Here’s a short story from my superb trip to Stockholm – hosted by co-founder of this website, Nick Bylund.
Nick insisted when I was planning my first visit to Sweden that I had to stay for longer than the seven days I’d planned because ‘you simply have to go to the derby’. I knew Nick as a fanatical Fulham fan and a lifelong supporter of Hammarby and he had waxed lyrical for many years about the unique atmosphere created by the barmy Bajen fans. Since every supporter says their fans are the loudest, craziest and most fervent the world has ever seen, I took it with a pinch of salt.
Reader, I shouldn’t have done. In England, we might think of Swedes as cautiously reserved, cast in the image of an ice-cool Sven Goran Eriksson since he has taken over as manager of the Three Lions. But the reality is somewhat different, especially on derby day. Stockholm have three top-tier sides, all of whom are in the running to win the Swedish title (the Allsvenskan). AIK, based in Solna, have the strongest squad, Djurgardens – Hammarby’s fiercest city rivals – are the defending champions and Hammarby, the working-class side, are striving to repeat their only top flight title, secured in 2001 after the press had predicted Bajen would finish bottom and coach Sören Cratz was told his contract would not be renewed in the middle of the season.
The derby Nick demanded I attend was at the Råsunda, the Swedish national stadium, between Hammarby, who then held a slender lead at the top of the table, and Djurgarden, who were third with a game in hand. The television talked about it as soon as I had landed four days earlier. Aftonbladet, the major Swedish tabloid, produced a special section for three days in advance of the game. Everyone I met asked if I had a ticket. Nick billed it as the highlight of my holiday – and he wasn’t wrong.
Nick’s father bought me a Hammarby shirt especially for the occasion, adorned with the number twelve on the back as that squad number was reserved to recognise the fervour of the club’s supporters, and the afternoon passed in a blur as we socialised in several Stockholm cafes and bars. It was only an hour or two before that I noticed my heart rate rising as if I was about to watch Fulham play one of their local derbies. I’d caught Hammarby fever.
The match took place on a gorgeous summer evening. We were in our seats around 45 minutes before the match in time to see the tifos unveiled by both sets of fans, who taunted each other about their lack of support and intelligence as well as producing striking displays as the teams came out. I literally bumped into an elderly gentleman coming out of the toilet and apologised profusely in English and my very scratchy Swedish. In perfect English, he smiled and jokingly replied, ‘I’ll forgive you if we win’.
The nerves were kicking in as the final formalities took place on the field. Djurgarden’s line-up was whistled and jeered by the home fans. Nick mentioned that there were a number of Premier League scouts watching in the director’s box above us. I spun round and noticed one of Fulham’s scouts taking his seat. Who was he here to watch? We didn’t need long to find out.
Hammarby began confident, stroking the ball about with a poise that belied the gravity of a derby that could go a long way to deciding the title, even at this relatively early stage of the season. Teenage striker Bjorn Runstrom, tall and with shoulder-length dark hair, dropped into promising pockets of space in front of the Djurgarden defence. Then it happened. Hammarby constructed a nice move down the left, allowing full back Max von Schlebrügge to get to the byline. He drove a low ball to near post, where Runstrom had stolen half a yard on his marker, and the young forward flicked it fabulously into the opposite corner of the net. It was a fine finish and it sparked noise the like of which I’d never heard before. Two young women to my right hugged me joyously.
The lead should have evaporated within five minutes. Djurgarden hadn’t seen much of the ball but Elias Storm, perhaps still smarting from the way he was beaten for the goal, won the ball from Runstrom with a robust sliding challenge, Andreas Johansson produced a peach of pass to put Geert dan Ouden in the clear. Rather than rounding Ante Covic, the striker sought to chip the Hammarby goalkeeper, who patted the ball clear nonchalantly.
The nerves began to kick as half time approach with Hammarby’s lead a slender one and their rivals looking dangerous on the counter-attack. Then, Erik Johansson found half a yard from a right-wing throw in, produced a brilliant bit of skill to dribble away from Frederick Stenman and chipped a cross towards the near post. Runstrom hardly needed to jump to nod the ball past Pa Dembo Touray, who had made the dreadful decision to dash off his line in a doomed attempt to claim the high ball.
Runstrom celebrated deliriously in front of the Hammarby ultras, scarcely believing that he’d bagged a brace in the first half of the derby. The whole row wanted to hug the visitor from London now. When I passed the toilet at half time, I encountered the gentleman who I had met beforehand and he demanded that I come back every week. The second half passed by in a blur of songs and smiles. Djurgarden almost got a goal back when Andreas Johansson sprinted towards the Hammarby area with the ball and smacked a shot against the crossbar from 20 yards. It head Covic on the head and flew back over the bar for a corner. That convinced everyone it was Hammarby’s night.
Runstrom was withdrawn to a rapturous standing ovation with 20 minutes left. The Fulham scout was one of a number who headed for the exit, having seen an outstanding exhibition of centre forward play. He missed Hammarby’s third goal, a fine finish from Runstrom’s replacement – the wonderfully named Pablo Piñones-Arce, who hit a low shot in off the far post from an acute angle after latching on to a flick on from Mikkael Andersson.
The party that had started after Runstrom’s second continued long into the night. We couldn’t get into any of the Hammarby bars in the centre of town, but the green and white masses were spilling into the street in celebration. Nick, his family and friends commandeered a table at a restaurant, where the delighted teenage Hammarby ultras couldn’t believe someone had flown all the way from London for this. Now, I can’t wait for my next trip.
And, by the way, Cookie, you should definitely take a look at the scouting report on Hammarby’s number twenty. Bjorn isn’t just stylish, he knows where the goal is.
