Waka waka eh eh – Winning it in Bilbao
Part two of the view from inside the fan experience at a major European final.
Someone really did need to live track the thousands of fans on the hundreds of routes into Northern Spain. It would have been fascinating viewing. We knew people coming via Carcassonne, Biarritz, Bordeaux, Frankfurt, Dusseldorf, Madrid, Croatia, Corfu, Majorca, Marrakesh and Gran Canaria…
We flew into the humidity of Naples, where Antonio from the B&B was waiting to drive us the short route to the apartment we’d booked. We’d opted for somewhere close to the airport as it was going to be an early start on Tuesday, and the place was located in the sprawl between the suburbs and the airport.
As we drove through the narrow streets I thought of the opening sequence of the Maradona documentary, when Diego is driven from the airport through these same streets after signing for Napoli in a whirling cauldron of lights and sirens and traffic and crowds. It was still light, and it was not long before we caught sight of the first Maradona mural. His image is everywhere. There was just enough time for an exceptionally good pizza and bottle of red before bed and an early start for Spain.
Numbers equivalent to 25% of the total population of Bilbao were expected. I’d already had a journalist contact me about the travel challenges and the narrative was forming - the great trek, the challenge for fans, the question of whether many of UEFA’s Final venues are really set up to deal with such a mass influx.
It was busy but not frenetic when we arrived, after the bus ride along the northern coast to Santander had taken us through some beautiful rolling countryside. The hotel, a four-star at a fraction of Bilbao prices, is great, and we freshen up before meeting the rest of the group we sit with at home games for dinner. There are a lot of United fans in town, but we’ve booked a well-reviewed restaurant away from the main drag and it turns out to be a good choice – great food, friendly service and excellent company.
We arrived back in Bilbao at about midday on the day of the final, our bus about two-thirds full of United. But once in town it was clear Spurs were here in greater numbers – something we’d been hearing when being contacted by friends who had been in town the previous night as an enormous Spurs party took over areas of the city.
We met friends who’d flown in that morning. Over coffee and pintxos we heard from one who had endured an epic journey after the coach driver missed the pickup point for him and nine others at Dover. The solution involved the police having to ferry them across borders before cramming into a minivan and chasing the coach down the motorway. Then we headed for the boat trip we’d booked which ferries Spurs fans up and down the river, serenading those on the riverbanks. The locals are friendly. The few United fans are not.
It was approaching 4pm as we began to make our way towards the fan zone, which for us was only a 15-minute walk from the ground. We arranged to meet another group of friends in a bar just outside the zone. It was adjacent to a second bar, opposite a small supermarket and already crowded with fans drinking and singing. More groups of friends turned up. The joy was palpable, and the belief that we can win this was growing. Everyone was checking to ensure their digital ticket QR code has downloaded.
We heard reports that queues in the fan park were enormous and beer was about three times the price it was outside. So we decided to stay put for a while. The street was absolutely packed, as was the road leading up to the fan park. Someone in one of the flats above the bar, about four floors up, was catching an inflatable horseshoe that was being thrown up from the crowd in the street and returning it to the cheering throng. Across the street in a residential block, a woman in a green top was conducting the singing from her balcony. More and more people were turning up. “We’re on our way” was now accompanied by a self-deprecating reworking of Shakira’s 2010 World Cup song;
Tsamina mina eh eh
Waka waka eh eh
17th and I don’t know how
We’re going to Bilbao.
Kick-off was 9pm local time and we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to get in. At around 7pm, we started the walk to the stadium, a group of four of us sticking close as we wanted to repeat entering this final as we did the last one in Madrid in 2019. Every side street delivers more groups of fans onto the main route.
Colour-coded approach routes had been designated for each set of fans and for neutrals. We used the blue route and it delivered us to the outer security check at one corner of the stadium footprint. The San Mames is a relatively new stadium, but not way out of town like so many European Final venues. It’s tucked into the city, emphasising its connection and the importance it holds for Basque identity. It was easy to get to, and the security check had plenty of space and was well organised. We got through the first check, then approached the turnstiles where tickets were to be scanned and a second bag search carried out.
It all went very smoothly, a complete contrast to the chaotic scenes we remember at the 2019 Champions League final. We were on the concourse in front of the stadium building, a handsome, imposing design that looks even more striking lit up for the game. We posed for photos, and failed to contain our sheer excitement. It felt special already. Then we tried to find our entrance gate. Signposting wasn’t very clear, and a steward sent us the wrong way – something we discovered when hearing United songs being belted out from the section we were directed to. We retraced our steps but found out the numbering we have been following is for the VIP boxes. We eventually found a steward who directed us the right way.
Inside, it was initially hard to locate where the precise entrance to our seat section was, or to find the refreshment kiosks. Ladies’ toilets also seemed to be in short supply, and long queues of men were waiting to use them. There was no stewarding to stop this. We reached a queue to get a snack and a soft drink – no alcohol is being served but we wanted to stay sharp for the game itself so that didn’t bother us. The queue was moving very slowly and there appeared to be two people serving hundreds of customers.
As we waited we saw numerous groups of United fans coming into our section. This was supposed to be the dedicated Spurs section where you could only get a ticket if you were registered with the club, so it was a surprise, and the willingness of some of the reds to give it out to the greater numbers of Spurs on the concourse didn’t bode well.
After waiting an hour, including 15 minutes at the front, we abandoned all hope of refreshment and got to our seats with 10 minutes to spare. Still, at least we got in safely – maybe any more was too much to expect.
You all know what happened in the game now. Not the greatest of spectacles, but an experience I’ll never, ever forget. I’m going to go a bit Spurs for just a little while, because I don’t think I have ever been in the middle of such loud support, or felt such a strong collective will for a team to win since I started going to live games in 1978. Henry Winter remarked that the fans carried the team over the line – and there may well be some truth in that, combined with the sheer strength of will manager Ange Postecoglou displayed and instilled in the players. The goal prompted the limbsiest of limbs scenes, the final whistle prompted a mass outpouring of emotion and relief. I looked down my row to see a friend who’d had a difficult few years with tears of joy streaming down her face, gruff old geezers were sobbing, everyone was shouting and jumping.
For years we’d endured the accusation that we would always fall just short, that we we were the biggest so-called big club to go for so long without a trophy. We even had the word ‘Spursy’ invented to describe just falling short. I was lucky enough to see us win major trophies when I was a kid, but a generation’s eyes had not seen the glory. One League Cup 17 years ago, 41 years since the last European trophy. And now, at the end of an awful season when everything was gambled on this win, all of that was swept away. Sometimes a win is more than a win.
This is why we do it. And it’s why people think we’re fools – all football fans. Because we’d put up with anything just to be there at moments like this. We shouldn’t have to, and people shouldn’t take advantage of the fact that we are prepared to. And one day maybe it won’t be either/or.
An hour after the whistle, after a party in which two thirds of the stadium was still packed and holding on to the moment as the players celebrated on the pitch, we left the stadium and entered the delirious night. As we picked our way across town from bar to bar to the wild celebrations in Da Vinci’s nightclub, the latest twist on the Shakira number could be heard.
Tsamina mina eh eh
Waka waka eh eh
17th and I don’t know how
We won it in Bilbao.
Photos: © Martin Cloake
A great read Martin, thank you. I too was at the 1984 final, paid on the gate, how times change. So, an updated edition of The Glory Glory Nights is on the cards ?
Thanks, you filled in the bits where it was a bit of a blur. My best Spurs away trip ever.