Much to the bemusement of many, football fans define themselves against the
football season. We pin memories to certain events in our lives according to
where they fitted in our football fan experience. This not so secret revelation
first came to the general public’s attention when Fever Pitch was published, but
for those already in the know, it was a “meh” moment.
For those not into football, us fans are treated with a sense of
bewilderment. “Why do they do that?” they ask, like esteemed anthropologists
trying to comprehend the religious practices of a long extinct tribe. Especially
when we scrutinise a fixture schedule with a Field Marshall’s eye for detail and
revolve the rest of our lives around it, risk assessing the fact Sky Sports may
decide to change our Saturday 3pm fixture to a Monday night and thus having a
contingency plan in place (as any self respecting Field Marshall would).
But that’s what it boils down to, tribalism, we all want to belong, it’s
ingrained in our nature, something ancient in our psyche. And football and the
team we support speaks to us at a primal level, of unity, of safety, of a shared
identity, of loyalty.
I’m going to delve into lazy hack psychology by equating the experience of
being a football supporter to the experience of family now, you know, you stick
by them, even when they piss you off, you can’t change your family (or your
football team) blah blah. So please, whilst you roll your eyes, bear with me and
hear me out.
I was going to start this section with the sentence “I was fortunate to
have been born in Islington, grew up near Manor House and spent many years
hanging out in Stoke Newington” before going on to wax lyrically about my
footballing heritage, but then I considered what I was writing. By being born in
Islington, does it really make me a “more fortunate” Arsenal fan than say
someone born in Lagos, Singapore or New York? No, it just made my experience
different. So I wont patronise.
But what I will say, is that for me, this is where the family element comes
in, especially if part of your family connection, is through football and the
area you grew up in. It’s a great leveller, it connects people. A lot of guys
find it hard to “warm up” socially in a strangers company. No euphemism
intended. So football is a good solid starter as a subject to break the ice,
it’s convenient and reassuring, like a Prawn Cocktail in a 1970s restaurant. It
gives some common ground to build on. Finding out the person you are speaking to
is allergic to shellfish in these scenarios usually means shuffling off like
Columbo in my case, any chance of social discourse shattered with the fatal line
of “I don’t like football actually”. But that says more about me than them of
course!
So family… My dad (who passed away ten years ago) and I only had a few
things in common, namely Spaghetti Westerns, International Communism and Arsenal
Football Club. We occasionally watched the A-Team together as well, but that was
a secret until now.
Not that we were ever at loggerheads about any other subjects, it’s just we
kept a respectful distance of one another and didn’t dwell too much on all that
bonding navel gazing stuff. Sometimes our worlds collided, like when he asked me
“what is this shit?” when I was playing Public Image Limited’s first album too
loudly one day. But most of them time, we just did our own thing.
But when we did talk, it was mostly about football. From when he arrived in
London, in 1955, until around 71/72, he went to every Arsenal home game. He
also, as was the custom for many north Londoners, a regular at Spurs too. One
Saturday Arsenal, one Saturday Spurs, a tradition (I assume for policing
purposes but also perhaps to allow for a share of fans back in the day) which is
still maintained today between the two clubs.
He stopped going to Spurs in the late 60s, when my elder brother, who was
by then also going with him announced “I don’t want to go to Tottenham anymore
dad, they’re too good!”
A wise choice Sav, a wise choice. In later years, he also embellished the
reasons, saying that he preferred the red shirts. That the stadium was more
aesthetically pleasing, the beautiful art deco of Highbury, the clock, the
discreet but powerful floodlights all along the west and east stands, glaring
through the fog on a dark winters afternoon.
All this heritage meant, was that my dad was a mine of information. He saw
both Spurs and Arsenal double winning teams in 60/61 and 70/71 respectively
(although he was locked out from White Hart Lane like many others when we won
the double) and he went to some titanic matches and saw some great
players.
I asked him, who was the best player he ever saw. Without hesitation
“Duncan Edwards” he said. Although Arsenal were brave in their 5-4 defeat at
Highbury in Man Utd’s last English match prior to that fateful Munich disaster,
Duncan Edwards almost single-handedly dismantled Arsenal in a peerless display
of power, strength and skill. It didn’t matter how heavy the ball was then,
Edwards legs made Stuart Pearce’s look like twigs. Edwards was a bulldozer, a
warrior, but also phenomenally gifted. He dominated and bullied Arsenal.
The mighty Duncan Edwards in that classic 4-5 at Highbury in 1958
I asked him what he thought of Arsenal’s waning team in the 1950s, he said
he remembered the ageing Tommy Lawton fondly, a man who, although not
necessarily the tallest, used to time his jumps to perfection and was the
perfect two footed centre forward. It was an interesting link to the past,
Lawton having played in the same Everton team as Dixie Dean (later replacing the
veteran) and who used to get his nose broken by Arsenal’s 1930s hardman Wilf
Copping, on a regular basis, Copping frustrated at not being able to jump as
high, thus crashing him in the chops with his elbow.
Tommy Lawton losing out to Bert Trautmann at Highbury
Whilst Arsenal struggled in the late 50s and throughout the 60s with
entertaining but defensively enigmatic performances, even with such great
players as George Eastham and Joe Baker knocking them in (and knocking them out
in Baker’s case with Ron Yeats of Liverpool, in a true David and Goliath
encounter) Spurs under Nicholson were playing great football.
He saw Dave MacKay lift up the whimpering Billy Bremner by the shirt, he used to
see an absolutely bladdered Peter Cook weaving his way to WHL and he saw the
sublime skills of Blanchflower captain Spurs to the double.
Dave MacKay shows Bremner who is boss
Ten years later and he witnessed our dogged skipper Frank McLintock, a
bridesmaid on so many occasions, become a true Arsenal legend when he lifted up
the double trophies, the bruising Peter Storey holding his own in the battles of
the midfield hardmen, an interchangable forward line of Radford, George,
Eastham, Armstrong, Graham and Kennedy.
Frank - 4th time lucky at Wembley
When I pressed as to who his favourite team was, who he actually supported,
he said Arsenal. The history, the heritage, the class. Spurs was fun, but it was
a day out rather than a vocation.
I myself was born the day after Peter Storey scored two goals in the 1971
cup semi final against Stoke. I’m a double year baby. That’s why I like wearing
the retro shirts with ‘71 on them.
Growing up in North London was fun, I spent some of my happiest days at
South Harringay Infants/Junior school. It was most amusing to find out that a
fellow Alumni is the owner of this blog (Brian Dawes), although he went there
just a few years before me. Just a few mind you… We also lived a few doors away
in the same road… but at different times.
My school was equidistant to Spurs and Arsenal, which meant there was a
split of fans from both Spurs and Arsenal. There were a few Liverpool fans
(jumping on the success bandwagon of the 70s, they just got ignored) but very
rarely would you find any kid supporting another team to the two North London
teams. I don’t remember a single Man U or Chelsea fan, not like now where a
sense of footballing identity is partially motivated by success, which is kind
of tragic (to me anyway).
It meant Monday mornings were hell if you’d lost the North London derby,
the dread of going into school knowing you were going to get teased, not just
all day, but all week. Of course, this punishment was reciprocal. But it wasn’t
pleasant and would sometimes lead to fights. This is the worst element of
tribalism. You might be best mates with a Spurs fan, but somehow end up taking
sides with a complete bell-end because he happens to support the same team as
you. Just for the record, there were more bell-end Spurs fans at my school
;)
Although I’ve long since moved away from North London, into leafy
Bedfordshire (where co-incidentally I unknowingly lived minutes away from
another blogger here Clive Palmer), being a season ticket holder, I’m always
coming back, for success, but more recently, for penance.
Part of my routine, for nearly twenty years of being a season ticket
holder, was to visit my old mum, at her house, the house I grew up in. I’d have
a meal with her and a Turkish coffee. We’d have a laugh, then I’d walk the two
miles to the game. She told me she went to Arsenal only once, when my dad (who
was working at the Mayfair Hotel at the time) bumped into Bob McNab who kindly
offered him comp’ seats for the East Stand. She was delighted to go, it would
have been too rough (she was only little) on the terraces to make it more
regular, but seats were perfect for her for this one off, she didn’t remember
the result or which team we played, she just remembered a lovely day out.
Unfortunately my mum passed away suddenly last week. Which means there is a
hole in my routine for matchdays, as well as my life. The first game of the new
season is going to be difficult, a time of reflection. I’ll miss those visits,
I’ll miss her. I considered not going, at least not for the first few home
games, but I’m going to make myself.
Another bond to my birthplace, my home in North London has been severed. I
feel the deep sense of loss keenly. But I also remind myself, there is a bond
left, The Arsenal. And like family, I’ll always turn up, I’ll always support
them.
@melmelis
Footnote: When Mel says I went to his school just a few years before him he's being polite and really means a few decades. On the day Mel was born I was in fact still celebrating Peter Storey's goals in Arsenal's fabulous comeback against Stoke, having been up to Hillsborough for the game. I might also add that, just like his dad, I too was locked out for our first League title we won at White Hart Lane.
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