SUPPORTING your team is nationalism, patriotism, tribalism, guts, glory and even religion all rolled into one. And while those who cheer for your rivals are not necessarily hated, they are at the very least, pitied.
I saw this first hand last month when management and I were at our local boozer (I know, you’re shocked) and we bumped into our neighbours, Jacko and Kay. This was not surprising; in fact I can’t remember ever going to the local and not bumping into Jacko and his wife, who I nicknamed Bombay Kay as she enjoys the odd colonial Gin. She’s great.
Anyway, what was surprising was that Jacko was imbibing coke without additives. It was a Friday night, and when I asked why no spook in the diesel, he said it was because the next day Arsenal was playing Hull in the FA Cup Final, one of football’s holiest contests.
I remarked that he should be warming up as there was going to be a helluva party even if Arsenal lost. That was the whole point, he said. Like a top athlete, he didn’t want to peak too early.
Kay then remarked she had to sleep on the couch downstairs that night as Jacko had to have a good night’s rest before the sacred event. Also, he didn’t want to be kept awake in case he was too exhausted in the morning and overslept. He had to leave for London by 10am, you understand.
What time was the game? I asked. Well, he sheepishly admitted kick-off was only at 5pm, but he had to meet other supporters in the pub beforehand.
He told us that pubs around Wembley Stadium were rigidly divided into two exclusive zones for rival fans. Police, out in their thousands, meticulously checked your allegiance before allowing you into either zone. Football is not a religion of peace.
I then asked if the fans got too inebriated beforehand and missed the game. He stared at me incomprehensively. No matter how vrot you were, you didn’t miss the game.
I then remembered that before the season started, he went to Vietnam just to watch Arsenal’s training sessions as well as a few warm-up matches against some enthusiastic rice growers.
No tourist visit
He didn’t go to another country as a tourist to admire scenery or experience new cultures: he went as an Arsenal supporter. I mean, how fanatical is that?
Bombay Kay then asked management to come around to her house to watch the game on TV with some other Arsenal widows. But when management asked if Jonny Wilkinson was playing
(I think he’s the only English sportsman she’s ever heard of), she was quietly excluded.
Anyway, we bumped into Bombay the next morning and she said although Jacko hadn’t slept a wink, he had managed to catch the 10am train and had just texted her to say ‘prosheedings’ at the Arsenal pub were going well.
Indeed, Bombay had also had a nerve-steadier or two herself at the local. If Arsenal lost, Jacko would be unplayable for months.
There was nothing else on TV that afternoon and I had the game on in the background. After 20 minutes, Hull was 2-0 up. As the TV camera panned over the Arsenal fans, I thought I saw Jacko’s face, as stunned as a clubbed seal.
Fortunately for Jacko and Bombay, Arsenal held their nerve and rallied in the second half, bringing the score to 2-2. Extra-time was played, and I could imagine Jacko now coldly sober pleading with the Arsenal gods for a golden goal.
It came with minutes to spare. No doubt Jacko and Bombay collapsed as exhausted as the players at the final whistle.
The next morning I walked past Jacko’s house. It was deathly quiet. A lone Arsenal scarf was fluttering in the window. Last night’s victory was sweet – but today the hangovers would be too ghastly to contemplate.
As I say, you have to be a fanatic.
