As the minutes ticked down, Bodø/Glimt’s support broke out into a rendition of Venner, an earworm of a song by their much-loved celebrity fan Halvdan Sivertsen. The title means “friends”, its chorus the simplest but most glorious celebration of kinship and solidarity. “Every time we meet, we have a good time; we are friends for life, these are the good things to have,” it runs. The hordes in yellow have had plenty of opportunities to revel together on a European run with few parallels; by the end they could dream, however faintly, of a reunion to end them all in Bilbao.
What a curious occasion this ultimately proved to be, both teams’ fanbases legitimately feeling able to cheer at full time and everyone getting what they came for to some degree. Tottenham have one foot in a season-defining final, that much is clear, and it would remain the biggest European upset of the modern era if Bodø/Glimt overturn this deficit in their idiosyncratic Aspmyra Stadion. But the tie remains open and, for Spurs, this must count as a wasted opportunity to offer their faithful the most relaxing of voyages to the Arctic Circle.
The Norwegian contingent had made little secret of their ambitions. A two-goal reverse would be acceptable, the feeling universally went, given most opponents are driven to their wits’ end on Aspmyra’s artificial surface. Lazio lost there by exactly that margin last month. Restricting Spurs might take good fortune and matters had been complicated by a lengthy absentee list led by their influential captain, Patrick Berg. The task was to escape feeling at least the sensation of being alive.
Bodø/Glimt were built to survive; to eke out a name regionally and then nationally in the face of prejudice that held them back until the 1970s. The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium was constructed to soar and scintillate; to help propel one of the world’s financial behemoths into the stratosphere. It roared and reverberated on a close, expectant evening: if bigger games have been held here since its opening in 2019 there has certainly been no better atmosphere. Almost 59,000 white shirts resembled an avalanche in the stands. This was a chance to make something from a season that has offered next to nothing, and everyone knew it.
Berg may have been kicking his heels, but Bodø/Glimt have a seven-strong leadership group and decide who will be captain for each game. It can depend on the likely scenario: a centre-forward may take the mantle for a match in which they hope to run up a scoreline. Here it felt tempting to throw an armband to each of their back four in a torrid opening that Spurs never quite exploited fully.
Brennan Johnson’s opener within 40 seconds could, in more swaggering hands, have heralded a rout. Ange Postecoglou had dispensed with the niceties here, opting for power and long-range precision to batter Spurs through. Premier League physicality increasingly has a habit of trampling over almost everyone; Kjetil Knutsen’s Bodø players are known for being running machines but could barely get a grip against Richarlison and Destiny Udogie on the left, Dominic Solanke a willing early out-ball in the middle and Tottenham’s backline happy to provide the ammunition.
James Maddison could have doubled the lead from one such radar-like pass by Cristian Romero; later he went one better from a similarly perceptive Pedro Porro ball. The visitors had shown signs of stabilising, working their smart patterns through midfield without getting far, but by half-time faced holding on to an acceptable size of deficit.
Their only first-half opening fell to Ole Didrik Blomberg, who had been selected on account of their availability woes. Blomberg was signed for £1m from Brann in January; of their starters, only Jens Petter Hauge cost more. This was the difference at play here; the reason this north London fever had to be placed in its real context. Football’s model is more hostile than ever to clubs like Bodø/Glimt, who live within means most Championship outfits would sniff at. They should not be here but it feels more important than ever that they are.
Solanke’s penalty shortly after the hour gave Tottenham another opportunity to dismiss them rudely. But this is Spurs of 2025, the most capricious and skittish team in England’s financially supreme top flight. Nobody is ever quite out of a game here. Opportunities to twist the knife came and went, some frustration on Bodø’s side manifesting itself when Hauge belted away a scrap of litter in frustration after squandering a rare break.
Then came another of the moments that will be sung about among companions for years. How appropriate that it was a deflected strike by Ulrik Saltnes, who joined Bodø/Glimt when they were fighting for survival almost a decade and a half ago, that prised open the door. On the touchline, Knutsen and his support staff erupted. In the far corner, 3,000 fans who had undertaken that long, long journey could finally lose their minds. Tottenham remain well placed to adopt the role of playground bully next Thursday but may yet be the latest to learn that, even against the bigger boys, friends can work sporting miracles.
