(note: for those that could give a fuck, please proceed to uploading your “didn't read LOL” gifs now. This is admittedly an indulgent effort, but the internet and TFC forum sometimes makes me just want to share. The rest of you, hope you enjoy. COYS)
An Introduction
This is my home. It is roughly 4570 miles from White Hart Lane. You could actually seat the entire town in the ground itself, and Levy would still have room to do his Dr. Evil musings over the rail. By my reckoning I am the only Spurs supporter in my town, ever since another guy here moved to Seattle a few months ago. I am possibly the only Spurs supporter for several hundred miles in all directions, maybe even the whole state.
For the last four years my experience has been confided to a small TV room in the back of our house and dicey internet streams. My celebrations and laments have been singular episodes. Occasionally the missus would join me on the couch, but this was mostly so she could oggle Bale's firm haunches and radiant youth. My oldest daughter is starting to get it, but at not quite 6 years old it still seems odd to her that Daddy jumps up and down at the television screaming and clapping to no one.
It used to frighten her actually.
The Way There
Two weeks ago, standing on the platform in Victoria Station with my mate and goddaughter, I looked around me. It was quiet, and maybe thirty or so people stood waiting for the train. A tall gaunt man in Spurs track top was reading a folded newspaper. A skinny kid listened to his ipod, staring at the tracks, his lilywhite shirt emblazoned with “KING” on the back. Two blokes, one with a Tottenham scarf draped around his neck chatted amongst themselves. While there may have been just five or so of us on that platform, I was now in proximity to more Spurs supporters than in my entire time supporting the club. It took every bit of my will not to “American it” and start chatting them up randomly. I decided to save the dorkiness for this long post.
Starting as a few folks at Victoria, our numbers grew with each station stop. By Highbury & Islington, we were a train with a purpose. Supporters of all types were on board. There were the families, the drinking buddies, the quiet loners staring at their feet, and a small consortium of the verbose who were recapping the season amongst themselves. They lamented the loss of Sandro and wished for early season Defoe form. The smell of beer wafted through the car. Up on the side of the tube car I saw two stickers just below the window, each of them said in navy blue “DML”. I did a double take.
Spooky you cheeky bastard.
The final switch at Seven Sisters to the Overground took it to another level. We were now a herd. The platform was straight Spurs. When the train pulled into our final stop, I caught a glimpse of the top of the stadium.
Disembarking and down on street level, I tried to take in as much as I could on the walk. It looked a gritty neighborhood that reminded me of when I lived on the lower East Side in NYC. The sidewalk ahead was a mass of people, their shoulders moving up and down as they tromped along. We passed a pub and looking in it seemed pretty quiet. Inside, an older man sat at table staring out at the street, lost in thought. Food trailers dotted the area outside the ground, giving it a bit of county fair feel, and people stood about heaving food into themselves before venturing inside.
Up to this point, I'd managed to contain myself. But as we made our way around the north end to our gate and I leered up at the walls of White Hart Lane, a rush came over me. Thinking of a lot of things at once, but mostly how lucky I was to be here at last, I slightly welled up.
Turning to the north east corner, my goddaughter and I found our gate, strangely narrow at first glance as if designed to keep people from storming the ground en masse. When we got into the darker interior, I felt like I was buying a pint of vodka from an all night liquor store. As I handed the woman my goddaughter's ticket and my Spurs card we moved through the crank of the turnstile, and it gave a demonstrative clunk and just like that we found ourselves on the other side.
The Ground, The Game
Romanticizing the lobby of seating area 24 would be simply putting lipstick on a pig. It was as gritty as the neighborhood. For someone like me who grew up in the eighties before the true golden age of sports arenas had arrived, it did remind me of Shea Stadium. The aluminum piss trough in the loo was a throw back I'd not anticipated. God help the poor soul whose bowels needed to conduct serious business on match day. But moving up and out of the darkness of the interior we were met with bright sunshine and the emerald green hue of the pitch.
Our seats were good, 10 rows back, northeast side.
My buddy's ticket, not so much.....
Although later he said it was awesome up there. He could see the game totally unfold.
Down at pitch level we watched the warm ups intently, after a bit I looked up from the pitch to see the ground at nearly full swell.
The crowd came to its feet at kick off and then before I knew it, by near instinct, my hands were spread wide, the sun shining on us, and I was belting at full throat:
“COME ON YOU SPURS! COME ON YOU SPURS! COME ON YOU SPURS!”
Game on and looking back there were some distinct moments that will be with me always. The short thunder of seats flipping up as we got to our feet and craned our necks down the pitch as Bale broke out into space. The strange dude with the African hat, on the North stand swinging some a voodoo rattle, his other hand pushed out into the air in some sort of attempt at telekinesis during our free kicks. The thunderous revolt at Bale's yellow card. The deflected chance off the woodwork and the unified gasps. The crowd. The noise. Oh, and the douche behind me....
Enter the Wanker
The blemish to the day was not our failure at CL qualification. It was the man who ended up right behind us for the game. Apparently the only two words he felt like yelling for much of the match were “FUCK!” and “CUNT!” If it wasn't for the fact that we were in the family section, I wouldn't care. But my goddaughter is 11 and there were what looked to be 6 and 7 year olds in front of us. I leaned over to her and asked if she was ok, if the guy was scaring her.
She looked up at me under the lid of my cap I'd given her to shield the sun. In her sweet English accent she said, “That's ok, I'm awright.”
Good girl.
And ultimately it was not the language that bothered me. It was his fucking attitude. As the game wore on and remained scoreless he became more and more agitated and cynical, spouting off all sorts of crap:
“NO TACTICS!”
at Benoit “QUIT CHEWING YOUR GUM LIKE YOU COULD GIVE A FUCK!”
at Dempsey “WORTHLESS! WHAT 'AS HE EVER DONE FER US?!”
It was as if the worst posters on TFC decided to inhabit the same person simultaneously.
After I think Bale's third free kick attempt he demonstrated that he was at least 4 standard deviations beyond your average wanker:
“WHY IS HE TAKIN' ALL THE FREE KICKS! HE'S AWFUL!”
I turned around at this point and just mouthed at him, “What the fuck?” He averted my gaze and crossed his arms. His final genius came in the last 20 minutes when all he could say is:
“WHAT THE FUCK IS LENNON DOING ON THE LEFT AND BALE ON THE FUCKING RIGHT!”
Over and over again.
And then it happened. A brisk pass to Bale, ON THE RIGHT. He popped it in the air and then brought it to the ground and paused briefly. I have no idea what Bale is thinking about at these moments, these brief pauses he is sometimes allowed as the opposition stands off and waits. Then it was touch, touch and he has sprung away and then like a shot all I manage to see is the inside of the net being pushed back by the ball, the keeper hopelessly on the ground.
Everything went completely mental after that and I am screaming and jumping, and screaming and jumping.
My goddaughter appeared slightly freaked out.
Well Sir Potty Mouth shut the fuck up after that. Didn't hear a peep out of him or his fat ginger son (forgot to mention his spawn which is how he ended up in the family section) for the rest of the match.
The Return Home
The final whistle signaled the end of a roller coaster ride for me. We did not make CL but it was a great finish. Meeting up with my mate outside and he was still awestruck by the Bale blinder. We got in line for the train and things were quiet. Some Sunderland fans made their way to the end of the queue and things were civil. I was struck by how ridiculous they look up close. The stripe kit makes them look clownish. Poor bastards. All this way for nothing.
The return home on the train was the opposite as people dispersed bit by bit, stop after stop. We were soon just a regular train with regular people.
I do not know when I'll be back. It will never be too soon though. Those of you that get to the ground regularly, count your blessings. Those of you that have been putting off the trip, do it as soon as you can.
-Big Sky Spur
An Introduction
This is my home. It is roughly 4570 miles from White Hart Lane. You could actually seat the entire town in the ground itself, and Levy would still have room to do his Dr. Evil musings over the rail. By my reckoning I am the only Spurs supporter in my town, ever since another guy here moved to Seattle a few months ago. I am possibly the only Spurs supporter for several hundred miles in all directions, maybe even the whole state.
For the last four years my experience has been confided to a small TV room in the back of our house and dicey internet streams. My celebrations and laments have been singular episodes. Occasionally the missus would join me on the couch, but this was mostly so she could oggle Bale's firm haunches and radiant youth. My oldest daughter is starting to get it, but at not quite 6 years old it still seems odd to her that Daddy jumps up and down at the television screaming and clapping to no one.
It used to frighten her actually.
The Way There
Two weeks ago, standing on the platform in Victoria Station with my mate and goddaughter, I looked around me. It was quiet, and maybe thirty or so people stood waiting for the train. A tall gaunt man in Spurs track top was reading a folded newspaper. A skinny kid listened to his ipod, staring at the tracks, his lilywhite shirt emblazoned with “KING” on the back. Two blokes, one with a Tottenham scarf draped around his neck chatted amongst themselves. While there may have been just five or so of us on that platform, I was now in proximity to more Spurs supporters than in my entire time supporting the club. It took every bit of my will not to “American it” and start chatting them up randomly. I decided to save the dorkiness for this long post.
Starting as a few folks at Victoria, our numbers grew with each station stop. By Highbury & Islington, we were a train with a purpose. Supporters of all types were on board. There were the families, the drinking buddies, the quiet loners staring at their feet, and a small consortium of the verbose who were recapping the season amongst themselves. They lamented the loss of Sandro and wished for early season Defoe form. The smell of beer wafted through the car. Up on the side of the tube car I saw two stickers just below the window, each of them said in navy blue “DML”. I did a double take.
Spooky you cheeky bastard.
The final switch at Seven Sisters to the Overground took it to another level. We were now a herd. The platform was straight Spurs. When the train pulled into our final stop, I caught a glimpse of the top of the stadium.
Disembarking and down on street level, I tried to take in as much as I could on the walk. It looked a gritty neighborhood that reminded me of when I lived on the lower East Side in NYC. The sidewalk ahead was a mass of people, their shoulders moving up and down as they tromped along. We passed a pub and looking in it seemed pretty quiet. Inside, an older man sat at table staring out at the street, lost in thought. Food trailers dotted the area outside the ground, giving it a bit of county fair feel, and people stood about heaving food into themselves before venturing inside.
Up to this point, I'd managed to contain myself. But as we made our way around the north end to our gate and I leered up at the walls of White Hart Lane, a rush came over me. Thinking of a lot of things at once, but mostly how lucky I was to be here at last, I slightly welled up.
Turning to the north east corner, my goddaughter and I found our gate, strangely narrow at first glance as if designed to keep people from storming the ground en masse. When we got into the darker interior, I felt like I was buying a pint of vodka from an all night liquor store. As I handed the woman my goddaughter's ticket and my Spurs card we moved through the crank of the turnstile, and it gave a demonstrative clunk and just like that we found ourselves on the other side.
The Ground, The Game
Romanticizing the lobby of seating area 24 would be simply putting lipstick on a pig. It was as gritty as the neighborhood. For someone like me who grew up in the eighties before the true golden age of sports arenas had arrived, it did remind me of Shea Stadium. The aluminum piss trough in the loo was a throw back I'd not anticipated. God help the poor soul whose bowels needed to conduct serious business on match day. But moving up and out of the darkness of the interior we were met with bright sunshine and the emerald green hue of the pitch.
Our seats were good, 10 rows back, northeast side.
My buddy's ticket, not so much.....
Although later he said it was awesome up there. He could see the game totally unfold.
Down at pitch level we watched the warm ups intently, after a bit I looked up from the pitch to see the ground at nearly full swell.
The crowd came to its feet at kick off and then before I knew it, by near instinct, my hands were spread wide, the sun shining on us, and I was belting at full throat:
“COME ON YOU SPURS! COME ON YOU SPURS! COME ON YOU SPURS!”
Game on and looking back there were some distinct moments that will be with me always. The short thunder of seats flipping up as we got to our feet and craned our necks down the pitch as Bale broke out into space. The strange dude with the African hat, on the North stand swinging some a voodoo rattle, his other hand pushed out into the air in some sort of attempt at telekinesis during our free kicks. The thunderous revolt at Bale's yellow card. The deflected chance off the woodwork and the unified gasps. The crowd. The noise. Oh, and the douche behind me....
Enter the Wanker
The blemish to the day was not our failure at CL qualification. It was the man who ended up right behind us for the game. Apparently the only two words he felt like yelling for much of the match were “FUCK!” and “CUNT!” If it wasn't for the fact that we were in the family section, I wouldn't care. But my goddaughter is 11 and there were what looked to be 6 and 7 year olds in front of us. I leaned over to her and asked if she was ok, if the guy was scaring her.
She looked up at me under the lid of my cap I'd given her to shield the sun. In her sweet English accent she said, “That's ok, I'm awright.”
Good girl.
And ultimately it was not the language that bothered me. It was his fucking attitude. As the game wore on and remained scoreless he became more and more agitated and cynical, spouting off all sorts of crap:
“NO TACTICS!”
at Benoit “QUIT CHEWING YOUR GUM LIKE YOU COULD GIVE A FUCK!”
at Dempsey “WORTHLESS! WHAT 'AS HE EVER DONE FER US?!”
It was as if the worst posters on TFC decided to inhabit the same person simultaneously.
After I think Bale's third free kick attempt he demonstrated that he was at least 4 standard deviations beyond your average wanker:
“WHY IS HE TAKIN' ALL THE FREE KICKS! HE'S AWFUL!”
I turned around at this point and just mouthed at him, “What the fuck?” He averted my gaze and crossed his arms. His final genius came in the last 20 minutes when all he could say is:
“WHAT THE FUCK IS LENNON DOING ON THE LEFT AND BALE ON THE FUCKING RIGHT!”
Over and over again.
And then it happened. A brisk pass to Bale, ON THE RIGHT. He popped it in the air and then brought it to the ground and paused briefly. I have no idea what Bale is thinking about at these moments, these brief pauses he is sometimes allowed as the opposition stands off and waits. Then it was touch, touch and he has sprung away and then like a shot all I manage to see is the inside of the net being pushed back by the ball, the keeper hopelessly on the ground.
Everything went completely mental after that and I am screaming and jumping, and screaming and jumping.
My goddaughter appeared slightly freaked out.
Well Sir Potty Mouth shut the fuck up after that. Didn't hear a peep out of him or his fat ginger son (forgot to mention his spawn which is how he ended up in the family section) for the rest of the match.
The Return Home
The final whistle signaled the end of a roller coaster ride for me. We did not make CL but it was a great finish. Meeting up with my mate outside and he was still awestruck by the Bale blinder. We got in line for the train and things were quiet. Some Sunderland fans made their way to the end of the queue and things were civil. I was struck by how ridiculous they look up close. The stripe kit makes them look clownish. Poor bastards. All this way for nothing.
The return home on the train was the opposite as people dispersed bit by bit, stop after stop. We were soon just a regular train with regular people.
I do not know when I'll be back. It will never be too soon though. Those of you that get to the ground regularly, count your blessings. Those of you that have been putting off the trip, do it as soon as you can.
-Big Sky Spur
Although it's not too better there!