Professional writer and Palace fan Ben Wilson has a new Crystal Palace book out, called ‘The Longest Road to Leipzig’.
It traces Ben’s low-budget odyssey to the Conference League final – from Bristol to Stansted to Dublin to Cologne to Bensberg to Dresden to the Red Bull Arena – alongside Palace’s journey from Stockport at home in the FA Cup, to three major trophies in a year.
To mark the book’s release, Ben has given TEB an exclusive excerpt from the final itself, beginning with Tyrick Mitchell’s missed chance shortly before half-time – and climaxing at Jean-Philippe Mateta’s winner arching beneath the crossbar.
“On the stroke of the break, my boys get some joy. Wharton overhits a diagonal pass, but Mateta hustles towards the corner flag to keep it in play. This pulls the Rayo defence to the left side. Mateta feeds Canvot, who returns the ball to Wharton. His vision spots the gap created on the other side of the pitch, lifting a deep cross to the back post. Mitchell is being loosely tracked by de Frutos, but sneaks ahead of his man, gets his head to the ball from seven yards out… and directs it wide, with Batalla beaten.
So close!
The Palace left-back buries his head in the turf, while Sarr covers his face in shock, and Muñoz sticks both arms out as if to say “how?!”
Indeed, how?! Mitchell’s attacking instincts have improved markedly over the last two seasons, and once in position it looked easier to score than miss.
Knowing it’s the half’s last act, I race up the steps in the hope of grabbing a pint and having a wazz before the rush to both bars and latrines begin. This feels like a wise decision when I’m served a delightful German pint to the echo of the referee’s whistle, along with a good-value €3.50 (£3) dinner.
You’ve already guessed that it’s currywurst – again – so I won’t elaborate.
While happy with my third sausage meal of the day, there is a non-monetary cost: it’s rendered my early half-time departure redundant. Even my eating speed is not swift enough to avoid the bunfight for the men’s toilets – and I’ve handicapped myself in the great war by bringing a full pint to the piss party.
Thanks to a sink-side ledge and some very honest Palace brethren, it just about survives.
I return to my seat more nervous than I’ve been all day. “One goal wins this,” shouts Luke, fists clenched, and I agree with those words – but from a very different perspective. He means that if Palace can score, Rayo are cooked. Mine is that we’ve twice offered them chances by falling asleep. Do it once more to gift them a lead, and there is likely no way back. Rayo have reached this point by strangling teams out of games, and they’re perfectly capable of doing the same to us if we don’t come out and go for the jugular.
Thankfully, we come out and go for the jugular.
Riad pulls down a wayward clearance from Batalla thirty seconds into the second period and Palace begin to exert the confidence and fluidity that has propelled them through the knockout stages. Within a minute of the restart, Kamada drives the ball in behind Rațiu on the left – and Mitchell’s drilled cross, bound for Mateta, is only blockaded by an Accurist-timed Lejeune challenge.
The Palace following find their voices, again.
Palazón kicks off the second half, and he should have fresher legs than most: he’s serving a seven-match ban in La Liga, and hasn’t played any competitive football for over a month. But that zing isn’t transmitted to his teammates.
The Palace players find their feet, at last.
Five minutes later, having established a calm base upon which to build, Kamada, Canvot and Muñoz exchange a triangle of passes by the right touchline. Aside from Rațiu, this draws the entire Rayo team to their left flank. Muñoz plays the ball between Palazón and García to his Japanese team-mate, who dissects López and Alemão equally swiftly. Wharton picks up possession in the centre circle, with Riad and Mitchell both unmarked outside him. For the first time in the match, after fifty minutes of gently prying, Palace have an overload.
Wharton takes a second touch to move into the Rayo half. López, the closest opponent, keeps pace in the centre of the pitch but makes no attempt to press. The Palace midfielder takes a third touch on his right foot, then a fourth on his left. López begins to close, but the gap between the pair has become a chasm, and the Spaniard’s desperation footsteps are too late. Touch five. Sarr has drifted infield, cleverly drawing the attention of Valentín. The Rayo skipper should, by this point, be closing Wharton down, but can’t risk leaving the competition’s top scorer unmarked. The rest of the Rayo defence backs away into the box. With touch six, twenty-five yards from goal, Wharton fires low and powerfully through the crowd, left-footed, narrowly missing the outstretched knee of Lejeune. Diving full stretch, Batalla blocks the shot with both fists – but no direction. Seven yards out, Mateta lifts his left leg slightly off the ground, the ball hitting his shin, and looping up in the air, and, and, and…
Time stops.”
