Winner Takes The Lot

All roads lead to Eastlands. As much as we’ve tried to ignore it and concentrate on the games at hand, this elephant’s been in the room for sometime now; crouching in the corner, lampshade plonked atop his head in a hopeless attempt to blend in and go unnoticed. We had a feeling it’d be a big one. All the drumming of calculators and fluctuating, wafer thin goal margins had convinced us of that. But now it’s finally here, in the full light of day with the rest of the challengers smoked out on the hard shoulder: it could scarcely be any bigger.

Man City against Tottenham. Winner takes all.

It’s been some journey to get here. Barely seems like a week ago that our season was up on its feet; that summery afternoon back in August where yellowy underarms caused much debate and Liverpool’s title challenge all but soiled itself at the first time of asking. Skrtel and Carragher clumsily bumped noggins while our man from Africa pinged the net from a distance you’d struggle to read a number plate from. By the power of greyskull we were up and running. And we’ve hardly looked back since. A handful of minor hiccups- we don’t need reminding of those – as well as the odd schooling by the early, and indeed, late pacesetters. Chelsea, United and Arsenal formed a cue in the opening months; one by one exposing us to the underside of their boot with cold efficiency. That aside, there’s been plenty good stuff in there; enough to make certain the scrap book was one to be cooed over rather than blotted with snot and tears. Twenty beautiful wins; some hard-fought, some a long time coming. Others already packaged and on the shelves in DVD format. Sure enough, we’ve got some memories. Boy howdy.

But now it all comes down to this. By Thursday morning we could wake up- apart from a hangover which could well be declared terminal- with the knowledge that Spurs can plunge no lower than fourth. Beat City and we’ve done it. It’s ours. Eight months of slogging it out with our Champions League pursuing counterparts and we could secure the whole caboodle in ninety minutes under the gradually dwindling light at Eastlands. You simply couldn’t write such drama. Sheer madness.

News of The Arse’s blunderings on Monday probably haven’t helped our cause much. Suddenly there’s talk of us rocketing past Wenger’s men should Fulham take their all-conquering underdogs act to the domestic scene. The truth remains that, with two wins from us and one from Hodgson, we’ll overtake Arsenal, but baby steps are what we’re after. Well placed, City crushing baby steps.

But can you imagine if… No. we mustn’t.

Gomes and King occupy our biggest doubts this evening; each of them exerting rather more than we could’ve expected against Bolton. King, who was destined to be rested for the weekend, was an absolute titan in his dealings with Davies and Co., and, as such, might not be safe to take the knee for another spin tonight. I’ve a sneaking suspicion he’ll make it, though. It’s too big to miss. Same goes for Gomes. Unless his inner leg is hanging by a strawberry bootlace, I would’ve thought the stakes were high enough for his services to be risked upon. Suffice to say, they’re ones we could ill afford to be without.

*fanfare*

Here we go, then. One of the biggest fixtures of our recent history awaits. A potential game changer in the light of what might happen if City win. Things may never be the same again. The world is watching. Let’s please, for the greater good, put this thing to bed.

It’s in our hands.

A time for heroes.

COYS!