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I have never understood, or cared to understand, American football.  That is until last night.

Purely because of our affinity with the city of San Francisco, my wife and I had considered celebrating our first wedding anniversary at Wembley Stadium in October 2010 when the 49ers came to town with the Denver Broncos – until we saw the exorbitant prices. We went to Dublin for the weekend instead.

Last season, as dozens of others before, had completely passed me by but I have followed the upturn in their fortunes this year, if  only by casting a cursory glance at the final scores. I had also read a lot about the exploits of quarterback, Alex Smith, which reminded me of the only 49ers player from the past I could honestly claim I could remember – Joe Montana.

So as they had reached the playoffs and were live on TV last night at a manageable hour (9.30pm) – even if it meant missing The Football League Show on BBC – I decided to tune in to the final two quarters as they were leading 17-14 against the New Orleans Saints at the time. Having led 14-0 earlier in the game but the prospects for the remainder of the game did not appear promising to one unsuspecting football virgin.  However, the sight of a scarlet hued Candlestick Park convinced me to stay the course.

I can’t claim to have followed everything of what was going on, though touchdowns and field goals were at least comprehensible.  And I can appreciate a long, accurate pass and even a mighty hit (I have always enjoyed these on the ice rink).  Anyway, the third quarter passed without much incident, other than that San Francisco extended its lead to 20-14.

The margin was still 6 points (23-17) as those final 3 portentous minutes started. It appeared to me that the home side was defending with increasing desperation and, with a history of supporting sports teams who so often ripped defeat from the jaws of victory, I felt staying up until nearly 1.30am would prove ultimately futile. 

And when the Saints went 24-23 ahead, it looked all over. But then Alex Smith, who had hardly had a bad game beforehand, ran in a 28 yard touchdown (I believe that’s the correct expression).  So we’d (notice that?) won it 29-24 hadn’t we? Now, hold on a cotton picking minute (who was it used to say that, Deputy Dawg I think) – back come the Saints with a touchdown of their own to “win” it 32-29.

Glorious failure then – a not uncommon feeling for this sports fan. With 14 seconds left, and my thumb poised on the off button on the remote control, Smith calls what seems to me to be a pointless timeout.  Now this is where my ignorance of American sport kicks in. Of course I should have known that within 5 seconds he would plant the ball in the arms of the grateful, and soon to be sobbing uncontrollably, tight end, Vernon Davis, for the winning touchdown. 36-32! 

I was reminded in the midst of all this mayhem of the word “torture” that so eloquently described the San Francisco Giants march to the World Series 15 months before.

I don’t think that I will still ever develop the affiliation I now have with the city’s baseball team – you might like to read my earlier post about how I fell in love with the San Francisco Giants (www.tonyquarrington.wordpress.com/2011/05/12/bitten-by-the-giants-baseball-bug) – but I have acquired sufficient interest to prompt me to learn more about the rules and tactics, purchase some 49ers merchandise, and be there in front of the TV for the next playoff game and, of course, the Super Bowl. OK, I’m probably getting  a little ahead of myself now, but that’s what fans do don’t they?

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When my wife first suggested that we celebrate our second anniversary in Barcelona, a city I had wanted to visit for some time, my thoughts immediately turned to whether the city’s premier football team would be at home on the Sunday evening (we were due to arrive in mid afternoon). And the initial signs were promising – FC Barcelona were hosting Real Mallorca on Sunday in the Camp Nou stadium.

So far, so good, although an initial scan of the seating plan indicated that, unsurprisingly, there were very few of the near 99,000 seats available, and those that were, tended to be single seats in the upper tiers.  Having resigned myself to sitting adjacent to the flight path of incoming planes, I noticed that there was still a chance, less than a month before the game, that it might be rescheduled to Saturday evening when we would be at Gatwick Airport. Apparently, this is common practice in Spain, presumably dictated to by the broadcasters.

So an anxious wait ensued, until a fortnight before we were due to go, it was confirmed that the game was being brought forward to Saturday.  To add insult to injury, with a performance described as “phenomenal”, the home side won 5-0 with the incomparable Lionel Messi “ending his goal drought” (three games!) by scoring a hat trick – and the official attendance was “only” 80,153, nearly 20,000 below capacity!  The Argentinian World Player of the Year repeated the feat three days later, on our last evening in the city, as Barca won 4-0 away to 2011 Czech League winners, Viktoria Plzen, in the UEFA Champions League.

At least we had the consolation of having booked tickets for the stadium tour, the “Camp Nou Experience”, on our last morning.  Now, the largely uncovered Camp Nou was completed in 1957 and does not possess, at least when empty, the beauty of many of the new and redeveloped stadia elsewhere in Europe.  In fact, Janet, not unreasonably, described it as “tired”.  But, with nearly 100,000 spectators on a balmy Champions League evening, there can be few venues to beat either the spectacle or atmosphere.

But the self-guided tour is excellent, including opportunities to visit pitch side as well as sit in some of the best seats in the house.  The changing rooms, press box, shop, multi-media centre and museum are equally impressive, and I could not imagine that there could be so many trophies in one place on the planet!  You can even hold the European Cup aloft and have your photo taken with your favourite player (superimposed of course) – if at a premium price.

We stayed at a new hotel in the adjoining city of L’Hospitalet de Llobregat, a mere fifteen minute ride on the efficient metro to Plaça de Catalunya in the heart of the city. We were blessed with mild, dry weather for our three night stay, though heavy colds sapped our energy and restricted our sightseeing.

With this in mind, and in view of our unfamiliarity with Barcelona, we spent the first day, our anniversary, sat atop an official sightseeing bus.  Or rather two – one exploring the west of the city and the other the east.  Amounting to more than four hours and covering every major attraction in the greater city, this was outstanding value at €23 each.

We still managed to fit in some of the more celebrated sights.  On the first evening we joined the strolling throngs on the length of La Rambla from Plaςa de Catalunya to the Mirador de Colom alongside the port.  Touristy – yes, but fun and atmospheric nonetheless.  We even ate passable tapas at one of the restaurants en route.  Our anniversary meal – seafood paella – was taken at Costa Gallega on the fashionable shopping street of Passeig de Gràcia whilst, on the final evening, we had halibut and turbot respectively at an attractive restaurant at Port Vell.

I had not come to honour Lionel Messi alone (which, in retrospect, is just as well), but also to witness some of the astonishing Art Nouveau works of Antoni Gaudí, the architect / artist synonymous with Barcelona. Large queues outside the Basilica de la  Sagrada Família and La Pedrera limited us to only exploring the interior of La Casa Battló, which was fantastical and enriching enough.  The reality of the exteriors of the other works also surpassed the photographs and films I had seen in the past.  Those other works, along with Park Güell, will certainly form the centrepiece of our next trip to the Catalan capital – along with a live game at Camp Nou of course.

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It is a bright, balmy early summer’s day in Knole Park near Sevenoaks.  The 1,000 acre park not only contains the great house of the Sackville family, but one of the few remaining  medieval deer parks in England where both fallow and sika varieties roam freely.

I spot a buck that has been separated from the rest of its herd.  It does not appear overly discomfited by the human crowds. I edge towards it in pursuit of a close-up photograph as it watches me intently.  But then I discover that we are not alone.

A young girl, maybe four or five years old, in a polka dot dress is approaching it, equally cautiously, from a different angle, proffering a packet of crisps (potato chips).  Understandably, the deer’s gaze turns to her intriguing gift.

There are signs scattered around the park urging the human visitors not to feed the animal residents.  I call across to the girl to remind her that she must not feed the deer. She cannot understand why animals wouldn’t also enjoy crisps, and I try to explain the reasoning for the ruling, namely that they have their own dietary needs which are different from humans, and eating food designed for the latter might upset the delicate balance of their constitution and make them dependent upon visitors and, potentially, lead to conflict between man and beast.

The girl continues to look unconvinced whilst the buck’s increasing agitation suggests that he would welcome us coming to a mutually agreed solution sometime soon.  In response to her insistence that crisps could not possibly be harmful, I repeat my arguments.

After politely and patiently listening to this silly man’s sensible but boring explanation, she pauses and then delivers the clinching argument:

“But they are cheese and onion”.

I haven’t the heart to look back to see whether the deer prefers salt and vinegar or prawn cocktail.

But at least I got my photo.

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