What I think about when I think about West Ham

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 21^st 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.