This wasn’t really intended for kcwfans.com so much as me just feeling like writing something real.  It is really really long, the language in many cases is adult and there may be the odd racial epitaph or offensive statement within.  There are notes at the bottom that explain some of this ….. I am not sure how it will be received as it is very much a personal odyssey through my memories designed to help me pull out some of the emotions of going to see Arsenal as a teen but also to have a giggle about the parallels and differences between life as a young man, and an ‘older’ more salty being.

2010

I wake up early, tired.  My daughter who is teething isn’t sleeping well and I have been up two to three times in the night.  I grab my iPhone, plug in kcwizards.com and check the time of the game is 7:30.  I get out of bed and stand groggily in front of the closet looking for blue …. my colors are not clean.

“Babe?”
“Yeah?”
“Is my Wizards gear washed?”
“No.  Sorry”
“Where is it?”
“Hamper in our bedroom”
“Ok”
“Sorry”
“It’s been two weeks!”
“Yeah but you got a grease stain on the front of your shirt and I wanted to treat it but have not had time”

Grease stain my ass.  I pull the crumpled shirt out of the hamper.  Scrape off a dry bit of something with a nail.  Look at the grease stain and sigh.  I have been going to games for thirty years, except in 2010 when there is a food calamity the droppings no longer land on my shoes but on the stomach protecting my sandals from the elements.

“Think that was a burger that got me …. sorry babe”
“Just put it in the hamper and I’ll get it ready for the next game.”
“Thanks babe …. that is April 10th.”
“You could wash it yourself you know…”
“…. might save them from getting shrunk ….”
“…………”
“Sorry babe … just frustrated is all, I’ll try my other one.”

I put down the $10 TJ Maxx purchased t-shirt and go into the cupboard and pull out the 2008/2009 replica.  I pull it over my head and down over my torso – its looser than last time.  I plod down the hallway and scope myself out in the bathroom mirror.

“Holy fucking muffin top….”
“….. what?”
“Fucking shirt … I’m to large for it”
“It looks okay”

She is being kind … its bad enough that the mirror is showing me how my cleavage and love handles would look if I were ever wrapped in blue cellophane ….  I don’t want to be patronized as well.

I violently pull the shirt off throw if forcefully into the corner of the bedroom and pout.  100lbs heavier than I was in 1998…… how would I handle that uphill trudge through the tunnels from the Piccadilly line out onto Gillespie Road now?

It’s amazing but the shirt will magically find its way back into the cupboard over the next week.  I briefly look at the grease spot, give my T-Shirt a quick sniff and decide it will be good to go one last time.

1990

“So whats for dinner tonight mum?”
“What do you want my ray of sunshine?”

There is sarcasm here, but she means it anyway.  The edge is normal, we trash talk each other frequently but Mum is still irritated that I shouted at her for not washing my Arsenal shirt.  It smells bad, aftershave, cigarettes, and Lynx body spray (they call it Axe these days).

“It is not like I have anything else to do today but to go down to Green Street and get you  food and have it ready for when you get home!”
“But its never ready when I get home!”
“Look James …. fuck off … just go.”
“West Ham are playing today mum.”

Green street will be loaded with claret and blue dressed men with dubious education and heritage soon and our street is a traffic rat run a mile and a half away.  If my old lady doesn’t get her skates on she will lose her (unassigned) parking spot to a Hammers fan.

“Lamb and Spinach Mum”
“Ok – I should get going”
“Mum?”
“WHAT!?”

She is irritated with me now, although its not really my fault.  She cooks a curry every Saturday but we never get the stuff sorted before Saturday morning.  Still it is a nice smell to come home to after a cold afternoon at Highbury.

“Lend me two pounds?”
“No – I just lent you five pounds and you never pay me back.”
“Muu-uum.!!!”
“Look! Borrow it from your sister.”

Mum leaves.  This is bad.  Lizzie is sitting at the table eating her breakfast reading the sports page of The independent.  She eyeballs me without flinching and drains the last of her cup of tea.  Sits up straight in her chair:

“Make me a cup of tea”
“I have to go”
“If you want my money you will make me a cup of tea.”
“Fucking hell Liz”
“Fine!”

Her eyes flit back to the Arsenal related news.

She is a stone wall.  She always wins at Monopoly.  She knows she is holding all the cards.  I can afford to get to the game if I run down East Ham High Street to the Underground Station but I won’t be able to afford a program.  I always buy programs.  I have boxes of programs and there isn’t a game I have been to that I haven’t bought one.

“Just lend me the fucking money”
“How much?”
“Two quid”
“Tea”

I put the kettle on.

“10% interest!”
“What?”
“Why should I lend you my money for free? Plus you never pay me back on time so its 10% a day and if you don’t pay me back I won’t lend you anything else any other time.”

My Mafioso sister fixes cash flow problems frequently.  I make the tea.

“If your charging me interest can I get a fiver instead?”
“No.”
“You coming to the game or what?”
“Yeah .. let me finish my cuppa and have a quick shower.”
“Alright but I want to go by noon.”

Its about an hours travel down to Highbury on the trains but I like to get onto the North Bank early and get my spot.  Too low and you can’t see the far side of the field unless you’re tall, too high and you wind up standing behind a tall bastard who by all right should be up the back with the big lads.  I grab a support beam about 15 feet up the colossal terrace most of the time, mid way between the left side of the goal and the corner flag.  It’s perfect, I can see over the top of the goal so the cross bar isn’t in my way and I have a good perspective on the field.  I can’t wait to get there.

“Liz …”
“Yeah?”
“Hurry up?”
“Hold on I’m just about ready”
“Do I have to pay you interest even though I’m taking you?”
“Yeah”

2010

“Got your tickets baby?”
“Yup”
“Got your parking pass?”
“Always”
“Press Pass?”
“Don’t need it”
“Phone?”
“BABE!”
“Sorry, just being helpful”
“I don’t need … I am a grown man perfectly capable of leaving home without your help.”

I fumble through my pockets, wallet, score.  No Phone.  I look around.  I can’t find it.  Damn.

“Seen my phone Baby?”
“On your bed side table.”
“Cool”
“OK have fun”
“I will”
“Don’t drink to much”
“OK”
“And call me if you do and you need a ride home!”
“OK”
“Do you have your wallet?”
“Whatever”
“Sorry – who are they playing again?”
“DC United”
“Crap name”
“Crap team – okay I am off”
“Love you”
“Yup”

I get into my car.  Check my pockets for the tickets and parking pass, my wallet and my press pass.  I don’t need the press pass but I like having it just in case I need it.  Scarf is on my dash same as always.  I look behind me and remember the days when my backseat was clean and clear.  Camera bag and not much else … times have changed.  I have a baby seat, diaper bag, various baby clothes.  A breast pump.  Sun shades, a Baby on Board sign sits in my back window along with some discarded Bill and Hillary Clinton masks which I pulled over my rear head rests.

I briefly think about staying home and simply watching the game on television.  Except … I don’t miss games… I sit home and fidget and wish I had gone even when the team is as miserable as gout.  I send a text to my wife telling her I love her and back out of the drive way and head out onto Highway 152.  8 miles later I turn onto I-435 heading south towards Community America Ballpark.  My 25 minute drive  culminates with me climbing out of my Toyota Corolla in a near empty car park and heading over to a group of Wizards fans for a beer.

“Hello Mike, Gregg – how you doing Brice? – yeah its been a good week”.

We talk about football.  I feel at home with a beer in my hand and the poor sad bastards I stand with.  I am one of them.  A Wizards fan.  We drink and wait for stragglers to turn up, moan about the weather but look forward to seeing the new team.  It is a new day, a new season … optimism is abundant.  I bite my tongue frequently trying to back away from my cheer leading for ex-Arsenal man Ryan Smith.  I am going to catch some flack if he isn’t good …. plenty of it.

It is two hours until kick off.

1990

It is always the same.  You are packed in tighter than sardines, you don’t have to hold on because there is no room to fall down.  Not unlike the terraces your arms are down by your sides, pinned or simply stuck because you don’t want to elbow somebody in the face getting your hands up to your face.  Why would you want to put your hands on your face?  On the Underground?  Because some drunk, pickled egg eating lout decided to about shit himself in a confined space.

“Arrrrrggghhh somebody let one go”
“Steve your an Animal”
“It was that kebab mate”
“Blimey …. can’t you wait next time”
“HA!  Just done a bigger one”
“That ….is….. rotten that is”

Somehow trying to point your noise up towards the ceiling feels like the right thing to do.  You can only imagine a tube of humans all looking to the heavens … all but a guy called Steve who finds his own smells quite pleasing.  It is always worse for my sister than me.  I am well over six feet, but at 5’2” Liz also has to endure the Underground at arm pit height.  Polyester shirts don’t smell great after a ride in the unventilated and hot Underground.

We pull into Arsenal Station, and are swept out of the train in a wave of bodies.  We hug the wall so as to not get separated but we have done this before a few times and its no big deal.  We follow a winding tunnel uphill from the train, it is so filled with people you can only shuffle forwards or you will clip the heal of the man walking in front of you.  Finally the turbaned ticket collector is ignored as everybody just piles through the gate while the Police look out for the hopelessly drunk and finally we emerge onto Gillespie Road.

I guess if you arrived here on a normal day you might not guess that one of the great stadiums in Britain was hidden amongst the terraced houses.  I often find myself wondering if the houses came first or the stadium.  I breath in the fresh winter air and make sure Liz is still by my side and we head off towards the entrance walking by market stalls loaded with scarves, hats and shirts.  We don’t need to talk about anything because it is the same every time.  We join the queue to buy a programme on the street outside the stadium and then queue up to enter the stadium.

Still only a short walk from the stadium there is a gap in the terraced homes.  There is nothing beyond it but turnstiles, stairs and barbed wire.  We enter, the turnstiles are from a different era and you have to squeeze through even if your trim, then the climb up the stairs and then finally you hit the top and look down on a carpet of perfect green, red seats, huge concrete terraces and art deco architecture.  Highbury – Home of Football.  My home. It is empty but for a couple of hundred fellow fans.

We find our spot, sit down on the Northbank and begin to read through the programme.  Vanilla Ice’s  Ice Ice Baby is playing over the tinny, baseless stadium speakers. We watch the crowd shuffling in slowly.  George Graham’s notes do little but convince me we are done.  Champions of England?  As holders only, the Tottenham fans arriving at the Clock End know the score.  They will rub it in all day if they can.  Fuck them, they will quit singing when we score.  The Northbank will sing out loud and clearly and it’ll be like pissing into the wind for them.  A gentle rain begins to fall and I find myself wishing that the Clock End was not covered.  I hate the Yids*.

“Can you see ok Liz?”
“Yeah – it’s cold though”
“Yeah”

It is two hours until kick off.

2010

I find myself grinning.  Not that I am adverse to smiling but this is almost involuntary.  I am still in the parking lot and the Boulevard Irish Ale is stronger than I thought.  I am not quite staggering drunk but I am ready to shout and sing and yell obscenities at the referee.  DC United?  Wankers.  Onalfo?  Wanker.  I don’t care if he was our coach last year, he is the DC United coach and that automatically makes him a tosser.  At least for today.

Fans start to drift into the stadium, I still have room in my stomach for another beer and I want to chain smoke a few more cigarettes before I make my way into the ‘ball park’ and take my place in the ‘Supporter Section’.  The Cauldron?  My sister would give me some shit for this.  Standing on a metallic terrace with a bad drummer leading us in songs that have no mention of death, racism, zenophobia, social commentary or threats of violence.  I hum “and if you are a Tottenham fan surrender or you die, we all follow the Arsenal”.  I miss the hate.  Today I am going to be loud.

I stagger towards the gates, pass through the gate without a pat down or being wanded.  I could get a machete into Community America Ballpark if I wanted, but whats the point?  We have some lads down at the front who’s idea of aggro is singing Manchester United songs and sticking their middle fingers up at the fans 500ft away.  Real hard men they are.  I’d love to see what they would do faced with Mickey Francis.  They’d need the machete.  I laugh at the thought of what a well organized crew could do at an MLS game.  ICF vs The Cauldron?  I still think of football in terms of violence, even if I am glad it is not part of the American game of Soccer.  Teetering on the brink of anarchy and flying bricks made for a good atmosphere but then you need traveling fans.  DC United have a few – who cares.  I take my place in the Cauldron.

It is raining, it is cold.  I grin … it is a new season.  People ask me about the new players, I point them out and paint names on them as the players warm up.  Stephane Auvrey, Ryan Smith, Diop, Escobar, Rocastle … the stadium is silent bar the music system and the occasional unnecessary announcement.  It is mere minutes for kick off.  The National Anthem rings out, I sing along heartily.  Today I would sing Shania Twain songs with gusto.  The beer has done the job.

The national anthem tails off, the drums start up.

“Here we go, here we go, here we go ….”

I laugh inside, it is not the same as the Northbank.  I start to sing.  Come on Ryan son, don’t let me down.

1990

The players finally start coming out for their warm ups are are individually greeted by the Northbank.  Its time to stand up, it is getting hard to see the pitch.  It is still an hour before kick off but the players are out stretching.  This is my favorite part of the ritual, watching the stadium slowly filling up and transforming from a silent monument to football into a rich, wild, vibrant, loud and living animal.  I love it, love feeling the atmosphere building as the home and away fans start to chant backwards and forwards.

There are lots of Tottenham, always lots but not like the old days.  Reduced capacity thanks to the Taylor Report and the Hillsborough Disaster.  The North London Derby was a 64,000 fan game, but I guess things change.  46,000 is all they will allow in today.  It doesn’t matter, the grand old stadium will still come alive before kickoff.

I look out towards the Clock End and the famous old Clock, 2:45.  The teams are being announced and then appear into a wall of sound.  The thing about being on the Northbank or any large terrace is its primal nature.  It takes hold, and within minutes you are just part of a single entity.  When it sings you sing, when it shouts you shout, when its angry you rage.  I submit to the beast and am lost, it will set me free in 120 minutes or so, until them I AM ARSENAL.  I have no worries or concerns outside the game, the man standing on my shoulder, my sister – they barely exist.  I can feel my vocal chords straining as the minutes tick by and we head towards 3pm, I have not heard my own voice in minutes.  It is useless to talk.

Coin Toss.  Arsenal shooting towards the Clock End in the first half.  Then I feel my hairs start to bristle and stand on end as the teams line up, 2:59pm and all of a sudden the volume goes up a dozen notches to a point that is impossible to maintain as thousand and thousands and thousands of voices scream individual encouragement as loud as they can, as if they players might hear them above the heaving mass of red shirts.

Then a shrill sound punctuates the air, a single blast on a whistle and the game is underway.  I look down at my sister, she has her focus fixed on the game and doesn’t notice.  I love that she is here with me, because right here … right now … this is simply the best place in the world.

2010

I was right damn it.  I was right about Ryan Smith and the Kansas City Wizards.  He just ran at them and they parted like the Red Sea before Moses.  This is going to be great.  I wait for him to get the ball again just to see him fly at them again.  As he does, he flies past two defenders and once again threat is written all over his play.  I turn around and catch the eye of a fellow fan Mark who has had to endure my endless fan boy posts on the forum he moderates.  He grins.

I’m at home, so very much at home and I’m losing my voice.  Jack Jewsbury feeds the ball to Smith, he bursts into the box and fires a shot at the DC United keeper who can only parry it into the path of Kei Kamara.  The ground disappears somewhere beneath my feet as I explode into stateless euphoria.  We are winning and good for it, and the volume of the Cauldron has risen as they start to realize that we are in for a great evening.  I look around, there are smiles and all eyes are on the field of play.

With every attack I find myself reacting and shouting, I’m glad I am standing as I could not sit.  Stephane Auvrey flights a ball into the peerless Ryan Smith who deftly controls it with one touch, and then glides the ball into the path of Davy Arnaud and this time I forget myself entirely and become part of the pack.  He scores. Pandemonium.  I am pleased we are cruising, I feel vindicated and right now … it’s glorius … this is simply the best place in the world.

Notes

I’d love to say I can remember every minute of every game I have ever watched but after dozens of North London Derby games I realized half way through writing this that I could not remember the winning goal …. or more precisely what winning goal it was.  Adams scored a few winners for Arsenal against Tottenham but I have no clue.  January 20th 1990. If anybody can clue me in maybe I can fill in the last few missing parts …

I used the term Yid to describe a Tottenham fans above.  I debated over it, as it is an anti-Semitic slur directed at Tottenham back in the days because of the large Jewish population.  I wanted this to be real …. not rose tint it.  I am not making any excuses for this, it was simply what the Arsenal fans called Tottenham. Football in the UK in the 80s and 90s was distasteful, hateful affair much of the time.  I am sure the name persists and is frowned upon (and rightly so) but there you go.

Being part of something that allows you to lose yourself is a wonderful thing.  Football is my escape and my refuge.  My life is rich and full and I have nothing to hide from but the normal stresses of being a father, husband, home and business owner.  Some people drink, some people run … I watch football.  There have been some wonderful moments on terraces and stadiums all over Europe that I have witnessed, and there will be others.  I won’t ever learn how not to live in the moment for those 90 minutes, I hope I don’t.

If this sounds foreign go to a game, put on a scarf and a shirt.  Watch the Wizards or any other team that isn’t Manchester United or Arsenal painfully fade through another season or two … look forward to tomorrow with hope of future glories, be there before the going gets good and the fair weather fans arrive, and own your own little part of the day when your dog has it’s day.  It will happen in Kansas City one day, and I will be there …