I am currently in a toxic relationship that I need to get out of but don’t know how. It doesn’t work for me any more. It goes against my fundamental values as a human being. I am not even sure I enjoy any of the time I spend in it. I have remained stuck through the dual rationales of habit and nostalgia. There was a time it was so, so good. It felt so pure. The moments spent in the other's company were among the highlights of my week. If there was a week when we were not able to be together I would be constantly on my phone trying to keep track of what they were up to. Through this relationship I have made friendships and memories I would be loath to end or sully through a break up. But I have to do it. This relationship, which began when I was just five years old - is with football.
We started seeing each other on April 30, 1995. My beloved West Bromwich Albion beat Tranmere Rovers 5-1 in the sunshine at The Hawthorns (the highest ground above sea level don’t you know). Like all relationships, the early days showed only promise and gave no hints of the trials to come. That first match left a six-year-old me, who up until this point had only cared about Club chocolate bars and dinosaurs, under the impression that being a football fan was a long parade of constant wins, six goals matches and sunny days.
The reality is not the same. The wins are as scarce and the goalless draws are plentiful. For every sunny day there is a sodden trudge back in the dark to a car you have parked on some estate two miles from the ground. As heave your freezing body into the car and beg dad to both turn the heating and radio on so I can listen to angry people with Black Country accents on a football phone-in lament the fact that the manager is “tactically naïve” (though Dave from Walsall never explains what his own managerial credentials are).
But despite the misery that comes with a football fandom this has never, ever been a problem. You need the lows for the highs. Great memories never come from unwavering, endless success. In the same way that I never realised how lovely my local park was till I could only leave the house for 30 minutes in lockdown, the low points as a fan make you feel like the good times really matter. It it the very fleetingness of the joy that makes you treasure it.
Even in the worst of times there is pleasure to be had. I always go to the games with my dad with the debriefs filling our phone calls for the coming weeks. I always get a bacon bap from my auntie. We always laugh at the miserable people behind us (known as “the moaners”). None of this could be hindered by a bad result. It is the base level of happiness that came from following my team.
Even beyond the personal experience there was a pride that came as a supporter. Albion were one of the first professional club to have three black players (West Ham were first). Regis, Cunningham and Batson’s names are still sung to this day. When Peter Odemwingie (who is black) joined us from Spartak Moscow the Russian fans put up a banner saying “thanks West Brom” and a picture of a banana. The Albion fan responded with a banner of their own, crowd funded, showing a picture of Peter celebrating his first goal with a banner saying “Thanks Spartak Moscow. The only colours that matter is blue and white”. It was a club with soul and I loved that it was mine.
