Got back to Valencia last night (another blog about the bloody journey soon) and met an old friend of mine Charlie. Now, Charlie (God bless him) is one of that rare and incredibly dogged Valencian breed: a Levante fan.
For those of you who wonder what the hell that means, simply, Valencia have two major foorball teams. There is the hyper-succesful, well-kitted, well-sponsored FC Valencia who bagged the Spanish title and UEFA cup last year. They are swish, funky and now managed by the tinker-man Ranieri. Whilst they are not expected to win the league this year (the smart cash is on Barca) they are still a super-squad of seasoned professionals, with bags of cash and lofty ambitions.
Take a 1km jaunt down the road and you get to Levante FC. The best way I can think of comparing the two clubs, would be to say that Levante are to Valencia what Tranmere are to Liverpool. They are the eternal underdogs, always on the verge of something good and never quite getting there.
All of that changed however last year when Levante, after a Herculean effort, finally dragged themselves back into the top flight and now find themselves facing not just their Valencian cousins from down the road, but also the awesome firepower of Barca and that pack of whores from Madrid. Indeed, the frenzy concerning the arrival of Goldenballs et al is already building, depsite the fact that the game is two months away.
Now, imagine my surprise when I ask Charlie how things are going for Levante when he leaps up to his feet and starts chanting the following words: "El Torre Irlandes! El Torre Irlandes!"....
The 'Irish Bull' to whom he refers is none other than Ireland's prodigal son, Ian Harte. Harte, fucked off with life at Leeds decided (much like Mr. Larsson formerly of Celtic) that he fancied a bit of sun in his latter years of football and signed for Levante.
And fuck me but do they love him. To be blunt: the Levante fans have already elevated him to the status of a demi-god, waxing lyrical about his awesome free-kick abilities and his tireless work effort. It would appear that our boy Ian is flourishing in the sun and is playing out of his skin. It has become a weekly routine for the entire stadium to chant his name as he mercilessly smashes the legs off another mincing Spaniard who has had the ill-fortune to stray up the right-flank.
Harte, now devoid of his place in the Ireland squad, has a point to prove. And it appears that he is hell-bent on proving it.
I'll be going to a game as soon as possible and will scream my lungs out for the guy...
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