No turning back indeed. The Olympic Stadium is a peculiar old place,
and the second you turn right off the train and up the stairs the only way out, despite the fact that you are still
the best part of a mile from the ground itself, is to hack through the trees to who-knows-where. This is not recommended;
Britain's Stuart Hogg-coached entry in the 1936 marathon is believed to have taken the arboreal escape route in
an effort to avoid the embarrassment of entering the stadium last, and has not been accounted for since. Somewhere
inside, Dandies may have spotted a very very old man still sitting in the stadium, clutching a stopwatch, for if
our lonely long-distance runner should reappear before April next year he will set a new UK record. [He was not
the only British sportsman to be stranded in Germany during World War II - champion jockey Gordon Richards, because
of his affiliation with animals and despite his lack of formal training, was seconded to the Army circus to entertain
the front line troops, and was subsequently knighted for spending the entire war behind enemy lions.]
Still, for all the stadium and its surrounds are relics of a bygone era, the dedicated transport link (fans in
possession of a match ticket, itself only a measly six quid, can legally ride the U-Bahn to the stadium for free,
though as pointed out previously this is about as life-changing a privilege as being legally entitled to tape stuff
off the telly) is an interesting one that perhaps AFC should take a look at before cutting the first sod at Bellfield,
circumstances permitting.
Though the old, grey and somewhat clinical station itself is foreboding, the walk to the ground is really rather
pleasant. At least during the daylight hours, though one can imagine its secluded and leafy environs becoming a
home to muggers and flashers after Wednesday evening reserve team fixtures, best to stick together - if rangers
played here, for instance, anyone staying until the final whistle would be in big trouble on the way home. And
home was a place creeping into our delirious minds as we wended our oblivious way down this copsed-in pathway (we'd
been told there was a wood, but to be honest we could only see trees), for we half expected to emerge at the Aden
Park Heritage Centre. Thankfully, though, just as we were about to dehydrate and see a mirage of Willie Miller
with the Cup Winners' Cup on the distant horizon, the oasis of the Olympic Stadium hove into view.
The initial visual impact was only marginally tarnished by the fact that we had already begun to look forward to
those hand-made oatcakes you get out Old Deer way - as you'd expect of a former Olympic venue which in its prime
could accommodate over 70,000 people, it's a fairly imposing sight (even though, given how far away we still were,
it only looked the size of the stadium formerly known as Almondvale). However, as women always say (at least they
do to me), size doesn't really matter, and construction materials apart it's very light on landmarks: though it
was built in a pre-split Germany, the Olympiastadion is what you'd call a stereotypically East German venue. The
vast Centenary Way-style courtyard in front of the stadium is pretty poorly utilised, with only the five rings
hung between two gigantic obelisks to remind you where you are. On the positive side, this afforded the TRF emissaries
of the day a superb platform to sell their wares on centre stage. Having employed a crown green bowls referee with
a set of callipers and the Times World Atlas to differentiate between Berlin and Dumfries, we can confirm that
this was the most exotic TRF sales pitch in history, and after overcoming (ignoring) the complaints of Mike Dunbar
that we were too close to his front lawn I'm pleased to report that our brace of vendors, like the aforementioned
Jockey of the Realm, did a roaring trade in Germany (danke schön). Supporters of both teams were well represented
among the day's readership, so a lot of confused Berliners out there. There were even rumours of a campaign within
the Bundesrat to have crayon-wielding smutmeister Gordon Reid deported, until a whip discovered that he wasn't
even in Germany at the time but in the stomach-pumping unit of ARI, and as such had already been deported, not
to mention debrandied, dewhiskied, demalibued and deturpentined. A dispirited man indeed.
All this fast TRF action in the name of global commerce in spite of the fact that we felt like complete crooks
seeing as nearby you could purchase the official match programme for the decadently inexpensive sum of one euro,
approximately 60p (see also Hotels, Match Tickets, Motorbikes). On closer inspection, though, the reason for this
extraordinary cheapness became clear - it was all in bloody German.
So, having followed Gordon Bennett's pre-match routine - an hour of flogging - Tartan-betrousered Merkie and
the kilt-wearing Village Idiot (a true Scotsman, as more than enough Germans could corroborate) made their move
towards the turnstiles just after 5pm local time. Commonly known to you and I as supper time, and naturally minds
turned to thoughts of pies and Bovril as well as those of the impending match. Not much joy to be had in contemplations
of either, for as well as the knowledge that the Dons' failure to score at Pittodrie had given Hertha a better-than-evens
chance of progressing, the staple half-time diet of your Scots football fan is about as common a sight as a fan
of Allo Allo in Germany, where the supporter's means of ingesting entrails is presented in an altogether different,
more Teutonic way. It's fair to say that, on all counts, we were fearing the wurst.
Additional problems that we had not anticipated dogged our attempt to actually get into the ground, however. First,
the Red Army cleared another bout of forestation and got an excellent view of the stadium. The catch being that
we were still outside, and should not by rights have been able to see the stand on the opposite end of the ground.
Thanks to the Irish Pub, vision may have been blurred or even double in some cases, but it certainly was not X-ray,
leading one to conclude that there was, indeed, a bleeding great hole where several thousand seats ought to have
been. This, allied to the presence of more heavy plant than at a Led Zeppelin jam session - the enormous cranes
at either side of the track which spanned the pitch are the largest static structures in any football stadium in
Europe, edging David Seaman at a Macedonian corner - made this more of an Olympic Building Site than an Olympic
Stadium. Football meets Auf Wiedersehen Pet (series 3). Then dawned the realisation that, even with a quarter-hour
until kick off, we may have to follow the opening encounters of the match by studying the facial expressions of
the Hertha fans in the South Stand, because it was taking an inordinately long time to get everyone in. This was
because of the frisking process being adopted by the safety-conscious band of burly security guards, though luckily
these were home-grown German security guards and not independent Slovakian ones, so they merely thanked us for
our cooperation and wished us on our way rather than shooting us.
After negotiating the disconcertingly Colditz-like superstructure we finally located our seats just as the teams
appeared from the tunnel, and after catching a glimpse of what appeared to be Kevin Rutkiewicz lining up at right
back I was momentarily tempted to check the time of the next flight from Tegel back to Aberdeen. To give Kev his
due, though, he played terrifically and heroically (there may be hope yet), as did all of his defensive colleagues.
Phil McGuire and Russell Anderson were as imperious as ever, even if tactics decreed that they ended up playing
miles too close to their goalkeeper for everyone's liking, while McAllister managed to merrily chop his way through
the match without error. Peter Kjaer was in commanding form all evening, and with Eric 'The Shadow' Deloumeaux
keeping the outrageously talented Marcelinho on a short leash the Germans had switched to a desperation shoot-on-sight
policy long before the end, firing ball after ball into the crowd. Which was why it was so frustrating that Aberdeen
so often refused to attack - even having seen ginger nutcase Jaws Neuendorf take the long walk after Mackie flicked
his switch, the Dons never really gained the initiative in the match. It was as if the one-man advantage was seen
as improving our chances of taking the game to penalties rather than of killing it off with that away goal, a strange
strategy given that, as the English so regularly prove, Germans rarely lose shoot-outs, and in any case our inexperienced
side contained nobody who'd ever scored a spot-kick for Aberdeen in a competitive match. Stoutly though the Dons
defended, the match was there for the taking - Aberdeen had outplayed Hertha for long periods at Pittodrie - and
the reluctance to grasp the thistle, even at the start of the second half after the opportunity of 15 minutes to
rethink, will take a long time to forgive. As soon as Deloumeaux, somewhat harshly, received his marching orders
(freeing Marcelinho to have more and more influence on proceedings), the game was up.
Even then, the Dons just had to find the most heartbreakingly Scottish way to lose. Take a look at this nation's
major championship record and you will realise that here is a place where the Law of Averages does not apply: gallant
defeat a speciality. Having bettered Hertha for 90 minutes, and kept them from the door for 89 more, it was practically
inevitable that Aberdeen would ship the tie's only goal in stupendously simple fashion at the last possible moment,
from, portently enough, Hertha's thirteenth corner of the night. Of course, history will never show that the Dons
were intimidated into this late concession by the scandalous antics of the Olympic Stadium tannoy man: how dare
anyone try to inject some atmosphere to a football match! Pah. Pass the prawn sandwiches. Still, though Preetz
sticking the ball in the net may have been a real knife between a Dons fan's shoulder blades, it was anything but
unexpected. The goal had been coming for ages, and if we had somehow dragged them into extra time it would've been
twilight robbery.
In truth, the better team won. Hertha probably deserved to score a hell of a lot earlier (and perhaps more) than
they did, and were it not for the crossbar, the linesman, some profligate finishing and a certain colourblind Dane,
they certainly would have. The Dons, in contrast, could have played for another 30 hours, let alone minutes, without
scoring, so conceding when we did probably put the 2,000 travelling Dandies out of their misery. And to put a typically
Aberdonian pragmatist slant on it, it was getting gie cold by the end - Hertha's gas fires notwithstanding - so
the inappropriately t-shirted Rudolphs could be thankful of the clearance to return to the warmth of the Europa
Centre.
For all that, though, there were might-have-been second half moments for the Dons fans to rue. Anderson's goalbound
header, blocked inches short of history; Fabiano's tame shot spoiling his excellent run inside; Bisconti's inability
to deliver a telling finish to his forceful midfield run; and, even after going behind, Leon Mike losing his cool
and blazing our last chance over the bar. It was ironic that, as our beaten but unbowed squad moped dejectedly
from the field past the massed ranks of the Red Army, the first player to reach the tunnel (the showered-and-changed
Deloumeaux apart) was professional unused substitute Stephen Payne - only a spelling mistake away from what we
were all feeling deeply inside. But after Payne came a modicum of pleasure, as to a man the team was clapped off
having spilt three hours' worth of blood, sweat and, in the case of greetin'-like-a-lassie McGuire, tears in the
ultimately vain cause. It was just one of those moments, ken?
We trooped away from the scene of Jesse Owens' greatest triumph (not to be confused with East End Park, the scene
of Eoin Jess' greatest triumph, even allowing for Gordon Smith pronunciation) in a black mood, but with our sense
of pride in this team of daft loons intact. They had come up against a side which ranks among the best in the Bundesliga
and which had only 18 months earlier competed in the second group stage of the Champagnes League, and had come
within inches of knocking them out. There may yet, you cannot help but think, be more to come.
I have a dream…