Chicken Kiev: First Serving

Alarm rang at 0400. Stumbled out of bed, tumbled down, and flicked on the tube. Both English clubs and their respective opponents still goalless. Then shortly after, a dubious penalty was awarded. What the heck?

The chicken that I can be at times pressed the mute button after that. Prayed hard while feeding self. With every tick of the clock, my nerves continued running amok and my heart continued its wild pounding. And suddenly, with about 90 seconds left to stoppage time, Gallas came to the rescue again, arriving just in time to slot in a scrappy goal. One that was low on style but sky high on importance. Thousands of miles and several time zones away, I was screaming, ‘Thank you, God, thank you, God, thank you!’

We have yet to overcome the former Eastern Bloc block and butcher the chicken Kiev but at least we drew - and at Kiev at that, the venue where we had lost three times before – to prove our point in difficult circumstances. Heck, even the defending champions ManUre had to settle for a goalless draw with the Yellow Submarines and at home too.