Seven o’clock on the morning of this showdown Sunday in north London, and among the early risers is a man hitting tennis balls in an Arsenal shirt on one of Finsbury Park’s courts.
It is a coincidence, no doubt, but the strip in question, from Mikel Arteta’s first full season in charge, is an apt choice for this day: a reminder of how far this club has come in a short space of time, from the era of Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang exile, of David Luiz dithering and fan disconnect, to a united force within sight of the title.
It is the first hint of the invasion of home territory that will come throughout the day, from the dozens proudly plodding Hackney’s half-marathon with cannon on chest, to the swathes of red, white, yellow and blue that will, by lunchtime, have coated every corner of Islington in an Arsenal glow more intense than on any matchday since the Emirates Stadium opened.
Perhaps it is the sun, perhaps the beer, perhaps the freedom of having hope without expectation, but the mood is one of celebration, not fear.
There has not been a day like this around here for a long, long time. As inevitable as most consider its outcome, there is a resolve to enjoy it.
“We’re getting closer,” Maurice, an Arsenal fan, tells Standard Sport on the stadium concourse. “Manchester City are so good, but we’ve got so close to them. It’s been a great season, they’ve won more games than the Invincibles. It’s been superb, great atmosphere, good football.”
Beneath us, outside The Armoury, the tips of brass instruments twinkle in the midst of the throng as a marching band runs through a catalogue of Arsenal songs. In the queue for the outside toilets, an a capella rendition of ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ breaks out, telling of the favour needed from West Ham at the Etihad. Things are heating up, too literally in some quarters: at the Gunners Pub on Blackstock Road, someone has thrown a flare onto the roof and the fire brigade have been called out.
Gradually, there is an osmosis of fans out of watering holes and towards the Emirates, the match-goers sent off with handshakes and pats of good luck from the stay-behinds. “See you tomorrow for the parade,” becomes the default optimistic farewell.
Over the stereo in the Victoria Tavern on the Holloway Road, Oasis’s Supersonic makes for an odd choice in a room packed full of people wishing the Gallagher brothers a most miserable afternoon.
One group on a neighbouring table have, bizarrely, chosen Monopoly as their nerve-settling distraction, but even they see sense and pack up, lest a spray of hotels be sent skyward should Arsenal score an early goal.
Instead, utterly predictably, news filters through of Phil Foden’s opening City goal, then 16 minutes later, of his second. Only in the moments that pair Takehiro Tomiyasu’s Emirates equaliser with Mohammed Kudus’s bicycle-kick in Manchester is there a genuine excitement that this thing might yet be on.
Someone sitting beneath the main projector sends a stream of bubbles up from a child’s toy, eliciting laughter and cheers. Rodri’s clincher for City provides the clinical puncture.
The walk back through this Arsenal heartland, though, is no post-apocalyptic trawl among the ruins.
Every few hundred yards, another burst of Kai Havertz’s ‘Waka Waka’ chant becomes audible from somewhere, a ubiquitous soundtrack, like the Christmas tunes that drift out of every high street store through December. There is disappointment, but not resignation.
There has not been this kind of day, around here, for a long, long time but there is belief that another, with a better ending, is not far away.
