The Late Substitution

The true story about my relationship with the beautiful game.

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Growing up within walking distance of Old Trafford football ground, it would have been the most natural thing in the world, for me to be a fan of Manchester United. Fans from all over the world supported the Red Devils. Tourists flocked from all over the globe to see the stadium. 

There were supporters clubs across America, the Far East and Australia and here I was lucky enough to be growing up in the shadow of the stadium. I was fortunate to live so close to the stadium they called the Theatre of Dreams. 

Manchester was a city obsessed with football. There were two teams, two tribes. You were either a Red or a Blue, United or City. 

But I was neither. I wasn’t interested in football at all.

As a child, a lot of kids I knew were into football. They tended to follow the same team as their parents. You became a United fan because your mum or dad was a United fan. Your dad would take you to your first game, you would watch the matches on television with your family. It was something you inherited. 

My parents weren’t really interested in football or sport in general. I inherited the love of books and reading, films and TV, and music, the Beatles in particular. While my peers were being taken to Old Trafford or Maine Road, to watch Man United, or Man City, I was being taken to Eccles library, the grade 2 listed building, its shelves stacked high with books. I became a writer of short stories because of my parents. 

Football was never really a thing in our house. Even my closest friends, at school and at home, were not football fans. We were obsessed with films and TV. We would talk excitedly about what had happened in this weeks’ episode of Doctor Who, the A Team and Knight Rider, rather than the Manchester derby.

Besides, the 1980s didn’t really seem like the best time for a young kid to get into football. At the time football in England had a bad reputation. The term English football was usually closely followed by words like hooligan and violence. English teams were banned from competing in Europe at the time and the television news was full of scenes of rival football fans attacking each other either in or around the grounds, or even in pubs watching the game. Compared to that, the aliens invading planet Earth of my science fiction shows seemed the much safer option.

At school I was always the kid picked last to play football. It wasn’t crushing blow it sounds. I was completely fine with being picked last, I didn’t want to play the stupid game in the first place. My problem with playing football at school wasn’t the picking order, it was the fact we were forced to do it anyway. Pick me last, or even better don’t pick me at all. 

By the time I left school and started work, the 1990s were in full swing. The 80’s football hooliganism had faded from the terraces. Football now seemed to go hand in hand with general laddish behaviour. The 90’s was the decade of the Lad. And football was at the forefront of that movement. At the office or in the pub, football was seen as the past-time of the lads, and there was a real machismo associated with following the game. 

There was a general perception with the football fan back then. It didn’t seem like you could be interested in books and films and history, and go and watch the football on a Saturday afternoon. It was as though you had to choose a side. While I was kept away from the football crowd as I had all these other interests, I wondered if there were football fans out there who didn’t read books or visit museums because it didn’t fit with the whole football fan vibe they had going.

 The first question any new guy starting at the office was asked was, are you a Red or a Blue? There were not many blokes like me who said they didn’t follow the game. 

The whole football thing seemed to be a very closed shop. You were expected to be an expert on your team, and on the game in general. You were expected to know everything about the game. And if you didn’t have all the required knowledge, you couldn’t call yourself a fan. And were constantly being told this. I thought you were a fan! was the common put-down if someone’s knowledge failed to meet the requirements.

If you were into football, you had to sound like a television pundit, and know the difference between an attacking midfielder and a utility player. These days they call it gate-keeping, but for years, to me, football just seemed completely inaccessible.

Football wasn’t something you could dip in and out of, or take a passing interest in. If you were into football, you were expected to know everything, to be an expert and to engage in debates about the team, the referees and the latest transfer news.

There was no way I could, even if I wanted to, start watching football. I was so far behind. I didn’t even know the offside rule. 

And, indeed, those who went to the football, seemed to put their lives on hold during the season, going each week, never missing a game. They would cram everything that they’d put off all season, into the free summer months. I knew people who had missed family holidays and weddings as their team was playing. 

Surely real life came before watching your team. Rather than be embarrassed that they put their team before their family and loved ones, these lads seemed to wear it as a badge of honour.

The fact that one lad I knew had rushed off to the game, hours after his partner giving birth to their first-born child, was delivered with a proud tone, that’s how much I love my team. And I, for one, thought it was pathetic.

At the office, all the lads would talk of football. That was all they spoke about. While it wasn’t intentional, I found I was excluded from a lot of the chat. They would debate a red card decision or discuss which manager should be sacked, or which players needed selling. I had no idea what they were talking about. They might as well be speaking a foreign language. 

I seemed to be surrounded by football talk. When I’d go to the barbers to get my hair cut, the barber would ask what team I supported. I would reply that I don’t follow football. The guy would give me a look like I’d just declared that I enjoy ice-cream and pizza for breakfast. He would then continue to cut my hair in an awkward silence. 

The barber would then greet the next customer warmly, like they were an old friend, talking about how their team had fared at weekend.

All talk of football seemed so alienating. And so, we reached a stalemate, a stand-off.

Football didn’t want me, and so, for years, I didn’t want it. When people would try and talk to me about football, I would make a point of emphasising that I didn’t do football, just not interested. I would roll my eyes. Just so boring.

Over the years, though, while I maintained my boycott, my embargo, on all things football, the world changed. 

The new century seemed to bring a shift in those following the game. Football no longer seemed exclusively the past-time of the proper lads and real blokes. Suddenly everybody I knew under the age of thirty, both male and female, had a football team they supported, that they watched. 

Everyone seemed to be into football, following their club teams and they would all come together to follow the national team during the World Cup and European championship. And the women’s game became a massive thing too. Manchester United and England had women’s teams that were doing really well. For once football seemed to be inclusive, rather than exclusive. 

In a recent European championship, while I maintained my stance that I didn’t do football, the rest of the entire country was gripped by football fever and getting behind the national team.

Even my parents, who previously had no strong interest in football, were now glued to screens as the competition went on. When I called over mid-week, for a cup of tea and a catch up, my parents were watching the football, rather than the local news. I couldn’t hide my shock.

‘You’re watching the football? I can’t believe this. I came here to get away from the flaming football!’ I said.

‘It’s so exciting. You should have seen the game last night.’ My mother said.

‘Italy scored this last-minute winner. What a goal!’ My dad added. 

I said nothing, feeling like the main character in that old film, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It did feel like the world was being taken over by strange creatures obsessed with football. 

I went around to see my sister on the Saturday evening. We’d arranged to have a catch-up, a few drinks and a take-away. When I went through to the living room, I found my sister, her husband and their two young kids were all transfixed by the football, as France played Spain on the TV. My nephew dribbled a football around the living room, recreating the action on the television.

‘Football, Sis? I didn’t think you did football.’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah, the kids love it. We go and watch them play for the school team. We’ve got into football because of them really. We’ve actually been to see United a few times.’

Not you as well? I thought. What was going on?

In the days that followed, found myself wondering if I was missing out on something.

Should I start following football? Should I? Could I?

Actually, these days football did seem to be for everyone and anyone. Suddenly, it really didn’t seem to matter if you missed last night’s game, or if you wouldn’t recognise your team’s goal-keeper if they were sitting next to you. 

Everyone seemed to be free to embrace the beautiful game in whatever way they chose. And those that disagreed and thought that football was a blokey, macho thing, and just for the experts, seemed like relics from another era. 

From overheard conversations, it seemed that more and more people were into the game, and more were taking just a passing, general interest. As far as I could tell, these days you didn’t have to know the starting eleven, who was out injured, or the entire history of the club, to be interested in football.

Some fans at the office proudly wore the home shirt, but didn’t actually watch every single game. They would say with a shrug that they didn’t see the game. Whereas at one time, this would be met with ridicule and derision, these days, instead, the match and its major talking points would be discussed, described and explained. The whole thing seemed to be more inclusive, rather than the exclusive boys club it had been in my younger days.

It was at that point, I decided to dabble with football. While I wouldn’t be a massive fan, not a Red or a Blue, not following either of the Manchester teams, I would watch bits of whatever football I came across. I would pay attention to the matches being shown on TV. I would catch highlights of an Italian game, or a Scottish match. 

I though the Glasgow team, Celtic were just brilliant. With my mother being Irish, and Celtic having a strong Irish connection, I wondered if Celtic could be the team for me. I honed and focused my interest on the Bhoys.

I hinted to friends and family, and mentioned in passing that I’d been watching football. It felt so strange to hear myself asking if anyone saw the match last night. These words didn’t feel right coming from me. I noticed a few raised eyebrows at the topic being raised by me, of all people.

I went to the pub to watch the Champions League game a few nights later. At half-time I was at the bar getting myself another beer, when a guy gave me a nudge. He was around my age and wore an Oasis t-shirt.

‘What do you make of Arsenal’s new signing?’ His tone made it sound like a quiz question, it was clearly a test.

‘I’ve no idea.’ I admitted.

‘You don’t know? Call yourself a football fan? He sneered.

I pointed to his Oasis t-shirt.

‘Alright, then. Name their original drummer?’ I said.

‘I dunno.’ He admitted.

‘Tony McCarroll. Call yourself a fan?’ I said.

I gave him a grin and returned to my seat in front of the wide-screen television to catch the second half.

One evening, my sister phoned me. She if I fancied going to see Manchester United. She had a spare ticket as one of her friends couldn’t make it. I checked the date. I had no plans for the Sunday afternoon. I’d arranged to go out with friends the night before, but on the Sunday I was free.

The Saturday night started out as a few drinks, see a few friends and a have a couple of quiet pints. As sometimes happened on these low-key nights, it turned out to be quite the session. By the end of the night, everything was blurry and I was sipping a whiskey called Dingo’s Ear. I was too busy enjoying myself and sampling whiskies to consider the fact that I had the football match at lunchtime the next day.

When I woke the next morning, the room was spinning around me. Snippets of the night before came to me. Round after round of beer, and then necking the whiskey. I didn’t remember getting home. Why did I do it to myself? It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now I felt terrible, just awful. The hangover made everything hurt. Even my eyes ached, and my stomach churned. 

Then I remembered, I had the match. Geez, the last thing I wanted right then was to go to a football match. I wanted to stay where I was, curled up in bed, until I felt better and the room stopped spinning. I checked the time and swore. I didn’t have enough time to sort myself out.

Twenty minutes later I was slumped in the shower, the hoping the hot water would revive me. 

As I waited for the taxi to pick me up, I still felt rough. When the cab beeped his arrival outside, I was actually back in the bathroom being sick. I quickly washed my face, and dashed downstairs as fast as my fragile state could manage.

I met my sister and her family outside the stadium. I winced as she hugged me and tried to pretend that I wasn’t dying of a hangover and that I was looking forward to the game. 

I followed my sister, and the throng of other supporters, flowing through the turnstiles up the concrete steps, towards the concourse. The place was packed, the shuffling moving throng reminding me of a rush-hour train station. I followed along, not quite believing that I was here at a football match, and the famous Old Trafford. 

We marched our way up the steps, up and up. 

Then we reached the summit, emerging in the stadium, the valley of red seats spreading out in front of us, row after row. I gasped. Even for a cynic like me, the stadium was an impressive sight. 

While at the game, I had decided to make out I was a United fan, I would go through the motions, like an undercover cop. I would act like I was a Red so as not to stand out. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I would go through the motions. I would, if you will pardon the pun, play the game, and clap along with the crowd.

When the players came out onto the pitch, the crowd got to their feet. An almighty roar erupted as both sets of fans got behind their team. The United fans launched into a rendition of Take me home, United Road, a twist on the John Denver song Country Roads.

Take me home, United Road,

to the place I belong,

to Old Trafford, to see United,

take me home, United Road.

The atmosphere was just amazing, it was electric, it was addictive. I found myself joining in, singing and clapping along with more enthusiasm and gusto than I’d intended. 

As the match got under way, I joined in with the crowd, calling out encouragement to the team. I was rooting for United, I found I was completely behind them. I felt like part of the crowd, I felt I belonged. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could be into football after all. Or maybe it was my fuzzy hangover brain and my fragile condition.

Then it happened. 

Manchester United scored. 

As the crowd went wild, I jumped to my feet, cheering, clapping, punching the air. I joined in the chant of United, United, United, with a lump my throat. The excitement, the adrenaline, that feeling. It was all so overwhelming. 

It was at that exact moment that the stars seemed to align, that everything came together. Right there in front of me was the solution to the footballing conundrum.

Manchester United. 

Nobody was more surprised than I was. 

At full-time as we filed out of the ground, my mind raced at the realisation. It had been right there in front of me the whole time. As much as I’d tried to resist, this was it. 

I left the stadium transformed. I was a United fan. The pull of the club was so strong, my close proximity to the stadium growing up, and living in the city with United always there in the background. It felt like the easiest and most natural thing in the world, to give in, to go with it, to become a United fan. It felt natural. 

It felt like coming home.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom