Revisiting the Nou Camp 24 years on

Revisiting sites of great trauma can clearly have a dramatically visceral impact on people, but what about going back to somewhere that featured the complete opposite sensation, one of utter jubilation and fulfilment?

 

Of course, this time the stadium was empty rather than full of Manchester United and Bayern Munich fans, more from England is definitely how I recall it. 'Taking over, taking over, taking over Barcelona' was the chant around town. Yet the cavernous bowl still retained its mystique and did not appear to have changed too much, at least not in my mind. This is the sort of arena that makes you view football almost as a religious pastime.

You see, the Champions League final here has always felt like more than the most exhilarating footballing experience of my life. It has also seemed like the end of my youth, in some respects.

 

I was 26 at the time and enjoyed a pretty carefree existence, living and working in London. This trip abroad would require pretty meticulous planning, involving planes, trains and automobiles. The EuroStar to Paris, a night there before flying to Perpignan in the morning and hiring a car from southern France to drive over the border to Barcelona.

 

There were various bumps in the road, most wholly avoidable, but our group, ultimately, arrived in plenty of time and could enjoy a stress-free afternoon in the sunshine, building up to a night nobody would ever forget.

 

The feeling of responsibility probably grew as the trip wore on. I had to navigate my way to the ground only with the youngest member of our five-strong party, my friend’s teenaged brother, whom I’d never met before. En route to the Nou Camp, things became congested in a way many football supporters will be able to acknowledge and some bright spark decided to chuck the contents of a bottle of water over one of the police horses, causing it to rear up and exacerbate the situation.

 

The mounted cop appeared to be operating a hit-now-ask-questions-later approach and lashed out at the crowd with his baton. Instinctively, I pushed my young pal out of the firing line and waited for the inevitable clunk on the back of the head as I was rotated away from the policeman. To my surprise, it never came. Whether he saw what was unfolding and took pity, I’ll never know, but at least it meant I could continue to focus on watching the Champions League final, rather than spending time in a local hospital.

Safe in the knowledge a Double was already secured, I was ridiculously positive and optimistic throughout the game, from the moment renowned opera singer Montserrat Caballe was belting out her hit with Freddie Mercury as soon as we found a spot within the vicinity of where our tickets suggested we should be sitting.

 

I started chanting ‘United’ virtually as soon as Mario Basler’s free-kick hit the net and had faith there would be at least one moment, one cause for wild celebration to justify all the trouble of making such a pilgrimage. As injury time approached, this looked a foolish choice of mindset but was rewarded with the most earth-shattering double explosion of joy imaginable.

 

And the celebrations continued. ‘Forever and ever, we’ll follow the boys of Man United, the Busby Babes’ made me feel extra emotional. The magnitude of the achievement, what it would mean to the history of our club, all those years since previously winning it in 1968, and chasing this dream swirled in my mind.

 

The dream had been realised. An unprecedented Treble secured. Could it get any better? Almost certainly not. After paying tribute to suspended stars Paul Scholes and Roy Keane, with David May further igniting the party, the sense of satisfaction became hard to shake. I thought of my father watching from home and it was impossible not to view this as an incredible act of achievement. If I was beaming for days after 1993, this euphoria would last even longer.

I took a glance to my left from my vantage point of standing on my seat (sorry Barcelona) to see the players milking the acclaim on the pitch. There was a young lad stood with his father but clearly unable to really see what was going on. It felt right to step down and let him take my spot. I’d had my moment, he should be able to share it too. I guess he’d be well into his thirties now.

 

We attempted to celebrate for much of the night in one of the best cities in the world. Yet it had been an emotionally draining experience and we ended up being rather detached from the main groups of United fans. Perhaps Planet Hollywood was never really going to be a great option for partying.

 

A sleep in the hire car was required as all the hotels had been fully booked for ages beforehand. Any thoughts of blissful rest not only hampered by sitting upright in the passenger seat but also by my friend having a panic attack prompted by claustrophobia as dawn approached and bashing the door against a pillar in the car-park in desperation to relieve his tension.

 

Yet moving on to nearby coastal resort Lloret de Mar ensured some time for more complete satisfaction with United’s glorious success, even if it meant missing the parade in Manchester. During the return stop in Perpignan, we even drank Champagne all evening at a bar, something which made us look incredibly ostentatious and showy and stick out like a sore thumb. To make matters worse, for once, I didn't really care.

 

Within a few months of my return to England, I’d made the seismic decision to move north to start a new job, where I’d, ultimately, meet my wife and settle down to have a family. I would never say I was reckless, far from it, but responsibility soon became more of a prerequisite. None more so than after the birth of our children.

 

However, this has not diminished my love of the Reds, nor how much the team and club means to me. Far from it, in fact. Any initial fears that the hunger would be at least marginally reduced after winning the lot quickly vanished.

Joining United back in 2011 has only made things worse, or better, depending which way you look at it. Now the results not only have a massive impact personally but also professionally and it’s pressure that, I’m told, makes me a dreadful person to watch football with. My son can recall certain flashpoints with worrying degrees of clarity.

So, if anything, I’m unashamedly even more attached to the club. I can’t wait for our next trophy, nor especially our next Champions League trophy. That won’t be at stake on Thursday when I’ll be witnessing this cathedral of a stadium full again for the first time since last century.

But next time it happens, you know what, I might just stick it out and keep standing on my seat to milk the moment.

The opinions in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of Manchester United Football Club.