The beautiful game

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I have a confession. I love football. I love watching it on the telly and I don’t mind who’s playing (a perfect Sunday afternoon for me is watching back to back football matches on TV), I love watching my son’s team play (even though their first win of the season is still elusive), but most of all I love going to watch a match in person.

I must have been about 12 or 13 when my dad took me and my younger brother to our first football match at Spurs and from then on my love of football grew. We became members and went to most home games. I loved the ritual of getting dressed in the colours of my team and the excitement of walking down Tottenham High Road with all the other fans who had the same hopes for the match ahead. We would buy a programme and maybe a copy of the fanzine, then take up our position on the terraces. Dad would bring a bright orange plastic milk crate for my brother to stand on so he could see the action over the heads of those in front of him (different times…you can’t even take a bottle of water with the lid on into a match now!) We would stand in the same spot every match. There may not have been seats, but we all knew where to stand and we would get to know those around us and see the same characters every time. The 2 older ladies who would come together and be as vocal as any of their younger, male counterparts (one in particular would shout loudly to encourage Gary Linekar whenever he had the ball!! “Come on Gareeeeee!”) and the man who would walk around the terraces selling small, white paper bags of roasted peanuts. “Peanuts, get your roasted peanuts!” he would shout (Not sure that would get past health and safety these days.) And the singing. I love the singing. There is nothing better than thousands of people singing the same song to encourage their team (or put off their opponents!)

I may enjoy the matches at the time, but I can rarely remember the scores and goals like my brother and dad can. They can remember a match from 20 years ago, what the score was, who scored and sometimes describe the goal in detail too! However, one match I do remember well is the 1991 FA Cup semi final against Arsenal which was the first to be played at Wembley (we won 3-1 and Gazza scored a now infamous free kick!!)

My love of going to see live football could sometimes be a little controversial as for a time in my teens I only seemed to pick boyfriends who were Arsenal fans! So I would get the chance to go and watch Arsenal home games sometimes too and because I loved the football I didn’t actually care who I was watching (unless of course it was the North London derby when my loyalties were firmly in the Spurs camp.)

I moved away from London in the early 90’s so don’t get to many Tottenham games these days and more recently I get my live football fix from watching York City as me and my son have become season ticket holders this year. Now that is a very different experience to watching a premiership match. It is a crowd of around 2000 and there is a 50/50 prize draw at half time! And as they are currently playing in the National League North against teams like Blythe Spartans and Curzon Ashton, many of the teams are part-timers who earn their main wage as plumbers, postmen and teachers. This version of the beautiful game is often not pretty and can be frustrating to watch, but I still get the same feeling of anticipation on match day.

As I put on my 17 layers of clothing to keep warm and wrap the red and blue scarf around my neck I am filled with the eternal optimism that we will be victorious even if the opposition, form and league position suggest otherwise. At the beginning of the 90 minutes the slate is wiped clean and anything is possible.

I enjoy the camaraderie too. The discussions about the team selection, new signings and where on earth this particular team come from? (Where actually is Curzon?!) The faces around me are different from my days on the Tottenham terraces, but the characters are still there. The lovely chap who always has a bag of mints to share, the voice of the man who sits a few rows back shouting loudly…generally at the referee pointing out where he’s going wrong and the steward with the fabulous purple hair! The bags of peanuts being sold on the terraces of my youth have been replaced by shared bags of sweets passed up and down between those we sit with.

So as another match day looms and the fight to remain in the play-off places continues, I have the familiar sense of anticipation for the match this afternoon (home to Chorley if you’re interested). I will put the layers on, find the season tickets and pack the sweets in my bag, filled with the optimism of a win…that will last at least until kick off.

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