“Heard about the guy who fell off a skyscraper? On his way down past each floor, he kept saying to reassure himself: ‘So far so good… so far so good… so far so good.’ How you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how you land.” – Hubert, La Haine.
Oslo Airport is peaceful at 2.28am on Monday morning. I sit at an empty gate as a slight drizzle falls on the slanted window. With time to kill, I look out at a huge Norwegian Air jet and the runway beyond.
The last trickle of late arrivals has stopped. The cleaners have already been and gone. The few of us waiting for an early morning connection to London Gatwick are dispersed across the long terminal.
All the shops and services are closed. There is nothing happening. There is nothing to do.
I start typing on my phone. I have a lot of thoughts to let out.
It has been a strange day after Paris Saint-Germain beat Arsenal on penalties in the Champions League final. I have felt a whole range of emotions this weekend. Nerves, pain, joy, regret, pride.
I have been following the scenes in Paris after PSG’s victory on my phone. We all saw the riots last year after their first Champions League triumph. It was probably to be expected that this year was to provide more rioting and violence, no matter the outcome of the result.
Politicians clamour over one another to blame immigration. They point score over diversity and assimilation. They compare the French capital with London and the Arsenal parade, which itself is not safe from implicit racial critiques and whataboutery.
My spot in Oslo feels rather removed from this. A tiny island of solitude away from the undercurrents pulling society in London and Paris.
A football game can mask so much, both on the pitch and in the world at large. It can cover up those fractious forces. It removes rhyme and reason. You get so sucked in that you forget what has happened, is happening and will happen. Are you falling or flying?
For much of the 70 hours since leaving my house on Friday, it has been a blur. Now, I bludgeon my thoughts onto my notes app, trying to make sense of where exactly society, Arsenal and I have landed.
We’re on our way
It is a sunny morning in north London as I step out onto Drayton Park. The ‘Champions’ graphic shines brightly out of the window of Highbury House as I make the familiar steps towards Arsenal station.
I am running later than I wanted, but the stress is unnecessary. I make it through security and find my Eurowings flight to Düsseldorf is delayed.
I booked my flights to and from the Hungarian capital in a rush. I had dashed home from the semi-final victory over Atlético Madrid, the adrenaline of a European Cup final pounding in my head, and booked the most reasonable-looking flights as quickly as I could.
I am not the only one. Groups of Arsenal fans huddle under Heathrow’s screens, staring gormlessly at the words “please wait” that stand in the way of our gate number.
We funnel onto the plane 30 minutes late. A small chant of “we’re on our way” goes up as the wheels start to roll and we hurtle down the runway.
The plane swerves left and right amid a turbulent flight, but Düsseldorf comes into view. The city, split by the Rhine, stands out against its green, countryside surroundings.
Our little cluster of Arsenal fans grows larger and tighter as we head towards passport control. Passports are scanned and fingerprints taken. A group ahead of me debate what “thank you” in German is.
The two-hour layover drags on before the board at Gate A42 flashes: 17:45 – Budapest. We line up and then walk down the stuffy metal tunnel leading to the plane. The humid air sticks Arsenal shirts to clammy skin.
The plane touches down in Budapest and we pile onto the 100E bus, free for fans going to the game.
I ride the bus to Astoria and hop off into the darkening evening, aiming for the ruin bars where a friend is drinking. The queue stretches down the road and around the corner. Arsenal fans have taken over and I abandon the queue to follow the chants to a different block.
I buy a pint and prop myself up against a hefty plant pot. The bar is not filled with fans, but the faint hubbub of noise is a constant reminder of why I am in the city.
My dad’s flight is delayed, but I check the direction of our hotel by the Danube River and meander that way, passing an Adidas advert beamed against a building. Arsenal’s Gabriel has his fist raised alongside the words: “You got this.”
My dad arrives and we walk down the riverbank, taking in the magnificently lit buildings on either side of the Danube, which separates the hilly, older Buda and the flat, modern Pest.
The brilliant lights suddenly flick off. The spires of Országház, Hungary’s grand parliament building, are suddenly dull. Buda Castle blends into its dark surroundings. The city has shut its sights down for the night.
Tomorrow it will light up again in red and white or, as the fear in the pit of my stomach grows, blue, white and red.
The Arsenal predisposition
My dad and I begin the day by crossing the Chain Bridge, the oldest in the city, that unites Buda and Pest as one. It is a grey morning and we can get around without the blazing sun beating down on us.
The usual pre-game chat ensues. Will Mikel Arteta pick Viktor Gyökeres or Kai Havertz? Is Jurriën Timber fit to start? Is Myles Lewis-Skelly able to withstand the best midfield in the world?
It is pretty routine to slip between conversations about life, work and family before we find ourselves back at those pressing Arsenal questions. It has been the same for 20 years.
Whether it is the train from Watford to Euston and on to Finsbury Park or meeting at a Rosa’s Thai near the ground or just outside where I live on Drayton Park, it has always been the same.
The game is scheduled to kick off at 6pm local time, earlier than the usual 9pm slot it occupies. I’m relieved that the wait for kick-off has been brought forward. I don’t want to stew on my concerns all day.
I have inherited this trait. The apprehension before kick-off turns to nervousness, not excitement, for my dad and me.
Letting my hopes and imagination run wild is a feeling that plunges me into a nauseating unease. As if I am the one leaping off the skyscraper, I just need to jump and get through it. So far, so good. Wondering where we could land is an impossible thought.
We head back in the direction of the ruin bars. As if he had been out drinking all night, the friend I had planned to meet is walking up the same road.
As is often the case when we have seen each other before big Arsenal games, we are opposites. He is bouncing with excitement and tells me that I must be the only Arsenal fan in Budapest with nerves.
I glance at my dad, knowing that I am not the only one, but perhaps one of two.
My dad and I go for our usual pre-match meal. My pörkölt is not quite the usual Finsbury Park Pad Thai, but it is still tasty.
It was at that Rosa’s Thai before the Atletico Madrid semi-final that my dad revealed that he had been offered two tickets to the final. It felt fatal to suggest that going to the final was a possibility before a ball had even been kicked at the Emirates.
Of course, the prospect had crossed my mind. I knew of a handful who had booked flights and accommodation during the league phase of the Champions League. I knew that I would also have to be there – should they make it.
I am not a superstitious person. I smile when I see a solitary magpie, bringing back funny memories as a child watching my grandmother salute them to ward off bad luck.
Yet, with Arsenal, the thought of me potentially jeopardising their chances of glory is unbearable. To dream too large is to curse them to mediocrity, punishing me for thinking I can fly, when I am destined to fall.
Pain at the death
We arrive at the Puskás Aréna. It looks like a fortress. The sun peeks over its soaring walls and, as we scan our tickets and push through the turnstiles, we are thrust into the shadow of the grand stadium built in 2017 to host an occasion such as this.
Football was weaponised by former Hungarian leader Viktor Orbán. His authoritarian government, recently defeated in an election, used football to build nationalistic fervour – methods since criticised by his successor Péter Magyar. This final is part of Orban’s legacy, but it is tricky to think of that as we go down to our seats.
It is an hour until kick-off, but the PSG fans are already rocking. Their chants bounce off the ceiling and reverberate around the ground. It is spellbinding.
Arsenal are well accustomed to the PSG support. They marched through north London in the semi-final last year and their players followed suit. They were noisy in the corner of the Clock End at the Emirates then; they are even louder now.
Time slows. The players seem to warm up for an eternity. The three songs played by The Killers feel even longer.
At last, the game kicks off. The memory of Ousmane Dembélé’s early goal last year consumes me as the French champions pass with a zip and thrust unlike anything else in the world.
It is hard to recall exactly what happened next. Arsenal look typically strong defensively and a hopeful ball forward seems to have been dealt with by the Parisians’ back-line.
But it isn’t and Havertz is chasing down a ricocheted ball. The German charges into the empty space and I have a quick scan across the box – no one is there. He must go alone.
I do not expect the back of the net to bulge. It takes a split second to register the ball rocketing past Matvei Safonov. I jump. I don’t know what my arms are doing. I am in disbelief. I begin to dream.
The rest of the first-half is manageable, for both Arsenal and my wellbeing. This defence has weathered many storms, but the winds pick up and the momentum shifts towards PSG.
In part, I feel very strongly in the heat of the moment, because of the referee. Admittedly, Arsenal have had their fair share of luck this season, but every small decision falls in the French side’s favour. The knot in my stomach twists even tighter.
Khvicha Kvaratskhelia has been kept unusually quiet by Cristhian Mosquera, but gets ahead of the young, stand-in full-back and wins a penalty. I cling to the hope that it might be overturned, but it does look a foul. Dembélé drives home the resulting spot-kick emphatically. All square.
The flares sparkle in the PSG end of the ground. The bright red glow moves in sync with the huge swathes of bodies swaying in celebration.
If I found The Killers’ set somewhat torturous, the ensuing time until the end of 90 minutes and extra time is something only the devil could concoct.
I bounce my leg, chew my nails and fret horrendously. I curse every misplaced pass, refereeing decision and neutral fan in the ground who is able to enjoy an enthralling game without the feeling of having their head in a vice.
Noni Madueke is bundled over by Nuno Mendes in the box in extra-time. It looks a foul. Anyone of an Arsenal persuasion is adamant it is. The referee disagrees and calls time on the game. Penalties.
120 minutes and it all comes down to a game of chance. I desperately recall any positive memories of David Raya shoot-out saves. My dad and I run through potential takers – it doesn’t engender much confidence.
I stand motionless, helpless. My pulse pounds in my temple. It all comes down to this. Five penalties each. In front of the PSG fans, they have the advantage. PSG to take first, it couldn’t be worse.
Gonçalo Ramos and Désiré Doue score either side of Gyökeres, before Eberechi Eze begins his stuttered run up – my heartbeat matching his intermittent rhythm. The midfielder sends Safonov the wrong way – and his shot wide.
Raya saves from Mendes as bedlam ripples through the red and white end. Declan Rice, then, makes no mistake. Our hopes restored, our dreams flying.
Achraf Hakimi, Gabriel Martinelli and Lucas Beraldo all score, meaning Gabriel must.
A mess of thoughts tumbles through my head as the Brazilian, who had been the best player on the pitch for the 120 minutes of action, steps up.
I don’t know whether to watch. I don’t really want to. I can’t look away either. My body, head and eyes remain completely still, fixed on the goal in front of the Parisian wall.
I remain in that trance as the ball sails over the bar. Each upward rotation provides a thundering dose of reality that things are never perfect. It is never easy with Arsenal. It never has been.
The ball finds the jubilant blue, red and white swarm and the flares light up once again, bringing me back. The longest few seconds of my life come crashing down and time rushes.
The ground clouds with the smoke of the flares, a fog of deep misery sweeping towards the Arsenal faithful. I pull the plastic of my chair down and slump into it. I cannot quite place my exact feelings. There is sadness: a desperate ache yearning to fill the empty vacuum left by the release of hours of tension.
Yet, there is immense pride. This team came so close. It delivered the best moment of my Arsenal-supporting life just a fortnight ago. This is not the only chance we will get. I stay and applaud the team. I watch them collect their medals.
The despair does overwhelm those more positive feelings. Stunned, I don’t know how many words I speak from that point on. I don’t watch the trophy lift.
My dad and I climb the stairs to the bar. I am hot, tired and dehydrated. Two cups of water are soothing, albeit for a total of around £9.50.
I cannot even process the ridiculous price. Nothing feels justified. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real.
Flying the flag
I wake to the sound of my dad stirring. He has to be up for an earlier flight on Sunday morning. I have the day to see Budapest.
In those first few seconds of consciousness, my mind is pure, the slumber of deep sleep uncorrupted by Arsenal. I am in momentary bliss before the pain grips my soul once more.
I am on my own in the dark room. I lie there, looking up at the ceiling, and sigh. The feeling of pride comes through more pronounced. Why dwell on what was lost when the league has been won?
I open X. Mistake. Close it.
I shower, eat and then just start walking along the Danube. I do not have a plan. I make my way listlessly along, the small lap of water against the rocks is calming.
The day before, my dad and I had gone to the bronze statues of shoes on the edge of the Danube. The memorial to Jewish and Roma people massacred is chilling.
The footballing world descends on Budapest for a weekend and moves on. The scars of history, both old and current, are glossed over by a glitzy corporate celebration.
I leave the museum and cross the river to Buda. I look up at the castle on the hill and start climbing the stairs. The views are amazing. The city is beautiful. Not even the French voices in PSG shirts can perforate this newfound peace.
I make my way down and keep going on the way to Margaret Island. There is something white in the distance that catches my eye.
Planted in the ground is an Arsenal flag, flown by fans in the ground just 12 hours earlier. As I approach, it flaps weakly. A strong breeze from the river sparks it into life, blowing fiercely and proudly – in spite of the result.
On Margaret Island, a man is playing the accordion. I move past and find a quiet, shaded spot away from the crowds.
I check the time and hoist my now tired legs up and back up the stairs. I once again pass the accordion, which ekes out a rendition of the Italian anti-fascist song ‘Bella Ciao’, its tune long since appropriated by football fans.
“His name is Gabi, he’s from São Paulo and he plays for Arsenal,” rings out in my mind. Gabriel Martinelli, who might have played his final game for the club, is forever imprinted in my head.
The Arsenal squad and staff are already back in London to celebrate the Premier League title. I knew I was going to miss the parade, but being at the Champions League final with my dad was more important.
I felt as if I had already had my celebration of the league anyway. The night that Manchester City dropped points against Bournemouth and Arsenal were crowned champions was the best of my life. I have never felt such ecstasy.
I think that is the biggest pain of Saturday night. I wanted to be there and win something with my dad. Even though we have been together for much of the season, that special Tuesday night could only be enjoyed with me spluttering down the phone.
I stop walking and find a bar. I order a pint and put on the live stream of the parade. I want to feel a part of it. I wanted to see the moments so many of those I know are sharing along the streets of Highbury, Angel and Finsbury Park.
I will be at the next one.
Seven hours in Oslo
I show my match ticket and step onto the bus free of charge. It is early evening and the city has almost returned to normal. The remaining football fans have been all but squeezed out of the city.
I make it through security and head to my flight to Oslo. I sit down next to two men, around my age, reviewing a breakup message. They hit send. The friend, delighted with his meddling, turns to me beaming, shakes my hand and says: “This is a historic day.”
The friend is in the wrong seat and is quickly replaced by another man, slightly older and sandwiched between me and the heartbreaker – who strikes up a conversation.
Three men who have never met start talking. Naturally, it is football which unites. We discuss the game and where Arsenal need to improve. They are excited that I live near the Emirates and am a journalist.
The younger man is in finance, the man in the middle is a fire safety inspector. They switch between Norwegian and English, before the plane takes off and we all fall silent.
As we descend on Oslo, my two new friends are asleep, their heads falling and jumping in tandem.
My layover in Oslo is over seven hours long and the airport is virtually shut. I look for international transfers, but the one sign leads to nowhere.
Ten or so of us wander around. Most settle down for a sleep, knowing they will have at least four hours’ peace before the early flyers descend on this ghost town.
Partly due to not wanting to doze off and miss my flight to Gatwick and partly because I want to, I start writing. It is 3.41am as I type this sentence and I have about 20 minutes before I can get a much-needed coffee. I have three and a half hours until I can close my eyes on the plane.
I tiptoe around the hall. One lifeless body behind me is curled up tightly across two seats. A woman lies sprawled across a thinly-padded bench. Another man has been defeated by sleep, his phone hanging delicately in a limp hand.
The creak of shutters at 4am provides the first sign of life and the coffee gets me through until boarding. I step out into the cool, drizzly Norwegian air and make my way towards the back of the plane.
Within seconds, the Arsenal fans are asleep. Heads down, slumped over their arms.
I wake to the announcement that we are landing. Prying open my bleary eyes, I lift the window shutter to see fields of green. We land and I head straight for the train.
I sit in a back corner, hiding away from the noise of keyboards tapping and Monday morning calls from commuters taking place. The normality of it all is uncomfortable.
I get the tube from Victoria and up to Finsbury Park, from where I could do the walk in my sleep. I might have to.
The metal railings from the parade still line the sides of the roads as I turn right out of the station. Over Seven Sisters and down St Thomas’s. Right on Gillespie and round to Drayton Park.
Litter is strewn right across the street – evidence of the party I missed. While I toiled and battled with my emotions 1,500km away, the reality remains: Arsenal are champions of England.
The Emirates comes into sight. I walk past Highbury House and the same ‘Champions’ graphic shines out.
This club has fallen often. We’ve been told to trust the process. We’ve been told that everything is so far, so good.
Losing the Champions League final is the latest stumble, but how you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how you land.
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Jack McRae writes... 