One of football’s darker moments in 2012 was Fabrice
Muamba’s near-death experience on the turf of White Hart Lane. The term “puts
football into perspective” was so over-used, it was quickly rendered
meaningless. Of course, football was not put into perspective. If it had been, we would have averted our
eyes from the following days’ action; but we didn’t. I don’t know about you,
but three days later I was watching a 1-1 draw against Middlesbrough. Only the
loss of someone close to you has the ability to put football “into perspective”.
Only that agony can make the prospect of watching your team seem not only
inappropriate, but quite repugnant.
With time on my hands over the last few days to contemplate
this, I considered my relationship with West Ham, a football team that I claim
to “love”. There was no question of me attending Saturday’s match against Everton.
I would spend the day with my family, not with 35,000 strangers. I was even
indifferent to the result. And yet I still wanted to know the result. This apparent indifference to the horror that had
befallen me and my family pricked my conscience for a moment, before I happened
upon a truth that I had always suspected: West Ham’s chief role in my life is that
of a distraction.
A nihilist would tell me that everything in my life, not
just West Ham, is a meaningless distraction to pass the time between birth and
death; but the futility of supporting a football team seems to make this
pastime particularly psychotic. After all, this is the sport where Manchester
United fans are dismissed as “glory hunters”. If the rest of us are not in it
for maximum pleasure, what exactly are we in it for? Why at least once a fortnight do I find myself in a part of east London I would never otherwise frequent? Why last month did I make a 600-mile round trip
to Newcastle? Did the fact that we won the game make that trip any more
worthwhile?
Football – especially football in the 21st
century – is the ultimate distraction. My iPhone allows me to retreat from the
real world at the press of a button, whether it’s by reading about Mohamed Diame’s
injury on the internet, a fellow fan’s opinion of the referee on Twitter or the
odds of Kevin Nolan being first goalscorer on Betfair. You could quite easily
fill your life with nothing but football. I do not doubt that a significant
number of neanderthals at Upton Park and every other ground in the
country do exactly that.
And yet, I am a well-educated person who does not want for
alternative ways of spending his time. So what is it that has been drawing me back
to Upton Park since 1989? Why during a time of despair do I still reach for the
remote control to check the result against Everton? Because West Ham is my
distraction. For others it’s trainspotting, the novels of Douglas Adams, rambling, alcohol, Radio 4, eBay, line
dancing, boxsets, crystal meth, caravan holidays. For me it’s a football team
that my dad took me to see for the first time in 1989 – a futile 1-0 win
against Luton Town, en route to the first of four relegations in my lifetime.
My distraction has many benefits. I see my dad at least once
a fortnight. I am ok at making small talk with fellow football fans, whether
it’s while making a cup of tea at work or being introduced to the new boyfriend
of my wife’s mate. It has also brought me genuine moments of euphoria which few
other things in life can: celebrating on the Upton Park turf after beating
Cambridge United in 1993; watching John Hartson’s mazy dribble and goal level
the score in a 1998 FA Cup quarter final against Arsenal; wandering through a
park in Munich in 2003 reading a text message from my dad which tells me that
Paolo Di Canio scored and we have beaten Chelsea; witnessing a Carlos
Tevez-inspired 3-0 win at Wigan in 2007; walking home in the snow after a 4-0
thrashing of Manchester United in 2010; visiting Wembley for the first time to
see Ricardo Vaz Te’s dramatic goal
clinch promotion back to the Premier League.
Each of those moments was shared with either my dad or my
brother. They matter, because they brought me joy in a life which,
like everyone’s, has its fair share of dark moments. I want to share these
experiences with my children, and for them to care, just as I cared when my dad
told me about the time Alvin Martin scored a hat-trick against three different
goalkeepers. I smile about those memories during the good times, and allow them
to transport me elsewhere during the bad times.
