#lefoot

The first day in France hasn’t disappointed.

I wasn’t the only person who’s thought travelling by train from Geneva to Lyon for the game was a good idea - plenty of Northern Irish were making the trip. The SNCF provided just four coaches, which meant I essentially spent the two hour journey squashed in a corner with a Frenchman on my lap. Not ideal.

Destination: Lyon. The views of scenic mountain passes were tempered somewhat by bouts of cramp induced by the tight travelling conditions, but we made it.

This was a crucial phase of the day logistically speaking - find the hotel, drop the kit off, establish the route to le stade, and get there in time to find somewhere showing the England game. It all went famously well. Apart from the last bit.

The Parc Olympique Lyonnais is a newly built stadium near the motorway, but it’s distant tram ride to a suburb that’s never really had to cater for large numbers of football supporters descending upon it every fortnight. No sign of a screen around the ground, so I made a determined walk along the main road without much luck. Finally, a cafe/bar full of Northern Ireland and England fans appeared, and I even managed to requisition a seat for the first big game of the day - England v Wales.

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As experiences of watching England go, that will remain a very memorable one. Most of the cafe joined in with God Save The Queen, and the two tables of England fans clapped aggressively whenever chances occurred. Roy’s faith in the same starting XI really didn’t pay off, with basic errors littering England’s play - Joe Hart made the worst of the lot, conspiring to concede to a distant Gareth Bale free kick.

As someone who has played in goal, I sometimes try to give the impression that I know what I’m talking about. I understand goalkeeping at least, even if I couldn’t match my intentions with actions on the field. Hart was marking his right post, which was dangerous, and even then he managed to get two hands to the ball. Failing to keep that out was an aberration.

Wales had spoken a lot about attacking England in the game, but they did noting of the sort. One fortunate goal was followed by relentless defending, which did at least achieve the intention of frustrating England. Roy finally lost patience and chucked on Sturridge and Vardy, to huge cheers in the Lyon establishment. Faith that was rewarded before too long as Vardy profited from a misdirected defensive header to bring England level. The bar roared with delight. Game on!

Roy threw Rashford on, as England’s four strikers searched for a winner. Wales were camped in their own half, increasingly frantic in defence. Stoppage time arrived without England fashioning any huge chances. It was worth the wait. Sturridge, Vardy and Alli combined superbly in a tight area, providing Sturridge with an angle to shoot from close range. He fired the ball home - the cafe erupted! I was on my feet, losing all sense of restraint. Gary Neville did so too, charging down the touchline to celebrate that winning moment.

Full time was greeted by a rendition of ‘Football’s Coming Home’, as everyone filtered out and began to advance on the Parc Olympique Lyonnais for the main event of the day. It was such an emotionally exhausting game to watch that I wasn’t sure I had the energy for another.

The new stadium in Lyon is purpose built, with an eye-catching design. Inside, it’s more about functionality, achieved with lots of concrete. Flights of stairs took me to the top tier, where I discovered my seat was in the very back row of the stadium. It was by no means a sellout either, understandable given the relatively low quality of the two teams.

Northern Ireland fans vastly outnumbered the Ukrainian contingent, demonstrated immediately by a rendition of Sweet Caroline - the first of many songs they would sing that afternoon.

The pre-match ceremony was enjoyable enough. The team kits were carried onto the pitch along with the tournament logo, before all of the kids indulged in a lot of prancing about to dance music. Out came the teams. God Save The Queen, again. Let battle commence.

Northern Ireland’s back four - Hughes, McAuley, Cathcart, Evans - consist entirely of centre backs. The wingers are tasked with tracking the opposition full backs in defence, meaning that the back four often became a back six. Hold firm.

Despite the defensive shape, Northern Ireland showed a lot of energy, pressing at every opportunity and forcing regular errors in Ukraine’s play. The first half, despite lots of running around by both teams, produced precious little in the way of goalmouth activity. I started to fear that my presence would precipitate the first goalless draw of the tournament.

Early in the second half, Northern Ireland won a free kick high up the pitch. Their winning formula is based on strong defence and nicking goals at set pieces - 9 of the 16 qualifying goals were scored that way. Ball played in. McAuley heads across goal. It’s in! The Northern Ireland end of the ground pulsed as they all celebrated, players sliding on the soaked surface and bundling in the corner. Dreamland.

A huge hailstorm forced the game to be briefly suspended - this extends my run of distorted sporting fixtures this week to five, after a damp cricketing experience over the weekend. Once it resumed, Northern Ireland kept defending, and held Ukraine at arms lengths. The Eastern Europeans were extremely poor for the majority of the game, regularly misplacing passes, searching for through balls that weren’t on, and kicking the ball into the stands. Finally, late on, they got their act together. Good play down the right, a lovely cut back to the top of the area - finally, a chance to shoot! Instead, the lad back-heeled the ball away from goal, attempting to set up an oncoming teammate but only managing to clear the ball away from danger. It was a moment that perfectly encapsulated the muddled thinking and terrible decision-making displayed by Ukraine throughout the match.

But this was a struggle caused by Northern Irish endeavour. Still they pressed, and ran, and fought. Late in the game, the ball was taken to the corner. Nah, let’s take this guy on. Into the box, cut back to the edge, a chance to seal it! Saved, but into the path of Niall McGinn. He shoots. He scores! PANDEMONIUM!

Such joy in the stands. Two nil winners at a major tournament. Players going as bonkers as those in the crowd - well, maybe not quite. A thoroughly deserved result for a team who had put in a fantastic collective shift together. The fans stayed behind to applaud the efforts, and live the moment. What a treat to witness.

Gradually the green shirts filtered out of the ground. Hue queues for public transport gave me time to lap the ground, passing scenes of bliss as people were reunited with others, in disbelief at the result. Such a look of satisfaction on every face (well, not the Ukrainians, who were quite miffed about how crap their team had been.) The trams slowly shipped people back into Lyon itself. That certainly won’t have been the end of the night for many in green and white, that’s for sure.

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Exhaustion. Living every moment of two games back to back like that is a draining experience, but such a brilliant one. You forget all the ills of the world and get lost in the ebb and flow of the beautiful game. Those moments where you feel the heart beating heavily just can’t be replicated anywhere else. England and Northern Ireland produced two fantastic results, forging a day that I won’t forget in a hurry. To be at Euro 2016 is exciting enough, but to be part of a day like that was thrilling.

De voetbalgekte zal opnieuw beginnen in België vanaf 10 juni 2016! C’est le début du Championnat d’Europe de foot, en France! Le premier match de mon tout petit pays aura lieu le 13 juin contre l’Italie. ALLEZ LES DIABLES ROUGES. Je regarde tout leurs matchs, à la maison ou bien sur un grand écran en ville. J’adore cette atmosphère. Tout le monde s’est déguisé en drapeau tricolore (noir-jaune-rouge), le tricolore sur la joue et de la bière partout bien sûr. Et quand je dis partout, c’est vraiment p-a-r-t-o-u-t.. On saute, on danse, on rigole, on donne des calins à n’importe qui (Oui, je dis donner un calin, plus mignon non?), on jure, on crie et il y en a même qui pleure. Nous faisons tout ça avec une bière à la main. Le résultat: Sophie rentre toujours chez elle avec des cheveux et des vêtements qui puent la bière. Mais ce n’est pas grave, parce qu’à ce moment-là, tout le monde est belge. Il n’y a pas de flamands ni des wallons, parce que tout le monde se sent belge. C’est formidable. Et c’est impressionnant... La querelle linguistique entre les flamands et les wallons est mise à côté pour fêter. C’est vraiment la seule solution pour les belges de s’entendre? Fêter et boire de la bière? J’espère pas! Je crois que vous avez bien compris que je me sens plutôt belge que flamande. Et ce sentiment a été influencé par mon Erasmus. Ici, je représente la Belgique. Il y en a qui se moquent de la Belgique: Hein, mais la Belgique, c’est quoi en fait? Vous parlez quelle langue? La Belgique, ce n’est pas un pays, c’est un accident de parcours, etc. TU TE FOUS DE MA GUEULE OU QUOI?! Toujours ces questions de merde! Calme toi ma petite... Si les Américains ou les Japonais ne connaissant pas très bien la Belgique, d’accord, je comprends. Mais les Français, les Allemands, les Hollandais, s’il vous plaît... Dépassez les bornes! Tout le monde qui m’est croisé a reçu une réponse claire, d’une manière irritée. Pas de telles questions dans le futur, svp. Ce n’est pas très compliqué, voici une carte: dans le nord, la Flandre, dans le sud, la Wallonie. La Flandre = L1 = le néerlandais / la Wallonie = L1 = le français, et au milieu, notre capital bilingue: Bruxelles. J’ai même marqué où j’habite! Et non chers lecteurs, ce n’est pas LE Luxembourg que vous voyez. La Belgique a une province qui s’appelle Luxembourg, juste à côté du pays. Pourquoi faire facile quand on peut faire compliqué? 

La nouvelle génération commence à comprendre que la Belgique est un pays et qu’on y parle trois langues, bon, le français et le néerlandais sont les langues les plus importantes, les germanophones sont vraiment en minorité. À Bruxelles, je parle la langue qu’il me demande de parler. Je m’adapte aux gens, parce que je me suis consciente que ne pas tout le monde maîtrise le néerlandais à Bruxelles. Eh oui, le français est beaucoup plus parlé en Belgique parce que les flamands apprennent tous le français à l’école et les wallons ont le choix entre le néerlandais et l’anglais. Choix difficile...

Bon, les diables rouges. J’ai vu qu’il joue un match à Nice le 22 juin. Si ma présentation du mémoire est avant le 22, je m’achète un billet!! Je retourne à Nice ét je peux voir notre équipe belge. 

Merci les diables rouges pour réunir la Belgique et merci Stromae pour être le symbole musical de ma patrie.