Matchday Eleven; Dawn of the Debt-ridden

By: Scott | October 31st, 2009

Any good ghost story begins with a likeable hero, brave, well-intentioned, pure of heart. Usually the scene is set with the hero journeying away from home and at the start of what he expects is some grand leap forward: The completion of research, the acquisition of a rich relative’s estate, taking three points and a clear lead at the top of the table.

Laying in wait there’s always some creepy anti-hero; a count who doesn’t drink… wine, a one-eyed Indian medicine man, a coach who looks like someone who should be dragging corpses back to his master’s lair through a foggy English countryside. (Yes, Felix, I’m talking about you.)

To disrupt the hero’s cheery optimism, there might be an incident; some troublesome occurrence that doesn’t quite endanger, but threatens to do so if given the chance: a scratching from behind the wall, a door kept locked that the hero is warned against ever opening, Farfan finding room to break down the right.

KiesvSchalke
We got the warnings. We threw holy water on the mid-field and drove back the beasts with brilliant defending. Untroubled by the minor minions that sprang before us to set us off the righteous path, we drove two stakes through Schalke’s fat, black heart (Kroos at 31’: Kießling at 44’.) But then, as the dark of night began swallowing the streets around Veltins Arena, The Werkself discovered for themselves that the monster doesn’t always stay dead.

After dominating the first half, and starting the second defensively strong without sacrificing attacking opportunities, Schalke suddenly stumbled from the crypt, hungry for blood.

150px-Magath2 To me, the turnaround came in tandem with Hyypiä leaving the pitch. (Anyone else think he looked like he was limping?) Schalke suddenly started taking control of the ball, bringing it ever closer to Adler, who’d been mostly untested until then. At the 85th minute, Schalke managed a goal, albeit one of the least graceful goals I’ve ever witnessed. Even Schalke’s coach (shown right in a scarf borrowed from Truman Capote) tried to pretend he didn’t see it. Tragically, Schalke managed another one a few minutes later and the 2:45 of added time wasn’t enough for us to take back our three points. The whistle shut us down at 2-2, Adler looking completely winded and quite possibly trying to calculate in his head the value of his savings account once converted to British pounds.

“We collapsed at the back towards the end,” he commented, post-match. “We definitely gifted two points tonight.”

Another draw. A two-point lead wasted. Still top of the table, still undefeated, but with just a scant one point separating us from newly-felled Hamburg and rising Bremen.

We wake in the night, a sick breath on our neck. Something disappears into the shadows. This indeed is the stuff of haunted dreams, but when the sun rises again and our hero returns to the comforts of home, there will be a new hope. A new promise of joyous days and comfort and innocence. Our hero smiles, but it’s a troubled smile. And in the back of his mind, something stirs. He feels an urge within. Must… kill… Frankfurt…..

Happy Halloween, mutants. Here’s your Victory Beard, Eleventh Matchday freshly shorn.

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