displayed on the night. As so many times before, a single goal had decided the outcome. In (deceivingly) quiet anticipation the final whistle came. And with it, halfway across the continent, that one particular Sheraton room burst to life with random (and rather unspectacular) acts of celebration and decibels of laughter and joy.

They lived to fight another day.