For the Future Generations

It started like any other morning.

But it didn’t feel like any other morning. Something was different. Something was new.

I’d never woken up with butterflies in my stomach before.

It was 7.12am. I’m not sure why I remember the time, I can barely remember what I had for lunch today. But for some reason, I can remember what time I woke up on the 4th April 1998. This day was different. I was already ten years old, but this was the day I was truly born.

I got dressed. I ate breakfast with my Mum & Dad. We got a taxi to Kettering station, where we met some (since drifted apart) family friends. We got on a train. This had all happened before, but something was new. I didn’t care that Midland Mainline (as they were back then) had messed up and double booked our reserved seats, leaving us to sit in the little doorway bit of a carriage of a HST type 43 train. Sometimes I was a bit spoilt as a kid, prone to the odd tantrum if things didn’t always go my way. Normally I might have moaned. But not on the 4th April 1998. I watched out of the window as the train tracks of the parallel line seemed to move back and forwards like waves due to the speed. The train was headed into St. Pancras. I’d been to London before loads of times. We lived in Chingford when I was a toddler. But this was different. Something was new.

At St. Pancras, Mum went off with her friend to go shopping. I don’t really remember what else happened before we got off the tube. We’d probably been into central. Had McDonalds and seen the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, you know, the stuff you’d take a ten year old tourist to do if you had some time to kill. But that I don’t remember. I wouldn't have really cared either. You see, this part of the day was irrelevant. Something was new.

This was the day I would finally see Tottenham Hotspur.

We got off the tube at Seven Sisters. Dad had told me that it would be a long walk, but it didn’t seem it. I was infatuated. If you had grown up in a sleepy town in Northamptonshire in the 1990s, you’d have been isolated as a Tottenham fan too. I was one of only five Spurs fans I knew. One was my four year old brother, he didn’t count. I’d been tortured at school after we’d been beaten 7-1 by Newcastle. I’ve failed to supress memories of the week we lost both 6-1 to Chelsea AND 4-0 to Coventry. Leicester were the geographically closest PL team. All the kids at school either supported United or Leicester. And we always lost to both of them. It was bleak. But here I was, on Tottenham High Road. There were Spurs shirts everywhere. This was a big deal. The shops in Kettering only sold United, Liverpool, Newcastle and Leicester shirts, but here were thousands. The sun was out. It was really windy, and wasn’t too warm, but I unzipped my coat so that people could see my Pony-clad attire. I belonged. I was home.

We got about to where I now know to be Bruce Grove, and Dad pointed at the scaffolding in the distance. He told me it wasn’t scaffolding. I didn’t understand. But then we got closer. Everything goes a bit blurry here. I remember Dad buying me a scarf I still have somewhere. I remember seeing the back of a woman’s shirt that read ‘Le God’, with the number 14 and then ‘David Ginola is class on my arse’ at the bottom. But it’s all hazy. Until we got into the stadium. I remember walking up the stairs to block 28 on the Shelf side lower. If all the “stadiums” (I use the word loosely) you’ve ever seen are non-league grounds, your sense of perspective is skewed. The pitch seemed tiny. The blue of the seats contrasted with the orange Easyjet hoardings. I think I actually stopped breathing. This is the clearest memory of my life. I don’t remember losing my virginity this clearly. The first gig I went to, the first gig I played, my first drink, passing my driving test, getting my first job, the first time I met my Missus, graduating from Uni. Everything is relative, and in my head these are all insignificant events next to those first seconds in our Cathedral.

I suppose the sad thing is, I don’t remember much of the game. Everton scored first. Someone called Madar. I remember him looking a bit like Jesus & being a mile offside. Dad’s friend who was with us was a Toffee, I remember him trying to subtly pump a fist so as not to arouse suspicion in the home end. I remember Clive Wilson getting knocked unconscious in the Park Lane penalty area & being down for what seemed an age. I remember Chris Armstrong nodding us level.

All I do properly remember and carry with me from those 90 minutes, other than the first moments walking into the Lane for the first time, was the atmosphere. The drum. The tribal shout of “YIDS!” as the drummer dictated. The noise and togetherness. Me and 35,645 other human beings in perfect harmony. I still can’t put it into words. I doubt I’ll ever be able to. One day I’ll try to explain to the child I’ll one day have.

I’ve been to the Lane many, many times since. Dad took me perhaps a dozen more times and then I moved out & back to London when I was 18 (a good few years ago now). Though I struggle to afford it, I make a point of going to a game at least once a season. I’ve done the North London Derby. I’ve done a League Cup semi-final. European nights. But it has never quite felt the same. Even when it’s been rocking. Even when I’ve been surrounded by 1882 in block J. Never quite the same. Perhaps this is just an emotional attachment to my first time. It’s probably been just as loud and electric almost every other game I’ve been to (with the exception of Juande Ramos’ first game against Blackpool – somewhat typically the only time I managed to persuade the missus to join me…). But no-one can deny that it’s not the same. I dare say some will feel the same way towards my era, and that my atmosphere will never match the glory glory nights of yonder, with 50-odd thousand crammed into a frenzied White Hart Lane under the lights. But this is exactly why we’re at a pivotal point. If something doesn’t happen soon, my future children and yours will be robbed of that Everton on the 4th April 1998 moment.

If you can’t do it for the team, think of the future generations. Stand. Sing. Support. Get involved with 1882, The Fighting Cock and Revive the Lane and anyone else doing the good work. Ignore that moaning old tw*t in the seat behind you who can only focus on why Kyle Walker/Adebayor/Scotty Parker is…(insert moaning old tw*t comment here). The noise and adrenaline is what makes the Lane. It’s what separates us from the Arsenal. It’s what makes us Tottenham. And WE ARE TOTTENHAM.

I can’t smile without you.

[author name=”Andyerased” avatar=”https://si0.twimg.com/profile_images/3312968358/6d56954095cb9d9bfb50de0efe0ad064.jpeg” twitter=”Andyerased” tag=”Andyerased[/linequote]