We’re at the conclusion. This is actually the final piece in my series covering my journey to Sydney to experience Tottenham Hotspur’s visit down under, and where I’ve written on what the Sydney Super Cup was like from a fan perspective… but also from having access a fan might not usually have. Part travel blog, part human-interest piece, part fan boy experience… and now part sweet reminiscence.
What did it felt like as a fan walking into the press box and seeing Spurs play a Premier League opponent for the first time? And what did it feel like experiencing a press conference in the flesh?
I hope you’ve enjoyed my ramblings as much as I have writing them.
Check out the previous pieces in the series, if you haven’t already:
The Press Conference
The match had just wrapped up, and I was hurriedly trying to wrap up my match report saturated with adrenaline, joy, and just an all-over sensation of wonder. I was the guy in the mind-blown / fireworks gif… you know, this one:
It’s hard to write when you’re both feeling like this, and under a bit of time pressure. Thanks Richy. Maybe my selfie with him the day before was what inspired him for that last-minute finish? Maybe I have myself to thank. Thanks, me (the ego on this guy, jeez).
A few of the journalists began packing up hurriedly, much like after Wednesday’s fixture. Bet they were Chelsea fans. I kept writing, and murmurings started going around the press box that of all players in that match that Dominic Solanke would be the player from Spurs stepping up for the post-match proceedings. There was a slight murmuring of… derision? exasperation? confusion? at this news. Dom wasn’t at all involved in the second half, coming off at half-time before everything happened with the red card and the late goal. It would have been far more interesting to interview Archie Gray, or Richarlison, or even Jamie Donley. I mean, Dom was barely involved in the first half, and he played 45 minutes!
I stuck it out as long as I could writing, but as soon as Alasdair started packing up next to me, I knew it was time to go… especially as I didn’t know where I was going. We were on Level 3, from memory; the press room was on Level 0, and only easily accessible by elevator.
That introduced a new problem. Remember how I said the press box was accessible off a VIP fan concourse, and not far from the corporate boxes? Well, those elevators were now full of fans. We tried to get into the elevator first time, and a small handful of the journos did, but Pablo, Alasdair, Elias Burke, and myself were forced to wait for the next one.
After a long wait, the next elevator arrived and we piled in. I struck up a conversation with Elias, who was great to chat with, asking him about his experience working for The Athletic, shifting on to the Spurs beat, and what it had been like at The Athletic in the aftermath of the New York Times takeover (of which he was quite complimentary: very little had changed apparently, apart from more resources and more of a focus on covering news as well as the pure analysis The Athletic were initially known for - though he missed doing more of the latter). In fact, we were so engrossed in our chat that we didn’t realize we were walking into the press room with the press conference already underway, and were shushed by some of the staff present. Whoops. Not exactly a glowing endorsement of the professionalism of Cartilage Free Captain.
Those pesky fans had made us late! How dare they.
Jorrel Hato was busy being interviewed. I didn’t pay much attention; I wasn’t that interested in the Chelsea side of the proceedings, and I still hadn’t finished my match report. They’d unfortunately run out of chairs, so I crouched in a corner and kept chipping away.
Now this is where I embarrass myself a little to you, dear readers. I can’t remember whether they did both players first, then both managers; or whether the order went player, manager, player, manager. You’d think that would be something I remember given the occasion, but nope. Let’s assume the latter.
This meant Xabi Alonso soon stepped out into the press room for his interview. And let’s put club allegiances and the fact he’s now the Chelsea boss aside - I was awestruck. Xabi is a legend of the game. He’s a World Cup winner, with multiple accolades over many years. He was one of THOSE players, you know the ones.
I was too busy still finishing my match report and dealing with my man crush on Xabi that I didn’t pay too much attention to what he said either, though he did (to his credit) express his disappointment at the red card awarded to Kevin Danso, from a point of view of both the impact on both teams’ Premier League preparations and the fan experience. Honestly, as to the latter, I was too happy about the result to feel I was shortchanged.
He wrapped up his press conference, and soon I placed my phone up on the table to record Dom Solanke’s post-match presser. FYI: Dom is quite a good-looking dude in person, much more striking than the cameras make him look (this is a compliment, honest), and quite tall. The questions asked frustrated me somewhat: there were some about his injury history, which got the usual canned answers (“I feel good, I’ve focused a lot on staying fit this year”); some about playing under an attacking coach like De Zerbi, which got the usual canned answers (“He’s a fantastic manager, and he’s great to play under, and the way he plays is definitely, like you said, a great way for an attacker like me”); a question about how much more we could expect from him in the coming season, which… got the usual canned answers (“I’m feeling good and hopefully I can stay fit and have a great year”); and then a weird one asking if the fact Sandro Tonali had come in and taken the mantle of record club transfer from Solanke had lifted the pressure somewhat (uh… no?).
“Well, if the questions were so bad, why didn’t you ask a question?” I hear you say. The thing is I wasn’t that interested in Solanke’s answers either. They were very much media-trained responses, and I didn’t expect anything that insightful.
More accurately, though, I had been chatting with Pablo, Alasdair, and Elias earlier in the press box about this very possibility. Both Pablo and I mentioned we were reluctant to ask questions… that out-of-place feeling hadn’t really gone away, even though the actual journalists made us feel more than welcome, and we felt we wouldn’t be selected anyway, being “unknown quantities”. Alasdair told us not to be silly, and said we absolutely should try to get a question answered, which was very kind of him and almost felt like permission.
The thing is… I was wracking my brain for an insightful question and it wouldn’t come.
While I was waiting for Roberto De Zerbi to come out, I added yet more to my match report, and snapped a quick pic while trying to think of a good question; I tried to do it surreptitiously so I (once more) wouldn’t look like I didn’t belong. Turns out I’d already done that by putting my phone on the table to record about 5 minutes before Dom Solanke walked into the room; all the other journalists who had done this many times before walked up and put theirs down just when he stepped up to the table. As to my subtle-not-subtle pic:
I learned my lesson, and waited until Roberto De Zerbi entered before walking up to place my phone to record. It was definitely a much more interesting press conference, with most of the points covered in my piece here. Needless to say, it was much better having my phone transcribe the audio directly than have to listen back through a tiny phone speaker, though it did struggle with the Italian’s accent. He did likewise with some of the questions; I didn’t realize just how much he relied on a translator. His English was fine, but sometimes the casualness of the questions ask probably didn’t quite directly translate to Italian, so he would often pause and lean down as the man by his side whispered a translation in his ear. Or ya know, told him not to mention any more BOMBAS.
He praised the younger players in his first answer, and right away I knew I had what I thought was a decent enough question to ask without embarrassing myself: “You mentioned how pleased you were with the youth players; who’s stood out to you, and have any of them played their way into your plans for the first team this season?” The Spurs press officer, though, had other ideas. Speaking of casualness, there wasn’t much rhyme or reason as to who he picked, nor was there a way of really getting his attention. Nobody raised their hands like in a classroom; it was more like a nod or a subtle wave, like in an auction I wouldn’t have the financial resources to attend.
Both clubs had their favorites as well: Xabi Alonso’s presser started with Chelsea’s press officer indicating Nizaar Kinsella of the BBC and Dan Kilpatrick of The Athletic could ask questions; likewise, Spurs started with Alasdair and Elias. In both cases, they were given room to ask follow-ups as well. I desperately tried to casually signal my interest in asking a question, reminiscent of Han Solo telling Chewbacca to “Fly casual,” in Return of the Jedi in order to “Keep your distance, but don’t look like you’re trying to keep your distance.” I wasn’t selected, but my new friend Pablo was, with which I was extremely pleased.
Soon enough the presser wrapped up. I quickly published the now-finished match report, and then pivoted to the follow-up piece summarizing some of Roberto De Zerbi’s key comments. No rest for the wicked. Even though I had the transcription, my phone had unfortunately not done a great job. The thick accent and broken format of the responses proved too tough a challenge, but thankfully this time I had remembered my headphones, and listening back through the audio helped provide a bit more clarity. At this point, it was about midnight and I was exhausted. Half an hour or so of more writing and I hit publish for the final time that day. Except it wasn’t; it was actually now after midnight and it was the first piece for that day.
It was time for me to leave; Alasdair and Elias were still there writing as well, and I bid them farewell. Alasdair apologized (again, very kindly) for taking up a bit too much time with his questions, and was regretful as to that potentially being why I didn’t get to ask a question. I laughed and told him not to worry about it, it was an amazing experience just being there, and to look me up next time he’s in New Zealand.
And then I headed into the cold Sydney night.
Heading Home
I exited the stadium, and at this point, I felt part zombie from the exhaustion and part rabid fan. I left a video message for my wife back in NZ (which watching back was just me babbling at here for around 5 minutes of how amazing everything was, much like I am now). The feeling of that last minute winner was electric, and I felt like chucked in a bath while still plugged in charging.
I decided to address this the way any late-night partier out in a city would: with McDonalds. It was an option that didn’t come to mind until I realized the road at which I was going to catch the bus Google Maps told me was coming in 2 minutes was actually closed, and I needed to walk around the stadium to the other side of Olympic Park to catch a train. That’s when I saw the golden arches like Romeo saw Juliet.
One terrible but great combo later, I headed to the train, and after a few various other public transport avenues and a bit of a walk (plus those damn stairs to get up to the apartment) I collapsed on my bed. It was about 1:30 in the morning, which was 3:30 New Zealand time. I go home today. Oh no. And now I can’t sleep.
I lay awake, still buzzing, dropping in on the comments of both my match report and press conference summary, as well as scrolling through social media until I eventually fell asleep sometime around 2:30, waking up again around 8:00. At least my body clock wasn’t THAT out.
Again, I went through my morning routine, eventually publishing my second piece of the day as I did a bit more of a deep dive into the events of the match, still both crystal clear in my mind but equally like something from a fever dream. I struggled to focus. I finished my packing and decided to head to the airport early: I had a little shopping I wanted to do (mostly for my wife, though I was keen to look at the whisky options in Duty Free), and I could finish my writing there.
I said a tearful farewell to my friends, and lugged my suitcase down the stairs before having a much smoother trip on public transport to the airport than the one I had after I landed. I walk into the check-in area… and what do I see but the Spurs team bus outside, and the players making their way into the airport. What are the chances? I seriously did not plan this (I didn’t even think they’d come in the main entrance), but they must think I’m a stalker at this point.
I considered going up to them and taking a few photos, maybe having a brief chat… but in the end I opted against it. They would have been exhausted following the previous night’s match; I know I was, and I wasn’t even on the pitch. They also would have been bombarded with fans on the other side of security. I left them be, instead catching the eye of a few and giving a smile and nod, and some polite applause. I was wearing last year’s black kit again, after all - they would have known I was a fan, and these players are people as well that deserve to not be hounded everywhere they go. Travelling is stressful enough!
Eventually, I got my shopping done, got some food, and finished my writing and hit publish just as it was time to board. Reality sunk in. I’m going home. Maybe The Athletic or Football London has a job going and I can go to London instead? I decide against abandoning my family, and after a 3–4-hour flight land back in New Zealand. It’s 35 °F, and it’s after midnight. Ah, real life. How I’ve missed you.
