There are many reasons why someone chooses too support a certain football team,birth right,my fathers father,location! List is endless but what is it about Tottenham Hotspur football club that gets the heart beating just a little bit faster,pulse racing the thing that just makes you want to go "yes" that my team?
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I grew up with most of my family being woolwich fans so i was a kind of a woolwich fan (don't crucify me) i didnt really care for football at the time it was my 4th favourite sport if u could even call it a favourite . Around when Bale was sold i really started watching football and i decided to become a Tottenham fan. PS i live in canada and the Woolwich Tottenham rivalry i didnt really understand till i became a fan of the club.
Got a mate who's a ST holder shelf side....years of discussing his misery sucked me in. It was a natural fit, the last time any sports team I support won anything worthwhile was the mid 90s. You could say I was pre-conditioned.
Father passed it down to me like most others, also just that we have always been a bit different to all the other clubs. When I started supporting Tottenham not many people had even heard of them down under let alone follow them, a lot different now.
An American Pilgrim in N17
Mumbles and groans in front of the bathroom mirror. “Yep, that’s a grey hair.”
Having just entered the thirty-ninth of my years with something less than grace I stare at my reflection. Competent, multi-talented, devoted, responsible, and altogether safe- the world sees me in high-definition. This is the perfect presentation for a successful elementary school teacher living in their suburban San Diego school’s community. Parents can be confident that they know me and that their children will be both educated and be influenced by a role model of defined quality. What many don’t see is that a certain passion presses my pulse. Football.
It began with my son’s birth. After dabbling as an infrequent viewer of the beautiful game for a good few years I found myself on the eve of the 2006 world cup with a tidy little baby boy delivered by fate at almost seven weeks premature. He was frail and tiny and perfect. The requirements of his underdeveloped digestive systems led to many very early mornings with pumped-bottle feedings. These quiet mornings found the television tuned to the stirring global competition. As I was caring for my new charge I found myself falling in love with two things- my son, of course, and football.
Concurrently, European Football began to be incredibly accessible to viewers in San Diego. Naturally I began to seek out matches televised from top leagues. The English Premiership cast an easy lure as the frenetic athleticism and cultural familiarity appealed to both my heritage and American sportsman’s spirit. Then, before I knew it, the stylish but dogged competitors at Tottenham Hotspur had captured my loyalties.
Early mornings and late evenings were spent reading articles and watching highlights and matches from both the present and rich history of the football heavyweights from North London. “What’re you singing?” my wife would inquire, having overheard names like Defoe and Keane in passing. “Oh, just a bit of football chanting.” “You mean soccer, right?” “Right.” It was a lonely life, this Tottenham Man’s.
For well over five years I never met another American Tottenham Supporter. My circle of acquaintances included only a smattering of casual soccer fans, most of whom were sold on the tinny shine of Manchester United or the manufactured faux-elegance of Woolwich. “Totten-ham Hotspurs? Who are they?” I didn’t even realize that there were Pubs that showed the brutally early matches that I adored on bleak weekend mornings to small groups of expats and sadistic four a.m. loyalists.
The internet was my saving grace. There, through the shimmer of digital teleportation, I could converse with those who lived and breathed Spurs, for whom the names and memories were first-hand and personal. I envied and admired screen names for their stories of travels to the sacred sites of Tottenham lore- events and places I had witnessed through television. Oh, to be there when Bale inspired the famous chant, calling a Taxi for Maicon, or when Rose’s indescribable volley rippled the net in victory over the rivals from down the road, Woolwich.
It must’ve been 2011 when I began to attend periodic matches at the unabashedly tacky English Pub in central San Diego. For long periods of time it was a rarity to find another Tottenham shirt in the small crowds that gathered. But when we were together, the shared love of our Lilywhites drew us closer together. I founded a page on social media where more and more San Diegans who were so inclined could meet and enjoy matches together. Before long an official supporters’ club sprung forth, filled with spirited and devoted fans, proud to wear the colours of our beloved Tottenham Hotspur. I am proud to have been a part of drawing our community together and deeply enjoy the supporters’ club as both a haven of friends and fellow Spurs fans.
But still.
San Diego is no England, for all the good and bad. There is no exaggerating the exquisite quality of life we enjoy. Recreation is everywhere and weather is seldom an inhibiting factor. Beauty reigns in both natural and human form. But in a city seemingly full of people who have come from elsewhere, it is hard to find depth of authenticity. This is what I craved. I longed to know the ground and land and people that were authentically football, and more importantly, authentically Tottenham.
Before the founding of San Diego Spurs, an English Spurs supporter and I made contact through a Tottenham messageboard. He was visiting San Diego and inquired about where and when to watch a match and any city highlights to enjoy. Being both curious about this Englishman and proud of my city I offered guidance and a friendly hand. We watched a match together and became fast friends. In subsequent visits he and his wife only endeared themselves further through Padres’ baseball games and walks through San Diego. “You have to come to England, mate. You have to.”
I had never been overseas. Mexico? Of course. Canada? Yes. but I’d never travelled inter-continentally. Tottenham made me do it.
After a long red-eye from San Diego I arrived at London’s Heathrow airport to be met by April’s slate-grey skies and the charming welcome of my friend. It was time to grow some roots. We were to journey four hours north in a quest to Merseyside’s Anfield Stadium to watch our beloved Spurs battle with Liverpool. For the first time in many decades Tottenham were legitimate title-contenders. Each match in this late stage of the season meant something. Each match carried importance. “You really couldn’t have come for a better string of fixtures.” “I know. I’m absolutely buzzing.” and I was, in both the jetlag-caffeine sense and the pure excitement of arriving as a pilgrim to a sacred land.
Entering the concourse below the away fans’ stand, I felt the reverberations of the chanting and singing before discerning the words or seeing the faces of the singers.These were boys in blue, sharply dressed in the pseudo-uniform of the English Football Lad. The rhythms and choruses were familiar. And where a moment ago I felt only the haze of travel and excitement of expectation, now there was a pure energy and engagement. The songs were mine. The chants mine. The crowd of Spurs Brothers, mine.
The match passed by in nervy competition. An even, open match saw many chances for each side end in a fair 1-1 draw. After a flurry of late chances for Tottenham went without reward I couldn’t help but think that the two points not captured might signal the end of the title chase for our boys in white. Still we sang and clapped the Tottenham players off the pitch with pride. As the players turned to acknowledge the travelling fans I realized that they were clapping for me. Me. A middle-aged San Diego surfer who is a relative newcomer to the love of the game and team. I am not ashamed to say that through the singing my voice broke a bit and a tear formed.
Several days later, after visits to the fair English countryside and coastal towns to the south, complete with castles and cathedrals, I visited my sacred site for the first time. “Really, it’s no problem at all. Take a look at the construction site. Lots being done here.” Through a connection with the club, my friend had not only booked a tour of the famous White Hart Lane, home of Tottenham Hotspur, but also gained me a peak at construction of the new stadium works. “Impressive.” I replied as I watched the work, but my eyes were drawn to the outside walls of the current stadium, just beyond.
Moments later I was inside. I sat in the manager’s seat in the press room. Fun. I walked through the hospitality suites and saw trophies from the era of push-and-run football, Bill Nicholson’s famous 1960’s sides, and more modern exploits. Amazing. “Just wait.” my friend said, a look of expectation gracing his knowing face. Emerging through a corridor, I gazed out upon the famous ground. The immaculate green pitch framed by a coliseum of blue seats. “To Dare is to Do”, the club mantra, enveloping the pitch from the stands. My first glimpse came with a gasp. Silence and contemplation. And again, a tear. I couldn’t speak. My cathedral was there in front of me and I was at worship.
This may seem overstated. But it is not. The only similar experiences I have had were in encounter with great wonders of the natural world- Yosemite at dusk, a great oceanic swell cracking against a pacific reef, a crystalline lake at the foot of the Grand Teton mountain range. Pictures were taken and memories locked in that locus that feeds the soul.
My week’s visit went on with highlights in and around London. The Tower and The Tate, The Palace and The Gallery were all on the agenda. As were morning runs along Camden’s canals and around Regent’s Park. A visit to see the storied Thames-side ground of Craven Cottage, home of Fulham Football Club, fulfilled a particular interest of mine. I was even treated to an extra time winner for the home side- scored by an American! “They must’ve known you were coming.” laughed the local gentlemen who quite celebrated both the winning goal and the peculiar fact that an American football fan was sat next to him at the midline of a second-division Championship League match between the seventh and seventeenth placed teams.
Through all of this, though, I looked towards Sunday at The Lane, when I would see Tottenham play for a vital three point victory against Manchester United, who were a shadow of their former glory but still a dangerous opponent.
Arriving at the #8, a North London pub and popular pre-match gathering place for Spurs fans, I was enveloped by a mass of people, many of whom sported Tottenham regalia- a difference from the conservatively dressed away fans from the weekend before at Anfield. Open talk was about equal parts athletic sport and social sport, with a friend recounting adventures from the previous night’s undertakings. As the clock crept towards kickoff the gathered crowd eased down the road to White Hart Lane. Entering the concourse under The Park Lane stand, storied for its diehard support and buoyant atmosphere, I breathed deeply and tried to hold tight to the senses’ gifts. Smells of drinks and food, the rhythms of the turnstiles, the taught accent of bantering English youth, and the sounds of song. As written in my heart’s script, I started in with the chants myself, arms around lads I’d never met, but knew at least in part. Hands aloft in chorus with hundreds, soon to be thousands. “Oh When The Spurs, Go Marching In!.....”
The match began tensely with Manchester United having the better of the ball but never really threatening Tottenham’s goal. Two missed chances from Spurs put the crowd into play. Chanting reached heights that must’ve echoed back to the Thames all the way from N17. Still, halftime showed no score. When play resumed Tottenham were on top from the go. And in six glorious minutes a Deli Alli goal, a Toby Alderweireld header, and an Erik Lamela strike put the game out of Manchester United’s reach. Spurs had taken a glorious victory and the supporters and players knew it. “He’s magic, you know! Mauricio Pochettino!” the crowd sang in honor of Tottenham’s Argentine manager, recognizing that this team in this moment are something special. And it was magic.
After a drink and a bit of merriment at a popular post-match bar I slipped onto my southbound train. Surrounded by Tottenham supporters on my journey back towards central London I couldn’t help but hum a few familiar tunes, just under my breath. A twenty-something girl dressed in Spurs colours joined in and before long half the car was singing along through the ecstasy of a famous win and the remaining liquidity of spirit provided by celebratory drinks.
A day later I was Westbound on an airplane home, to where my Spurs songs would again be foreign and puzzling, as many consider my devotion to a team halfway around the world to be. But I carry with me the grounded understanding that I am one of many, many football fans in the world who cherish their great team, Tottenham Hotspur. And though discretion and responsibility must rule the day, most every day, there must still be room for passion.
Mumbles and groans in front of the bathroom mirror. “Yep, that’s a grey hair.”
Having just entered the thirty-ninth of my years with something less than grace I stare at my reflection. Competent, multi-talented, devoted, responsible, and altogether safe- the world sees me in high-definition. This is the perfect presentation for a successful elementary school teacher living in their suburban San Diego school’s community. Parents can be confident that they know me and that their children will be both educated and be influenced by a role model of defined quality. What many don’t see is that a certain passion presses my pulse. Football.
It began with my son’s birth. After dabbling as an infrequent viewer of the beautiful game for a good few years I found myself on the eve of the 2006 world cup with a tidy little baby boy delivered by fate at almost seven weeks premature. He was frail and tiny and perfect. The requirements of his underdeveloped digestive systems led to many very early mornings with pumped-bottle feedings. These quiet mornings found the television tuned to the stirring global competition. As I was caring for my new charge I found myself falling in love with two things- my son, of course, and football.
Concurrently, European Football began to be incredibly accessible to viewers in San Diego. Naturally I began to seek out matches televised from top leagues. The English Premiership cast an easy lure as the frenetic athleticism and cultural familiarity appealed to both my heritage and American sportsman’s spirit. Then, before I knew it, the stylish but dogged competitors at Tottenham Hotspur had captured my loyalties.
Early mornings and late evenings were spent reading articles and watching highlights and matches from both the present and rich history of the football heavyweights from North London. “What’re you singing?” my wife would inquire, having overheard names like Defoe and Keane in passing. “Oh, just a bit of football chanting.” “You mean soccer, right?” “Right.” It was a lonely life, this Tottenham Man’s.
For well over five years I never met another American Tottenham Supporter. My circle of acquaintances included only a smattering of casual soccer fans, most of whom were sold on the tinny shine of Manchester United or the manufactured faux-elegance of Woolwich. “Totten-ham Hotspurs? Who are they?” I didn’t even realize that there were Pubs that showed the brutally early matches that I adored on bleak weekend mornings to small groups of expats and sadistic four a.m. loyalists.
The internet was my saving grace. There, through the shimmer of digital teleportation, I could converse with those who lived and breathed Spurs, for whom the names and memories were first-hand and personal. I envied and admired screen names for their stories of travels to the sacred sites of Tottenham lore- events and places I had witnessed through television. Oh, to be there when Bale inspired the famous chant, calling a Taxi for Maicon, or when Rose’s indescribable volley rippled the net in victory over the rivals from down the road, Woolwich.
It must’ve been 2011 when I began to attend periodic matches at the unabashedly tacky English Pub in central San Diego. For long periods of time it was a rarity to find another Tottenham shirt in the small crowds that gathered. But when we were together, the shared love of our Lilywhites drew us closer together. I founded a page on social media where more and more San Diegans who were so inclined could meet and enjoy matches together. Before long an official supporters’ club sprung forth, filled with spirited and devoted fans, proud to wear the colours of our beloved Tottenham Hotspur. I am proud to have been a part of drawing our community together and deeply enjoy the supporters’ club as both a haven of friends and fellow Spurs fans.
But still.
San Diego is no England, for all the good and bad. There is no exaggerating the exquisite quality of life we enjoy. Recreation is everywhere and weather is seldom an inhibiting factor. Beauty reigns in both natural and human form. But in a city seemingly full of people who have come from elsewhere, it is hard to find depth of authenticity. This is what I craved. I longed to know the ground and land and people that were authentically football, and more importantly, authentically Tottenham.
Before the founding of San Diego Spurs, an English Spurs supporter and I made contact through a Tottenham messageboard. He was visiting San Diego and inquired about where and when to watch a match and any city highlights to enjoy. Being both curious about this Englishman and proud of my city I offered guidance and a friendly hand. We watched a match together and became fast friends. In subsequent visits he and his wife only endeared themselves further through Padres’ baseball games and walks through San Diego. “You have to come to England, mate. You have to.”
I had never been overseas. Mexico? Of course. Canada? Yes. but I’d never travelled inter-continentally. Tottenham made me do it.
After a long red-eye from San Diego I arrived at London’s Heathrow airport to be met by April’s slate-grey skies and the charming welcome of my friend. It was time to grow some roots. We were to journey four hours north in a quest to Merseyside’s Anfield Stadium to watch our beloved Spurs battle with Liverpool. For the first time in many decades Tottenham were legitimate title-contenders. Each match in this late stage of the season meant something. Each match carried importance. “You really couldn’t have come for a better string of fixtures.” “I know. I’m absolutely buzzing.” and I was, in both the jetlag-caffeine sense and the pure excitement of arriving as a pilgrim to a sacred land.
Entering the concourse below the away fans’ stand, I felt the reverberations of the chanting and singing before discerning the words or seeing the faces of the singers.These were boys in blue, sharply dressed in the pseudo-uniform of the English Football Lad. The rhythms and choruses were familiar. And where a moment ago I felt only the haze of travel and excitement of expectation, now there was a pure energy and engagement. The songs were mine. The chants mine. The crowd of Spurs Brothers, mine.
The match passed by in nervy competition. An even, open match saw many chances for each side end in a fair 1-1 draw. After a flurry of late chances for Tottenham went without reward I couldn’t help but think that the two points not captured might signal the end of the title chase for our boys in white. Still we sang and clapped the Tottenham players off the pitch with pride. As the players turned to acknowledge the travelling fans I realized that they were clapping for me. Me. A middle-aged San Diego surfer who is a relative newcomer to the love of the game and team. I am not ashamed to say that through the singing my voice broke a bit and a tear formed.
Several days later, after visits to the fair English countryside and coastal towns to the south, complete with castles and cathedrals, I visited my sacred site for the first time. “Really, it’s no problem at all. Take a look at the construction site. Lots being done here.” Through a connection with the club, my friend had not only booked a tour of the famous White Hart Lane, home of Tottenham Hotspur, but also gained me a peak at construction of the new stadium works. “Impressive.” I replied as I watched the work, but my eyes were drawn to the outside walls of the current stadium, just beyond.
Moments later I was inside. I sat in the manager’s seat in the press room. Fun. I walked through the hospitality suites and saw trophies from the era of push-and-run football, Bill Nicholson’s famous 1960’s sides, and more modern exploits. Amazing. “Just wait.” my friend said, a look of expectation gracing his knowing face. Emerging through a corridor, I gazed out upon the famous ground. The immaculate green pitch framed by a coliseum of blue seats. “To Dare is to Do”, the club mantra, enveloping the pitch from the stands. My first glimpse came with a gasp. Silence and contemplation. And again, a tear. I couldn’t speak. My cathedral was there in front of me and I was at worship.
This may seem overstated. But it is not. The only similar experiences I have had were in encounter with great wonders of the natural world- Yosemite at dusk, a great oceanic swell cracking against a pacific reef, a crystalline lake at the foot of the Grand Teton mountain range. Pictures were taken and memories locked in that locus that feeds the soul.
My week’s visit went on with highlights in and around London. The Tower and The Tate, The Palace and The Gallery were all on the agenda. As were morning runs along Camden’s canals and around Regent’s Park. A visit to see the storied Thames-side ground of Craven Cottage, home of Fulham Football Club, fulfilled a particular interest of mine. I was even treated to an extra time winner for the home side- scored by an American! “They must’ve known you were coming.” laughed the local gentlemen who quite celebrated both the winning goal and the peculiar fact that an American football fan was sat next to him at the midline of a second-division Championship League match between the seventh and seventeenth placed teams.
Through all of this, though, I looked towards Sunday at The Lane, when I would see Tottenham play for a vital three point victory against Manchester United, who were a shadow of their former glory but still a dangerous opponent.
Arriving at the #8, a North London pub and popular pre-match gathering place for Spurs fans, I was enveloped by a mass of people, many of whom sported Tottenham regalia- a difference from the conservatively dressed away fans from the weekend before at Anfield. Open talk was about equal parts athletic sport and social sport, with a friend recounting adventures from the previous night’s undertakings. As the clock crept towards kickoff the gathered crowd eased down the road to White Hart Lane. Entering the concourse under The Park Lane stand, storied for its diehard support and buoyant atmosphere, I breathed deeply and tried to hold tight to the senses’ gifts. Smells of drinks and food, the rhythms of the turnstiles, the taught accent of bantering English youth, and the sounds of song. As written in my heart’s script, I started in with the chants myself, arms around lads I’d never met, but knew at least in part. Hands aloft in chorus with hundreds, soon to be thousands. “Oh When The Spurs, Go Marching In!.....”
The match began tensely with Manchester United having the better of the ball but never really threatening Tottenham’s goal. Two missed chances from Spurs put the crowd into play. Chanting reached heights that must’ve echoed back to the Thames all the way from N17. Still, halftime showed no score. When play resumed Tottenham were on top from the go. And in six glorious minutes a Deli Alli goal, a Toby Alderweireld header, and an Erik Lamela strike put the game out of Manchester United’s reach. Spurs had taken a glorious victory and the supporters and players knew it. “He’s magic, you know! Mauricio Pochettino!” the crowd sang in honor of Tottenham’s Argentine manager, recognizing that this team in this moment are something special. And it was magic.
After a drink and a bit of merriment at a popular post-match bar I slipped onto my southbound train. Surrounded by Tottenham supporters on my journey back towards central London I couldn’t help but hum a few familiar tunes, just under my breath. A twenty-something girl dressed in Spurs colours joined in and before long half the car was singing along through the ecstasy of a famous win and the remaining liquidity of spirit provided by celebratory drinks.
A day later I was Westbound on an airplane home, to where my Spurs songs would again be foreign and puzzling, as many consider my devotion to a team halfway around the world to be. But I carry with me the grounded understanding that I am one of many, many football fans in the world who cherish their great team, Tottenham Hotspur. And though discretion and responsibility must rule the day, most every day, there must still be room for passion.
Cool story, bro
The name, the shirt and moments like this
Mum from Liverpool and Dad is West Ham. Never got pushed to support a club.
I was born in Middlesex hospital and spent the first 3-4 years of my life in Tottenham but I think it was more watching Gazza, seeing the great white shirts and the name Tottenham Hotspur is just such a great name. When your a kid the little things matter.
I guess you can say it was the style we played football and the style in general that got me hooked. Despite all the pain I have no regret.
I was born in Middlesex hospital and spent the first 3-4 years of my life in Tottenham but I think it was more watching Gazza, seeing the great white shirts and the name Tottenham Hotspur is just such a great name. When your a kid the little things matter.
I guess you can say it was the style we played football and the style in general that got me hooked. Despite all the pain I have no regret.
....so to cut a long story short;
For me, it was 'cos all the school bullies HAPPENED to be Gooners!
I was born in Stoke Newington, so to be fair, a simple Left or Right turn would decide my destiny!
Left down the Seven Sisters Road towards Islington...
or Right, and towards the bright lights of Tottenham High Road...
And to a life of wondering, "what if?"
My little feet on the pavements of Blackhorse Road area of Walthamstow were encouraged down Ferryboat Lane, around the one way system and along the high road by a baseball cap my brother bought me when I was about 3 years old. Although given where we were from it was the logical choice regardless.
I've never completely figured it out, but Orient might well have been slightly closer as the crow flies but never considered that a "local" club and Walthamstow Avenue we never went to
Edit: just checked it is 2.5 miles to Orient and 2.5 miles to WHL. Both taking 12 minutes according to AA Route planner ( now takes me 20 minutes and is 6 miles )
I've never completely figured it out, but Orient might well have been slightly closer as the crow flies but never considered that a "local" club and Walthamstow Avenue we never went to
Edit: just checked it is 2.5 miles to Orient and 2.5 miles to WHL. Both taking 12 minutes according to AA Route planner ( now takes me 20 minutes and is 6 miles )
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I spent the first 5 years of my life in Bounds Green before moving to Suffolk. I vaguely remember the kids in my new neighbourhood discussing which team they were going to support and I spoke to my dad about it. He was a Man U supporter, having become interested in football around the time of the Busby Babes, and he would tell me about them and the Munich air disaster, and how one of the survivors, Jackie Blanchflower, had an older brother who played in one of the best teams he'd ever seen - the Spurs side of the early 60's.
I'm sure his intention was to sell Man U to me, but I bought Spurs, partly because I loved the idea of them being better, even in his eyes, than the team he was passionate about, and partly because it seemed appropriate, even at 5/6 years of age, to support a team local to what I still considered to be my north London 'home'.
I'm sure his intention was to sell Man U to me, but I bought Spurs, partly because I loved the idea of them being better, even in his eyes, than the team he was passionate about, and partly because it seemed appropriate, even at 5/6 years of age, to support a team local to what I still considered to be my north London 'home'.
Most of my family and friends are Woolwich fans but I was never really pushed into supporting anyone. I think I was about 9 or 10 when I first really started getting into football and I was looking for a team to support, being in Essex right on the border of east London I was told to choose anyone as long as they were a London club, so for whatever reason I chose Spurs (think I liked the kit or something at the time, fuck knows)
Came from a Spurs family. Great Grand dad & Grand Dad out of Clerkenwell(up until the 30s both there and kings x were more Tottenham than gooner)Dad out of Tottenham, me born and lived Enfield.Then moved to Hoddesdon, another Tottenham area.
I didn't choose Spurs, they chose me
I didn't choose Spurs, they chose me
My parents bought me a Shoot! magazine or similar as a 5yr old back in 1980/81, and it had one of those movable league table wallchart things - remember, you used to move the teams up or down the slots depending on where the were in the league.
To cut a long story short, as I was first doing it I decided I needed to pick myself a team, and thought the best sounding team name by far was Tottenham Hotspur. So they became my team.
I only found out years later, that half my family were Spurs fans and the other side were dirty Woolwich fans.
To cut a long story short, as I was first doing it I decided I needed to pick myself a team, and thought the best sounding team name by far was Tottenham Hotspur. So they became my team.
I only found out years later, that half my family were Spurs fans and the other side were dirty Woolwich fans.