To be or not to be

“When I grow up, I want to be a season-ticket holder.” A real man; someone who can rant on 606 but commands instant respect because with that ultimate status update, they’re not just some moaner on the M1. They’re someone who takes one for the team; is the team, part of the club, week in week out; sacrifices all else for their love of the game, lives for the weekend: The ultimate totem for any self-respecting football fan.

My Dad wasn’t around when I was growing up, so for a young boy being brought up by his Mum, occasional trips to the Lane with a kind neighbour (and season-ticket holder) in the early 90s were a massive overdose of masculinity, like giving someone who casually expressed a vague interest in trying soft drugs a vial of pure heroin. Every game left me wanting more. I needed to be in the Yid Army; I had to walk up the High Road, sing up, love the shirt, every week.

Yet when I finally had the money and stability to get one for 2006-7, I’d just agreed to work abroad for a year. When I came back, we’d had a good season, fifth again, and I found myself on a waiting list. We kept on playing well. The waiting list got longer. I waited.

[linequote]I needed to be in the Yid Army; I had to walk up the High Road, sing up, love the shirt, every week[/linequote]

Over the last five years, together with my mate Martin (who likes to remind everyone that he had a season-ticket as a kid with his Dad) we’ve been to as many games as we could; home, away, Europe, youth, 1882, but still we waited. I’ve had the highs of Milan, and the lows of Portsmouth at Wembley, taking dogs abuse from children at Stamford Bridge, freezing draws at White Hart Lane, reading all of King’s autobiography.

Last month, one morning I found a diamond in my inbox full of shit. From Spurs – subject: “Season ticket offer”. I couldn’t believe it. Reading the attachments, I’d finally made it up the list, I was there – this was like a knock on the door and Scarlett Johansson’s outside saying she’s your new neighbour, do you have any sugar to help her get over a bad break-up? Actually, this was the equivalent of going next door to Scarlett’s, making her a cuppa, taking it to her bedroom and finding her waiting for you under her Spurs double duvet.

However – I’ve done the previously unthinkable. No sugar for Scarlett, no 770 quid for Daniel. No season ticket. So I need to know. Does this make me any less of a fan?

Because when forced to decide whether to pony up, I worked out what I actually like about going to Spurs. My pre-game rituals are the same and always get me excited – walking out the gangways and seeing the green of the pitch is still like stepping in to Scarlett’s bedroom, but there have been more than a few matches recently where Scarlett’s morphed in to Pat Butcher with West Ham wallpaper.

[linequote]Spurs belong to all of us, but with a season ticket you suddenly (or at least your money) belong to the PLC[/linequote]

More importantly, there are now so many ways to follow a game, what’s the value of a season-ticket? Football is partly a massive nostalgia industry, cashing in on a sepia tinted era when the only way to guarantee following your club was a book of stubs. Or else you relied on the radio, or the 303 roundabout on Ceefax. Now, you can almost take more from a match by not going.

What I love about Spurs is the community, the rituals, the shared history and emotion, the promise of Glory – the actual match is almost a vector to carry all of the above in. And thanks to the ruthless commercial exploitation of the Premier League, there are plenty of different ways to be in that number.

Rather than trying to fill the new White Hart Lane with season ticket holders, why not just open it up to first-come first-served every week amongst the members?

Then we can go when we like, sit where and with who we like, and not have to rely on Stubhub to shift our tickets for the games that imminent ex-friends selfishly organise weddings to clash against. Spurs belong to all of us, but with a season ticket you suddenly (or at least your money) belong to the PLC. I’ll be there for the Liverpool game, starting the rollercoaster again. But will I regret not locking myself in? No.