PASSING THE TORCH
BY TIM STILLMAN / @LITTLEDUTCHVA
Attending one’s first match is the ultimate rite of passage for any football fan. I’ve documented mine elsewhere before. But unlike most of life’s other rites of passage, the first football match is one that lends the opportunity to extend itself, so it can be lived vicariously through others. Since my first match in March 1992, I’ve had the pleasure of taking other family members to their first ever Arsenal games.
Passing the torch through the family is one of the football fan’s most sacred traditions. I’m not at an age where I have children of my own (well, I am. I’m 27, what I mean is, I’m not mature enough to have children of my own), so the well earned ritual of taking your next of kin to their first ever game is not upon me. But due to quirks in the construction of my family, I have had comparable experiences to call upon.
For instance, the youngest of my four elder sisters, Becky, showed little to no interest in football for the first 18 years of her life. She would cringe visibly at every mention of it in our household. In fact, she would sometimes go as far as to sigh audibly and flounce out of the room. For reasons that escape recollection, in February 2000, I had a spare ticket next to me for a home match against Southampton. Come the evening prior to the match; I had exhausted my coterie of schoolmates in an attempt to shift the ticket. I spoke with my Mum about how best to resolve the situation.
Becky overheard the conversation and for reasons she’s never really explained, she quietly announced, “I’ll take the ticket.” A quick seminar on the train to the game brushed her up on the basics and the who’s who of the Arsenal squad. As it turned out, the game could not have done more to pique her sustained interest. Arsenal won 3-1, Dennis Bergkamp, instantly her favourite player, scored with a bullet header and Freddie Ljungberg (whom she admired for, ahem, other reasons) scored the other two. Now she has a season ticket next to me.
But perhaps the most primordial passing of the torch occurred for me in February 2004. Like I said, the constitution of my family is rather unique; three of my sisters were teenagers by the time I was born. As such, I now have four nephews who are all currently in their teenage years. The two youngest have little to no interest in football. Ben, now 18, lives in Birmingham and supports Birmingham City. But my eldest nephew, Tom, presented me with an opportunity. Neither of his parents were particularly taken with football, so in effect he was rootless in that sense. An early admiration for Alan Shearer saw him flirt outrageously with Newcastle United at around the age of 6.
She never confirmed, but I rather suspect that, at this time, Tom’s mother, my sister Louise, took him to one side and gently suggested he might like to take an interest in his uncle’s team. The claws were in and I was swift to administer the Gooner serum straight into the veins. I impressed upon him that his forenames- Thomas Michael- were of historic significance to the club. (Albeit in reverse order). The fact that he lived in Plumstead gave him lineage, a historic tie to the club few could refute. As it turned out, he didn’t take much convincing.
All that remained was to give him his first taste of Highbury. I think we had intended to do it much earlier than 2004- at which point he was 12. But these were heady days indeed and extra tickets- beyond my own season ticket seat- were hard to source at Highbury. However, shortly after his 12th birthday, an opportunity presented itself in one of the season ticket seats next to me. Arsenal had a home fixture with Charlton Athletic. Fittingly enough, Tom’s local team. I may possibly have over romanticised the significance in my head of this trivial fact; but I always look for the poetry in football and find I’m seldom disappointed.
Given that I was still a couple of months shy of my 20th birthday, it all felt like a tremendous responsibility- but one I relished. I never had the opportunity to go to a game with my Father, who died when I was a baby. It was my Mum that took me to games when I was younger. This somehow made me even keener to execute this most important of male bonding exercises.
Showing a sense of avuncular maturity, I forewent the pre-match pub ritual and took him straight to the stadium. My season ticket was at the base of the Clock End, manning the barrier in Block 19 that separated us from the away supporters. Charlton were a pretty genteel lot, I thought, and so my resolution not to swear and jeer towards the away support felt like a comfortable bet. (I might have erred once or twice, but back then that was as much as probably could be expected of me).
I’m really not sure how much of the day Tom remembers, what his recollections are, what his feelings were as he saw that brilliant green pitch for the first time. I don’t intend to be a conduit for his feelings. But I felt, surrogately, as though I was experiencing it all again for the first time. I made sure to look out for the details I had noticed when I popped my Arsenal cherry. The striking contrast between red and white on the seats and the décor. The murmur of voices, the rumble of seats folding up as an attack screeches towards climax and everybody gets to their feet. It was something of a reawakening.
Arsenal scored twice in the opening four minutes. Pires and Henry applying the finishes to flowing moves. I became oddly anxious that Tom would think all games would unfold like this. Would this be too synthetic an experience for him? Leaving his wounds even more exposed to the stigmata of pain and humiliation when they inevitably arrived. But that concluded the Gunners’ scoring. Claus Jensen pulled one back shortly after half time. The heavens opened and the remainder of the match was played in a ridiculous snowstorm.
Arsenal spent the last 20 minutes grimly hanging on; obliterating the bowels of the home crowd that stayed clenched with fear. In the last minute, Jonatan Johansson attempted an overhead kick from 20 yards and it agonisingly clanked against the inside of the post in front of us and spilled out to safety. We won the game 2-1 after a tense finale, with the snowflakes falling around our ears.
Tom had learned the first lesson of being a Gooner. Even when it’s easy, we make it hard for ourselves. We completed the afternoon with a trip to the Arsenal Fish Bar. Given the outlet’s inclusion in Nick Hornby’s ‘Fever Pitch’, I just felt it was the most fitting way to centralise the experience. Like I said, I’m always looking for the poetry of the occasion.
Tom is fast approaching 20 now and his affiliation to The Arsenal is unsevered. He can’t afford to go very often, but I still make sure to treat him once or twice a season. Despite his adult age, the fact that he can legally buy me a pre match pint, I still look upon it s a sense of duty. His primordial Arsenal leanings were a gift from me and one I’ve been sure to nurture. His mother, my sister Louise, isn’t with us any more. She died six years ago. Consequently, the sense of duty I engendered in myself that afternoon has taken on another dimension. The memory of that game has had an extra pertinence fastened to it.
More happily, my sister Becky, whom I sit with at home games, is currently carrying her first child. In that sense, the next rite of passage has already been observed. The bump has been on hand for most of Arsenal’s home fixtures this season. This is something I think broadcasters, sponsors and the uninitiated don’t appreciate about football allegiance. There is great poetry to it.
Supporting a football team is not always just a roué to impress playground friends. It’s not always just the coat peg for idle pub chit chat and ‘banter.’ We don’t all become fans because we’re lonely, socially inadequate people. (I’m lonely and socially inadequate because I’m a fan). Sometimes it can go deeper than that. It goes as deep as blood, binding you in with ties that are irrevocable, slaloming around our mortal coil. Certainly many of my family relationships will always have red and white lace flowing through them in my eyes. But perhaps I’m looking too hard for that poetry again.
