London: The crowd sang as if summoning something sacred. “When the Spurs go marching in,” they chanted – an old gospel melody reimagined for a modern football miracle. Flags whipped in the breeze, faces were painted in navy and white, and the High Road trembled with movement. From the fried chicken shops of Edmonton Green to the sleek facade of the new stadium, Tottenham was a city unto itself for one golden afternoon – a community momentarily suspended in joy. It wasn’t just noise. It was release. After 17 years of waiting, Spurs had finally won a trophy. And the people who had waited – with crossed fingers, broken hearts, and half-muttered curses – spilled onto the streets to see it raised. An open-top bus crawled along a route soaked in history and local pride. The players, medals gleaming in the light, waved down to a crowd that surged around them like a tide. They passed betting shops and nail salons, Victorian terraces and housing estates, kebab joints, boarded-up pubs, and ambitious new cafés. Tottenham – gritty, diverse, gentrifying and proud – was on parade alongside its team. This wasn’t just about soccer. It was about place, and pain, and perseverance.