I am seriously considering not watching on Wednesday night.
The pressure, the tension, the unbearable sinking feeling whenever Madrid cross the half-way line; I’ll be putting myself through hell simply by switching on the television.
We’ve waited years for a night like this, for the chance to play one of the world’s great sides at the top table of European football and yet the very thought of Arsenal failing to qualify fills me with dread.
It’s the sheer irrationality of the football fan, our tendency to veer towards the worst possible outcome in defiance of all reason. We can’t help it, we’ve been hurt too many times before.
The fact is, we’re 3-0 up going into the second leg. It’s a huge advantage by any measure. More than that, though, we fully deserve that lead and, if we’re being greedy, perhaps deserve to be further ahead. We played some superb football and were better than Madrid all over the pitch for a huge chunk of the match.
Those facts are unlikely to change drastically for the second leg. It’s not impossible, of course, but the gap between the teams is unlikely to have been bridged in a week. This was more than just an off-night for Madrid, we were simply so much better.
Assuming Mikel Arteta has no unpleasant injury surprises with which to contend, you can assume his approach will be much the same again. Why change it? Madrid, meanwhile, are going to have to take big risks to force their way back into the match. Assuming that we do nothing silly to hand them easy goals, they’re going to have to break down one of the best defensive units in the Premier League. Not just once, at least three times. Again, that’s not impossible, but it will be difficult.
Arsenal, if they have the stomach for it, should be able to exploit the gaps and weaknesses that throwing men forward will offer. That don’t need to be reckless with it, but there will be opportunities for them if they stay patient and focussed.
If all this sounds like I’m trying to talk myself out of my panic, it’s because I am.
In reality, I fully expect us to lose 4-0 with three of those goals coming in second-half stoppage time. I expect to have all my hopes and dreams crushed under the iron hoof of Madrid. I’m doing whatever I can to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that they can never take that night in north London away from me.
Allowing myself to dream of a Champions League semi-final, of another glory-filled night in N5, of a possible European final beyond that: it’s all too much.
All I can do for now is find the stomach for the fight, to gather the courage to switch on the television at 20.00 tomorrow, to peer out from behind my hands as Madrid throw everything at us.
I’ll be doing my bit for the team, let’s hope they can do their bit too.
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