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"It's ok, we'll get you out of there, i promise, but...but...we've got the match first, you see...."
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It would have been going strongly against precedent, so the
biblical deluge that greeted our arrival in the dreamy and aristocratic seaside resort of Estoril was entirely in keeping with recent ventures to football grounds in greater Lisbon. We have previous in this respect, it has to be said.
The water was dripping off the colonnades of the grand old Hotel Palácio and the casino was lost in a
solid curtain of smog and drizzle. As for the beach, well, don't ask where that was.
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| Storm winds catch replica flags |
We are here ("here" being the delightfully named
Estádio António C. Mota) to witness the continuing puffing and panting of Sporting Clube de Portugal, lying leaden-footed and out of breath in a sickly 9th place in the Portuguese Superliga, as they visit the sprightly and upwardly mobile minnows from along the
marginal, Estoril Praia. The first thing to note is that Estoril Praia -despite its name sending us into reveries about buckets and spades and giant ice creams melting in the sun- is located nowhere near the beach, but up a wind-swept valley in Amoreira. Tonight, it is dark and thunder rolls in the distant hills of the
Serra de Sintra, whilst increasingly playful squalls of freezing rain billow straight down the valley and up our shirts.
We park up on the pavement opposite the main entrance to the stadium, a trick not possible at the Bernabéu nor at The Emirates. Our tickets for the press box are being held for us by a delightful young local encased in what can only be called a whitewashed wall. She is inside the wall! We talk to her in sympathetic tones from our damp freedom outside in the street. Tom is using the sort of gentle tones you reserve for a visit to your mad Uncle Henry, who has been in jail since 1978. She passes us the press accreditation and we assure her we will be back to help her escape a little bit later. If we remember.
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| Brisk trade beneath the mustard teats |
Hunger drives us to the nearest bifana kiosk, where many punters of varying sizes and ages are all trying to shelter under the raised flap of the kiosk's serving hatch. Inside a rotund grandmother and grandfather duo are serving the molten pork slices in crusty buns. He has the mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise suspended like the optics in a bar. He tugs on the mustard like a man milking his least favourite goat. The plastic container farts lethargically at him, as if to say "enough already". We wait our turn, happy that the slow movement of the punters ahead of us is allowing us a few minutes more to shelter from the deluge coming down the other side of his caravan flap.
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The lights go out.
Luckily, Granny Bifana is cooking with gas. The show must go on, but in the dark. The Superbock exiting the fridge will not get any warmer for being out here with the rest of us as this is officially The Coldest Night In Portugal With Added Wind and Rain. Grandfather Bifana continues his skilled work on the sauce teats by the light of his wife's burning hot flames. the ketchup container farts lethargically.
I watch him tug again on the darkened mustard. Or is it ketchup? Mayonnaise? Cognac? Jesualdo Ferreira, Sporting's eternally tired looking trainer (their 4th so far this season) probably feels a little like this, I guess. Being tugged at. In the dark. I long to have a tug myself, but presume this will get me into trouble and delay the feeding process of the exclusively Sporting supporters all around us. One optimist engages me in conversation in the delightful misconception that I might have travelled from England for the game. I begin to think of jokes about this, then realise that two weeks ago I travelled in the opposite direction to see Manchester City not play any football at all at Loftus Road. This reminds me very clearly who the real simpleton is on Rua Dom Bosco this evening and it is not the cheery man breathing hotdog fumes into my face..
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| The path to top flight football is strewn with mud and puddles |
Access to the press area in the main stand is across a wet car park which forms the zone behind the northern goal. It gives onto a hill of mud, which leads to the pitch, also quite muddy. We slide down the hill towards the glistening green and beige. Suddenly I am beside Rui Patrício, as he takes some practice balls to the midriff. All around me are bedraggled teenagers carrying giant letters. The Superbock is making me hallucinate already. I think I might be a walk on in Alice in Wonderland, as a pretty girl with an enormous S sidles past, followed by a fat lad with a T. There do not appear to be any M's, though, and the chap with the Z has drifted off, leaving his letter propped against the fence.
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| Give us an M. No, really, give it to me |
As Sporting gear up for their enforced presidential elections, various candidates are glad-handing their way through the throngs (there are 3,227 in the ground. All in green and white and some unlucky yellows will be vigorously canvassed), but settle under the roof of the main stand rather than joining the Sporting hardcore across the other side in the "wet seats". There are some lengths even a would-be president won't go to.
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| The Lonely Life of the Sporttv Cameraman |
The ground is a wonderful yellow expanse of bucket seats on either side, a forest and mini cliff at the south end and the slope of mud and tarmac at our end. It is a delight, under the piercing gaze of the floodlights.The Sporting coach, apparently parked for a very quick getaway, is halfway up a steep slope right by the exit gates. The driver obviously knows a thing or two about who is playing tonight. Imagine then
this scene if you will, but in darkness with horizontal rain blowing through at 109 kph. This is where we are tonight.
Estoril have not beaten Sporting in a league encounter since 1976, a never to be forgotten night when Clésio walloped the winner past the legendary Portugal 'keeper Vitor Damas. And, by the way things start here, they will not be adding to that victory tonight either, as Sporting surge into an early lead, given to them by the trusty right foot of Ricky van Wolfswinkel. Sporting look assured until the owner of the bifana kiosk outside the main stand comes to Estoril's rescue. His lights come back on at last, just as, mysteriously, both floodlights at the north end of the ground are extinguished.
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| Tom arranges executive seating in the press box |
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| Everyone wants to report on the demise of Sporting |
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| Torcida have brought waterproof flares. Note those pesky letters have come to life too. |
A crafty plan. The players shelter in the dugouts, as the rain lashes down, then make a run for the tunnel, whilst a committee of negotiators are sent to talk to Kiosk Man. When the lights return, Sporting themselves look to have been extinguished. The game restarts somewhat oddly with a corner, where the ball had been when all went dark. Suddenly second to every ball, the previously sprightly Bruma and Labyad are being beaten to the ball by Estoril's nippy yellow shirts. A series of Estoril raids end with Jefferson walloping one into the top corner past Rui Patrício. Before the break a howler from the Sporting keeper ends in a penalty award after he brings down Estoril striker Lica, the man with more hair than Patty Boulay. Canadian born Steven Vitoria plants it low to the right, his seventh goal of the season.
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| Lights out: the entire Estoril team take shelter from the deluge |
"Come on Yellows!" goes the shout from the 200 or so Estoril Ultras to our right, who are now making a fair racket, in English. Half time arrives and Tom, itching for interview action afterwards, discovers his dictaphone has morphed mysteriously into a camera in the raging storm that has swept through the valley. I helpfully encourage him to take snaps of the players instead.
The big letters have appeared on the field to spell an unmissable tv and internet package from Zon and not the giant human game of Scrabble that we had hoped for.
The second half sees the drenched TorcidaXI, Brigada, Juve Leo Boys and Directivo move up the away side to be close to the goal where Sporting will shortly miss a penalty. Rojo, voted the worst defender in Russia last season, snaps into action, whilst Zezinho's languid style continues to make the rangy midfielder look mainly disinterested. Sporting's shirts and numbers do not allow easy identification, but
Migul Lopes appears to be missing an 'e' and Jesualdo Ferreira appears to be missing significantly more than that. Capel and Labyad are replaced by Diego Rubio and André Carrillo. The pace lifts again and Sporting are presented with a chance to equalise from the penalty spot, but Van Wolfswinkel, anonymous for an hour, sees his third consecutive spot kick fail. There are scouts from Norwich, West Brom, Chievo, Southampton, Hannover, Osasuna, Valencia, Saragosa, Real Sociedad and Bordeaux and each one can be seen writing the words "good grief" in his notebook.
As if to confirm the profligacy of the act, Estoril raid up the other end and Carlos Eduardo smacks in a beauty for 3-1. Ex Benfica player João Coimbra comes on for Estoril. A qualified doctor, he might be tempted to initiate some emergency surgery on the opposition. It would do them no harm. Sporting are spent and substitute Gerso, lively of limb and hair, nips into the area and clips the bar with a deft chip. With the phalanx of silent Sporting fans getting their third soaking of the night, the green and whites coach driver can be seen revving the bus on the slope behind the southern goal, ready for a quick getaway.
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| "We've got water in the mixed zone...but no players...hello...?" |
The game ends to tumultuous applause from the locals, as we are directed to a low-slung yellow prefab for the press conference. Standing in a soaking wet tunnel draped with saggy awnings alongside the Sporttv camera crew and reporter, we shake outr shoes free of mud and ask casually where to go to find the mixed zone. "You are in it," says a helpful man with a cauliflower nose. The Sporttv reporter is receiving news in his headset that "nobody from Sporting" will be making themselves available for interview. Tom's camera goes back in its holder, as Jesualdo slinks past with the look of a man, who is Sporting's 4th but possibly not last coach of the season.
Outside, the bifana kiosk is motionless and cast in half dark. It is not clear whether this is because some of the bulbs are back on in the far end floodlight or if it is in mourning for the pitiful performance we have just witnessed from Portugal's traditionally 3rd biggest team. By the end of the weekend they will lie 11th in the table, Estoril 6th.
