The pre-match rituals of a soccer fan

Soccer fans can be strange creatures. I’m a football fan and while I think I’m perfectly normal, my lady would tell you otherwise! I’ve been obsessed with the game since I was a little kid, and while the game has changed in many ways over the past two decades, I’ll always be hooked.

There is something very special about match days especially. As a nipper, I remember waking up at dawn in a state of arousal – used to drive my dad crazy! I would have laid out my soccer gear the night before so I wouldn’t have to be in a rush in the morning. Every time I put on my jersey, put on my hat, and wrapped my scarf around my neck, I had an immense sense of team pride. Sad I know! Then I’d go downstairs for breakfast, usually hard-boiled eggs, soldiers and some bacon, and then we’d hit the road.

The car ride to the train station would normally involve a spy game or quizzing my dad about the ‘good old days’ as he would call them, what to you and me means when football was played in black and white. He would also get on his nerves by asking him about football clothes in those days and he would always reply ‘only posh kids had the replica shirts, I had a red and white scarf knitted for me by Nanny Edith’.

I always knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth, having seen pictures of him wearing a silk flat hat lined with insignia, but for some strange reason he never told me about it. He’s a funny man, my dad!

I loved arriving at the train station and seeing the fans of the rival teams. And then upon reaching the ground, walking from the station, that buzz of anticipation as you exit was and still is amazing.

Then you’d roll your eyes at the hordes of fans, some in football gear, others in casual clothing – a sea of ​​red and white roaming the streets. I would always have to buy my game day software from the same vendor as the software. He was an older boy with shiny silver hair and used to reek of tobacco.

Dad insisted on going for a quick pint before we went into the stadium, always ordering a pint of London Pride and a packet of dry roasted peanuts. He would drink lemonade until he was a little older, when the old man would buy me a pint, whispering the immortal words: ‘don’t tell your mother!’

Entering the ground I always had butterflies in my stomach, although I have since gotten over this. I would click the turnstiles and then race to get to my spot on the terrace in time to watch the players warm up.

Once on the terrace, that was it. I remember the first couple of games I attended, I was in awe just watching the atmosphere, the colors, the smells. Then the game would start and we’d get beat up, and on the ride home you’d wish you were rooting for a decent team. And then the following week, you would do it all over again. We’re not that weird, are we?