At the match

We are at the match. We don’t get to many, such is the friction of distance. I get the same old shiver down my spine as the Z-cars theme strikes up to welcome the players onto the pitch. The moment is awash with the usual optimism. Unfortunately, our theme tune is also used by Watford at their home matches. You would have thought Elton John would have come up with something appropriate, without needing to highjack ours.

Our seats are high in the stand. They are also directly behind a stanchion which is in line with the middle of the goal. This is what they mean by “restricted view.” We are separated from each other on the back row by a single seat, soon to be occupied by a person unknown. He turns out to be quite affable and readily swaps seats with me. “They’re all crap, anyway,” he adds.

The Old Lady, as the ground is known, is showing her age. Our plastic bucket chairs offer very little leg room even for my very little legs. We are surrounded by sturdy Victorian brick and royal blue-painted timber, but we will have to wait a few more years yet for our shiny new palace on the waterfront.

I have been coming here for the best part of six decades. I think of it as my spiritual home, though there are many more ardent followers than me. Over the years, we have acclaimed our champions and our cup winners here. We have revelled in the artistry of one of the best midfields of all time - Harvey, Ball and Kendall. We live in hope that the glory days will return during our lifetime.

The crowd is subdued. The calm is interrupted by occasional murmurs of discontent. Any positive move on the pitch receives a brief smattering of encouraging applause. The crowd is willing the players to perform, but they are cautious. Anyone who has played the game at any level knows that when you are lacking in confidence you first try to play safe and then gradually build on small successes. The split-second chance of an ambitious through ball to set up an attack is turned down in favour of a sideways or backward move, just in case you mess up. The crowd groans, but under its collective breath, so as not to deter the next opportunity for flair, should the opening present itself.

Half time is reached without implosion. Entertainment during the break is provided by two likely lads who are talking across us. I can’t follow their conversation, though I am trying. It’s not the accent but their private language that baffles me. Frequent references to the “Bizzies” and a friend “in Walton” - a reference to a temporary rather than a permanent home address, I suspect. They tease each other for some time about who is going to get the pies. One goes off but soon returns, apparently empty handed. Perhaps he’s stashed the pies in a safe place. Neither of them look like compulsive pie eaters, to me.

For 60 minutes, our opponents have been the better team. Attacking and defending as a unit, quick passing, running into space. It’s an easy, uncomplicated game on paper. It can be frustratingly difficult if your head is not in the right place. What we former amateurs can only imagine is how the expectations of the 40,000 faces, intensely watching every tentative move, can affect already fragile confidence. Two defenders glance up simultaneously to see if the other will go to mop up momentary danger. Both are caught on their heels. The crowd gasps in frustration. A goal for the visitors is quickly followed by another. Apprehension turns to despair.

An inspired substitution is made. The new addition threads a ball into a gap between defenders. It is latched onto and bundled home. It proves to be a lifeline. The player I had berated only days before for not being able to head the ball, nods one over everyone else and into the far corner of the net with pinpoint accuracy. I am left eating my own words and humble pie, all at the same time. The potential winner soon follows via the penalty spot. Sorrow has turned to euphoria in a matter of minutes.

Oh, No! A trip in the area, and a last-gasp penalty is conceded. Luckily, the pressure of the occasion is too much for the taker. It is met with the biggest roar I’ve ever heard for a penalty miss.

We have actually won. The relief is tangible. The residents have been out buying fireworks in anticipation of this victory and the sky is lit up all the way back to the car. On social media, a shell-shocked visiting fan grudgingly admires the crescendo of noise generated by the home fans at the end of the match. It rekindles the commonly held belief from years past - by visiting players and managers alike - that it can be an intimidating arena.

It is when supporters choose to make it so, and that hinges on the relationship with the players. What gets them going in the stands is when the players show passion in their play. Perhaps that does not happen enough these days but it’s reassuring to know that the beast in us can still be stirred when it does.