England Vs Ghana

On 29 March 2011, history was made. Chants were cried and flags were raised. I could hear the drums of war. Thousands gathered to see this momentous battle.

For the first time ever, in their respective 139- and 54-year histories, England and Ghana played football. The atmosphere at Wembley was electric as 80,102 supporters filled the stadium. I was, of course, supporting England, but a tiny part of me secretly wanted Ghana to win – and not just because they play in Gryffindor colours.

How could anyone who followed the 2010 World Cup not have a little red, yellow and green in their heart? The third African nation ever to reach the World Cup quarter finals, Ghana missed a penalty awarded to them when a would-be goal was saved by a Uruguayan handball. If England fans feel aggrieved at what Diego Maradona did in 1986, it is only a fraction of the pain felt by Ghanaians last year. The team went on to lose the game on penalties. It still hurts to think about it.

But, with true Three Lions pride, I painted my face red and white, I held up my part of the St George’s Cross and I belted out the national anthem. What words I know of it, anyway.

It was an evening of firsts: Ghana’s first appearance at Wembley, Andy Carroll’s first goal for his country and the first time in a while that I have seen England play with decisiveness and flair.

They were, however, outdone by their African opponents. Ghana’s commitment, vitality and confidence put the boys in white to shame, as did their supporters. Only a quarter of the stadium was filled by Ghanaian fans but they brought most of the noise and all of the carnival.

Asamoah Gyan, Ghana’s top scorer in the World Cup (not to be confused with Azerbaijan, which is a country just north of Iran – hey, it’s an easy mistake), was on top form and deservedly scored an equalising goal for Ghana in the 91^st minute.

I did, of course, miss the goal. Against my better judgment I left the match after 87 minutes and only experienced the goal via the huge Ghanaian roar that deafened the entirety of the HA9 postcode.

Aside from this inevitable occurrence of Sod’s Law (and the way in which a Mexican wave always seems to stop just before it reaches you, leaving you standing alone with your arms in the air), the evening was a success. There’s nothing quite like the combination of footy, festival and failure to bring pride and solidarity to England.

Image by philosophyfootball courtesy of Flickr