United faithful tested to breaking point

Gatwick Airport, 5.30 a.m, Wednesday morning. So much for that tune "there's only one Keano". The airport's packed with them, except the wearers of these number 16 shirts have Dublin, Manchester, London, Glasgow and Oslo accents.

One of the Roy Keane devotees is tucking in to sausages, beans and chips, washing them down with the bottle of Budweiser he plucked from his hold-all. Opposite him sits `David Beckham', retching at the vinegar fumes wafting from his captain's plate, while `Andy Cole' rests his head on the table and tries to get some sleep. Dreams to be dreamt. Like the one where he scores the goal that seals his team's place in the European Cup final. At the adjacent table sit two more Keanes, one Ryan Giggs and one Jaap Stam, fretting over the non-appearance of their mate who has their match tickets. At 5.45 he arrives (yet another `Keane'), winking and tapping his top pocket. Stam lets out a `yeeesss' so loud that it wakes Cole just as he's about to drill the ball in to the Juventus net. Gutted.

Boarding time, one hour 20 minutes to Turin, where torrential rain and a squad of rifle and baton-wielding police greet us at the exit. They lead us to our coaches and one gets the distinct impression that if one strays from the route one won't live to tell the tale. Scores more policemen await when the coach arrives at the designated `meeting point' for United fans, a 10-minute walk from the city centre, and they hand each one of us a leaflet as we walk by. "On Wednesday 21st April, 1999, in the whole of Turin, the sale and serving of alcoholic beverages will be forbidden," it says. One hundred yards up the road there's a bar selling and serving as much booze as the throngs of United supporters packed in to it want. It's not even midday, there is still almost nine hours to kick-off and the drinking has begun in earnest. Every bar in town seems to be defying the `ban', but the police, who shadow the United fans throughout the day, turn a blind eye. Some of the United contingent complain about the police attention, but the `English Animals' graffiti daubed on walls around the city is a reminder that Turin has good reason to resent their presence. It will take longer than 14 years for the scars of Heysel, where 39 Juventus fans died, to heal. Six hours later, it's back to the meeting point from where the convoy of 25 United coaches leave under a police escort for the stadium. Sirens blaring, traffic stopped, red lights broken, it's a full scale military operation. Turin residents pour out of their apartments on to their balconies to greet the convoy, the Juventus fans screaming abuse, the Torino fans clapping and cheering. Torino, the city's other club, love Juve almost as much as Manchester City love United. When we arrive at the Stadio delle Alpi, 40 minutes to the north west of the city, hundreds more police await in full riot gear. The 4,000 United fans are immediately shepherded through the turnstiles, searched and deposited in their seats, and once they appear the few thousand Juventus fans already present in the ground, an hour and a half before kick-off, welcome them with a Mexican wave of two fingers, whistles and jeers. "If you love Torino clap your hands," sing the United fans, numbered amongst them Aidan Doyle from Dublin who tells me the Carlow farmer in front of us stands to collect £14,000 from his local bookie if United win the treble. When Filippo Inzaghi puts Juventus 2-0 up after 11 minutes the Carlow farmer sits with his head in his hands.

"He's sick of cows," says Aidan, "looks like he's stuck with them now." "Sing your hearts out for the lads," cries a lone United voice, but the hearts around him are well and truly broken and are in no mood to sing. They stand shaking their heads in disbelief, fearing a humiliating final scoreline. The dream is dead, long live the dream. "Oh yeah?" says Roy Keane. He scores and the United fans erupt. So do the Juve fans above us who shower us with coins, bottles and any weapons they can get their hands on. When Dwight Yorke equalises 10 minutes later the Carlow farmer could probably find £14,000 worth of Italian coins on the ground around him. But nobody cares. Even the fellas who get hit on the head don't feel the pain. This is stunning. Absolutely stunning. It takes us a while to find our seats again after the goal because the dancing and leaping moved us a good 50 feet from our original positions. Once back in row 19, seat eight, I find Aidan again. You should have seen his face. He's followed United for 50 years, traipsing around Europe, suffering one disappointment after another. He's never experienced anything like this. He's wide-eyed and breathless. "They're all heart," he says, "they never know when they're beaten." Stam, Johnsen, Cole, Butt and Beckham all have their names sung by the fans, but Keane, who was monumental, is worshipped like no other. His booking, just before the equaliser, inflicted almost as much pain as either of Inzaghi's goals.

As the second half wore on Juve fans became increasingly angry with their team's lack of spirit; United fans were just overwhelmed by the sheer heart displayed by theirs. Even Jesper Blomqvist was tackling back and dispossessing opponents. When Cole scored in the 85th minute Aidan Doyle disappeared in to the firmament and only the third shower of coins brought him back down to earth. It all became too much for the United fan in row 21, seat eight, with Cantona on his blue and white jersey. He just sat down and cried. At the final whistle the Juve fans above us emptied their pockets of coins and left. The police kept us in the stadium for an hour, but much of the time was spent exchanging bear-hugs and tissues. Alex Ferguson came out to see the fans and threw a clinchedfist salute in their direction. The Carlow farmer told him how much he loved him.

Back to the coaches, back to the airport. The 4,000 left on charter flights for Manchester, Gatwick, Heathrow, Glasgow, Dublin, Stockholm and Oslo. Those of us who doubted Barcelona would be the next destination were left chuckling at our lack of faith. Oh me of little faith. Oh what a night, oh what a night it was.