TRUE COLOURS
Credit:
BRIAN de SALVO doesn’t own a club scarf. He supports the beautiful game but not any particular practitioner although he admires a great many.
“Which team do you support?”
It’s a question I was inevitably asked when phoning to book a ticket for a cross channel match. A matter of security I imagine. “Neither” was not on the box office check list. Eventually I learned that pretending allegiance to the home side was likely to get you a better seat.
A young admirer once asked the wonderfully exotic Quentin Crisp at what can only be described as an “audience” at the Gate Theatre, “Mr Crisp, what’s it like to be famous?” Crisp quivered like a turkey. “I am not… Famous,” he declared, “I am… Notorious!” Time for me to come out of the closet too. I am not a supporter; I am an observer. And that can be a lonely business.
A supporter is a herd animal, collectively living and dying with his team. Every opposing tackle is a foul; every referee is biased. True supporters see the team as an extension of themselves, winding its colours round their collective heart. “Longford till I die!” they sing in a chorus that owes more to passion than musicology. Or Sligo. Or Wherever.
Collectively they are a blunt instrument. When Bray Wanderers recalled John Walsh one Sunday after an absence of twenty three games and the veteran keeper gifted a goal within nine minutes, the response was immediate. “One Chris O’Connor! There’s only one Chris O’Connor!” sang the Bray faithful in praise of the young man Walsh had displaced to the bench. When Walsh redeemed himself with a great save two minutes into the second half he was heralded with “We love you Walshie, we do!” Forty three minutes is a long time in soccer.
Fans can be surprisingly witty at times. When Drogheda came to the Carlisle wearing the logo of their phone company sponsors on their shirts they soon found themselves one down. Immediately a second goal entered the Drogheda net the Bray glee club struck up with “O2 to the Wanderers!” How did they know to come in with those words at that moment? It’s like those flocks of birds changing direction in synchronised formation.
Clubs are careful to cultivate hard core support, as well they may since their fans are not merely customers but, in the context of domestic football, provide much free volunteer labour too. During a match every Joe Soap feels entitled to abuse or encourage the players as surrogate manager. It’s a fantasy, of course, but apart from the antics of a lunatic fringe it’s all good therapy for the wear and tear of what we call real life. True supporters rarely get a true picture of the game they watch; proceedings are inevitably filtered through prejudice. They do, however, get to experience ecstasy and despair, two spiritually cleansing extremes denied the casual observer.
His reward is less sensational. Many years ago I watched unfashionable Shrewsbury Town visit Selhurst Park. As far as the home crowd were concerned the country cousins were there to provide a chopping block for Terry Venables’ young super stars, billed in advance to become The Team of the Eighties, something they failed to achieve. The Shrewsbury game didn’t go Mr Venables way either but Crystal Palace hung on to a one-nil lead for most of it. Venables opposite number, Alan Durban, was on the pitch, implementing his match plan in person. Under his orchestration his team of tradesmen duly prevented the home side from scoring a second goal and over sixteen thousand fans were left speechless when Shrewsbury had the temerity to equalise in the last minute. And the scorer was the manager himself. I shall never forget the delight on his face as he wheeled away in celebration and I was one of very few that relished his satisfaction in a job well done.
I’d played a few games for Crystal Palace’s youth team. And yet I felt no sense of disloyalty. That was when I realised I was an observer not a supporter.
“Which team do you support?”
It’s a question I was inevitably asked when phoning to book a ticket for a cross channel match. A matter of security I imagine. “Neither” was not on the box office check list. Eventually I learned that pretending allegiance to the home side was likely to get you a better seat.
A young admirer once asked the wonderfully exotic Quentin Crisp at what can only be described as an “audience” at the Gate Theatre, “Mr Crisp, what’s it like to be famous?” Crisp quivered like a turkey. “I am not… Famous,” he declared, “I am… Notorious!” Time for me to come out of the closet too. I am not a supporter; I am an observer. And that can be a lonely business.
A supporter is a herd animal, collectively living and dying with his team. Every opposing tackle is a foul; every referee is biased. True supporters see the team as an extension of themselves, winding its colours round their collective heart. “Longford till I die!” they sing in a chorus that owes more to passion than musicology. Or Sligo. Or Wherever.
Collectively they are a blunt instrument. When Bray Wanderers recalled John Walsh one Sunday after an absence of twenty three games and the veteran keeper gifted a goal within nine minutes, the response was immediate. “One Chris O’Connor! There’s only one Chris O’Connor!” sang the Bray faithful in praise of the young man Walsh had displaced to the bench. When Walsh redeemed himself with a great save two minutes into the second half he was heralded with “We love you Walshie, we do!” Forty three minutes is a long time in soccer.
Fans can be surprisingly witty at times. When Drogheda came to the Carlisle wearing the logo of their phone company sponsors on their shirts they soon found themselves one down. Immediately a second goal entered the Drogheda net the Bray glee club struck up with “O2 to the Wanderers!” How did they know to come in with those words at that moment? It’s like those flocks of birds changing direction in synchronised formation.
Clubs are careful to cultivate hard core support, as well they may since their fans are not merely customers but, in the context of domestic football, provide much free volunteer labour too. During a match every Joe Soap feels entitled to abuse or encourage the players as surrogate manager. It’s a fantasy, of course, but apart from the antics of a lunatic fringe it’s all good therapy for the wear and tear of what we call real life. True supporters rarely get a true picture of the game they watch; proceedings are inevitably filtered through prejudice. They do, however, get to experience ecstasy and despair, two spiritually cleansing extremes denied the casual observer.
His reward is less sensational. Many years ago I watched unfashionable Shrewsbury Town visit Selhurst Park. As far as the home crowd were concerned the country cousins were there to provide a chopping block for Terry Venables’ young super stars, billed in advance to become The Team of the Eighties, something they failed to achieve. The Shrewsbury game didn’t go Mr Venables way either but Crystal Palace hung on to a one-nil lead for most of it. Venables opposite number, Alan Durban, was on the pitch, implementing his match plan in person. Under his orchestration his team of tradesmen duly prevented the home side from scoring a second goal and over sixteen thousand fans were left speechless when Shrewsbury had the temerity to equalise in the last minute. And the scorer was the manager himself. I shall never forget the delight on his face as he wheeled away in celebration and I was one of very few that relished his satisfaction in a job well done.
I’d played a few games for Crystal Palace’s youth team. And yet I felt no sense of disloyalty. That was when I realised I was an observer not a supporter.
