AS WEST HAM’s fans gathered yesterday afternoon in Prague’s central square and the beers began (continued) to flow, most were probably oblivious to the medieval relic watching over them from high on the side of the Old Town Hall.
A shame, really, for had they glanced up at the Prague Orloj, one of the world’s oldest astronomical clocks, it may have told them all they needed to know: that the stars had aligned and this, at last, was their time.
On a famous night here in the Czech capital, Hammers history was made, Jarrod Bowen’s dramatic winner as the final seconds ticked away securing a 2-1 win over Fiorentina that shattered all manner of club hoodoos, ending droughts and waits that began in eras so fondly remembered, but on nights an increasingly precious few could genuinely claim to recall.
Not since Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and 1965 had West Ham won a European trophy. Not since Trevor Brooking, Billy Bonds and 1980 — comfortably before any of this squad were born — had they lifted any silverware at all. For David Moyes, this was vindication, the culmination of a career-long struggle, of 25 years and more than a thousand games, of longevity without triumph, of several return trips between the nadir of reputational write-off and redemption, to this moment and a previously unscaled peak.
This season alone, Moyes had been on the brink of the sack more than once, the subject of noisy dissent mere months ago but now a West Ham legend, even if he is loath to be discussed as such, and the first British manager to win European silverware since Sir Alex Ferguson, the man he was once so ill-fated to succeed.
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