Batson's Banana
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Following Eamon Zayed’s complaint of racist abuse BRIAN de SALVO explores the ugly face of the beautiful game.
Where political correctness is concerned, West Ham supporters wouldn’t win many prizes. I recall being at Upton Park when a West Bromwich Albion team including an unusually high proportion of black players were the visitors. They were welcomed on to the pitch by a hail of bananas and a cacophony of monkey chants. A giant banana landed close to where West Indian Brendan Batson was warming up. Without pausing in his preparation he retrieved it and inserted it into his shorts so that the end hung down below one of the legs. It was a case of sexual legend combating bigotry and, to be fair, the Hammers crowd gave him a round of applause.
Sadly, it’s rarely possible to diffuse racism with wit. Neil Lennon was prevented from captaining Northern Ireland by death threats to his family. His crime, apparently, was that he commented favourably on the possibility of an all-Ireland team. His ordeal and that of his family has been continued during his managerial career culminating in assault on the touchline.
In the Republic racism is less of an issue. But I doubt whether the hotheads who used to taunt the IRA during Derry City’s visits to Dalymount would have cared to repeat their insulting chant at the Brandywell. Did they not realise that Derry, technically a club from a “foreign country”, was only playing in the League of Ireland because sectarianism made it unsafe for their supporters to visit other grounds in the North and turned every fixture at the Brandywell into a potential breach of the peace? It was at Dalymount too that a man seated immediately in front of the press box leapt to his feet at a European cup tie with Rhyl to shout “Sheep shaggers! Fuck off back to Wales!” at the mere sight of the opponents entering the arena prior to kick off. That was shortly after the obligatory anti-racism announcement over the public address system. I doubt whether he saw the connection.
Leaving politics aside - if only one could - a glance at an atlas would convince any unbiased observer of the simple logic behind a single Irish international team. Rugby manages it but that, of course, is not a working class game. I grew up in “Only Fools and Horses” territory where bigotry comes with your birthright. For all but the lunatic fringe it’s not violent but the prejudice is nevertheless ingrained. The Jews have all the money and the drunken Irish are always getting sick at the bus stop. I was sixteen before I had worked out that those drunks and the doctor my granny idolised because he prescribed her a weekly quart of Guinness shared common nationality. I was in my thirties before colleagues in “Fiddler on the Roof” in London told me that I could have a thimble full of Jewish blood coursing through my veins thanks to an Inquisition in Sicily centuries ago.
Actor friends of mine working on a radio play in Belfast during a World Cup were able to see Robbie Keane’s last gasp equaliser against Germany. As the thespians, who came from all persuasions, reacted to the sheer drama of the moment they suddenly realised their celebrations were isolated. “As a matter of fact,” said the lady behind the canteen counter, “We were hoping the Germans would win.” No aggression. Just implacability.
Logic has no place in racism. It’s governed by fear. Instead of enjoying cultural difference it seeks to destroy it. I’m all in favour of patriotism but I’m wary of nationalism. But then, I would say that. My ancestors are Italian, Spanish and French, I was born to an English mother in London and I live in the Republic of Ireland. The way I look at it, in most World Cups that usually gives me five chances of winning.
Where political correctness is concerned, West Ham supporters wouldn’t win many prizes. I recall being at Upton Park when a West Bromwich Albion team including an unusually high proportion of black players were the visitors. They were welcomed on to the pitch by a hail of bananas and a cacophony of monkey chants. A giant banana landed close to where West Indian Brendan Batson was warming up. Without pausing in his preparation he retrieved it and inserted it into his shorts so that the end hung down below one of the legs. It was a case of sexual legend combating bigotry and, to be fair, the Hammers crowd gave him a round of applause.
Sadly, it’s rarely possible to diffuse racism with wit. Neil Lennon was prevented from captaining Northern Ireland by death threats to his family. His crime, apparently, was that he commented favourably on the possibility of an all-Ireland team. His ordeal and that of his family has been continued during his managerial career culminating in assault on the touchline.
In the Republic racism is less of an issue. But I doubt whether the hotheads who used to taunt the IRA during Derry City’s visits to Dalymount would have cared to repeat their insulting chant at the Brandywell. Did they not realise that Derry, technically a club from a “foreign country”, was only playing in the League of Ireland because sectarianism made it unsafe for their supporters to visit other grounds in the North and turned every fixture at the Brandywell into a potential breach of the peace? It was at Dalymount too that a man seated immediately in front of the press box leapt to his feet at a European cup tie with Rhyl to shout “Sheep shaggers! Fuck off back to Wales!” at the mere sight of the opponents entering the arena prior to kick off. That was shortly after the obligatory anti-racism announcement over the public address system. I doubt whether he saw the connection.
Leaving politics aside - if only one could - a glance at an atlas would convince any unbiased observer of the simple logic behind a single Irish international team. Rugby manages it but that, of course, is not a working class game. I grew up in “Only Fools and Horses” territory where bigotry comes with your birthright. For all but the lunatic fringe it’s not violent but the prejudice is nevertheless ingrained. The Jews have all the money and the drunken Irish are always getting sick at the bus stop. I was sixteen before I had worked out that those drunks and the doctor my granny idolised because he prescribed her a weekly quart of Guinness shared common nationality. I was in my thirties before colleagues in “Fiddler on the Roof” in London told me that I could have a thimble full of Jewish blood coursing through my veins thanks to an Inquisition in Sicily centuries ago.
Actor friends of mine working on a radio play in Belfast during a World Cup were able to see Robbie Keane’s last gasp equaliser against Germany. As the thespians, who came from all persuasions, reacted to the sheer drama of the moment they suddenly realised their celebrations were isolated. “As a matter of fact,” said the lady behind the canteen counter, “We were hoping the Germans would win.” No aggression. Just implacability.
Logic has no place in racism. It’s governed by fear. Instead of enjoying cultural difference it seeks to destroy it. I’m all in favour of patriotism but I’m wary of nationalism. But then, I would say that. My ancestors are Italian, Spanish and French, I was born to an English mother in London and I live in the Republic of Ireland. The way I look at it, in most World Cups that usually gives me five chances of winning.
