Unlikely Friendships

"To the family we make along the way."

In an ideal world, we’d sign Jamie Tartt. Unfortunately he’s a fictional character, and even then we wouldn’t be able to afford him.

As the summer draws slowly to a close, it felt like the right time to introduce you to the thing that occupies my autumn, winter, and spring - football.

My Dad has followed the same football team all his life. Before him, his dad, and before him, his dad. In this family, you don’t choose your team - you’re born into it. Dad briefly attempted to get my sister and I interested in football, but we were preoccupied with our Barbie dolls and playing happy families, which, frankly, I don’t regret.

My interest in the beautiful game only began in late 2019 when I started to experience a bad bout of anxiety. My Dad and Grandad had gone to a match, and I was sat at home with my Grandma. We had the game on television, and I accidentally found myself completely immersed. I had no intention of watching, but found that as I concentrated on who was passing the ball and why the bloke with the daft haircut got the red card and what made that goal offside (still don’t know the answer to that one), then I wasn’t thinking about whatever was worrying me. It was like a mindfulness practise.

Then lockdown hit.

In the absence of matches, I picked myself up one of those football sticker books from Sainsbury’s and committed to learning who all the players were, and how the game worked. Look - I needed a hobby, and I had to start somewhere. By the time I knew my Harry Kane from my Kevin de Bruyne and my Phil Foden from my Marcus Rashford, the matches returned behind closed doors. I sat with my Dad and watched every game - I was hooked.

I started university in the middle of the lockdowns, and so by the time in-person games returned, I wasn’t there to go regularly. I’d go to every match I could when I was home, and by my third year I was coming home every weekend so as not to miss a three o’clock kick off on a Saturday. Sitting in my plastic seat in a thick coat on a brisk black night under the wash of floodlights became my sanctuary. After I’d completed my dissertation, my Dad bought me my first season ticket.

There’s so many good things about football - a good game, for a start, is exhilarating to watch. I’m not saying it’s heart surgery, but after dismissing it for so many years I did quickly accept that playing football well required quite a bit of skill and talent. The rush of adrenaline when your team scores a goal is a whole different kind of euphoria, and there’s a kinship with everyone around you as you all exclaim in unison. It’s like one big release of tension - you can seriously feel every emotion under the sun over the course of those 90 minutes (primarily stress).

The best part for me, however, is the people. Despite the thousands of fans that attend every week, I wasn’t expecting to enter into such a solid community. I feel like as an outsider, you’re always reading about the chaos and the aggression from football fans. I’m not sure I ever read or heard about the friendships and circles that have formed over the years. Some of these people have been going all their lives - for example, my Grandad has been going for 87 years. Now that’s commitment. I don’t know why I didn’t consider that such tight bonds would form.

I’m not saying that the culture of toxic masculinity and aggression within football doesn’t exist, but it hasn’t been my experience, so that’s not what this article is about.

In my corner of the stadium, I sit with my Dad and Grandad, and a group of older men who, like my family, have been life-long supporters and sitting in the same seats forever. Before every game, we sit with our group and discuss team news, deadline day rumours, and gossip about the club. At half time, I laugh as they all roll their eyes - ‘that were never a red’, ‘should’ve scored’ - and at full time, it could go one of three ways, but always - ‘it were never in doubt’ (they’re Northern). As a twenty-four year old girl, it’s an unlikely circle of friends for me to have. The fact is, I see these guys more than I see my girlfriends. But it wasn’t always this way…

Here’s the thing: I had to earn my way into this group.

Not in a mean way, they weren’t excluding me, and it wasn’t to do with the fact that I was (to begin with) a nineteen year old who just rocked up with her Dad because she was bored one night. Like I said, these people have been going to the matches all their lives. They want to know that the people they’re talking to are as committed to the team as they are. Whether they’re on the road to Wembley for an FA Cup final or relegated to League 1, these are the people who will be singing in the stands.

The more matches I went to and the more discussions I engaged in, the more I learnt. Not just about the game, but about the people I was speaking with and the history of the club. For years I couldn’t comprehend why my Dad would be so affected when his team won or lost, or what it meant to be promoted and relegated. Being amongst it all, I began to understand. As my relationship with the club grew, I was welcomed into the circle. They began to ask for my opinions, and my thoughts were valued.

My Grandad, now in his nineties, soaks up the atmosphere of the stadium and is invigorated by all the people who walk up the aisle and stop to shake his hand. My Dad is probably the youngest in the group (bar me, of course), but can still remember every game he’s ever seen since, like, the seventies (can’t remember to compliment me when I’m telling him I’ve got a haircut though, funny that). There’s Ron, who sits a couple of rows back, and lives down the road from the house my Dad grew up in. Geoff used to own a fish and chip shop, and complains nearly every match about the quality of the chips at the stadium. Alistair and Mike always arrive as a duo and head straight to the bar.

I’ll be blunt, you’d meet these men and think they’re all pessimists. We could win a game and they’ll still take note of the flaws within it. We’ll have a rough season and they’ll declare they won’t be back again. But August rolls around and there they are, team sheets in hand. It’s not just about watching good football - believe me, if it were, they’d go and support another club. The reality is, if football fans have one thing, it’s faith.

So, as the season starts again, I try and squeeze as much optimism I can out of myself. I look forward to wrapping up on those bitter winter nights, my Dad’s old scarf around my neck for good luck, cheering for the men who run around in shorts and knee socks. But we’re not really cheering for them, we’re cheering for the team, for the club, and for each other. I didn’t get it before, but I get it now - it’s a way of connecting.

“To the family we’re born with, and to the family we make along the way.” ⚽️