My Tottenham Hotspur
dream realized
By Alun Thomas
Twenty-four years of sometimes fervent and half-hearted
support for one team reached a long awaited climax on the 17th of September
when I lived the dream of seeing my chosen team for life, Tottenham Hotspur
live in London at the hallowed ground of White Hart Lane, somewhere in rundown
Tottenham itself. It seemed unlikely this would ever occur in my lifetime, but
while on the run in EnglandÕs capital while visiting my brother for a week and
a half the decision was made to achieve the goal of seeing our soccer team in
person. It almost seemed more trouble than it was worth at one moment but the
experience was an eventual life changing moment. Of course I forgot to bring my
camera.
London in September is a pleasant place, stable
temperatures in the seventies, constantly crowded subways, throngs of people to
navigate through the city streets, ales flowing, lots of street knifings to
read about in the paper. With no particular plans in mind on my trip except to
laze around and eat, I decided thatÕs all I do at home so we jointly decided to
venture to a soccer game while I was there. My brother has lived in London for
eight years and had never been to a game, so it was a first for both of us.
Initially we toyed with the idea of going to watch Charlton, another London
side as tickets would be easier to obtain. But upon reading tickets were still
available for TottenhamÕs home game against London rivals Fulham, we decided to
chance our arm and head down to White Hart Lane to procure a pair.
Both of us had nominated Tottenham our side after watching
them beat Queens Park Rangers in the 1982 FA Cup Final, and despite years of
failure, disinterest and ridicule had always stuck with the team. Any real fan
knows once you have a team, thatÕs it. For life bro! As we headed to the
stadium on the Tube I hoped I had enough money for a ticket. Maybe it had been
a mistake to give a busker five pounds for laying down worn out blues riffs.
The walk to the ground once off the train was a few miles and in my whole trip
I observed more police in one area than any other. Both of us also thought we
had been dropped off in an obscure part of Africa. I had often read the ground
was located in a fairly undesirable area of the city. Once arriving at the
ticketing office we secured two reasonably priced tickets that broke us both
financially. We walked back to my brothers place. It took us thirteen hours.
But we had the tickets.
On game day we left an hour and a half before kick off to
leave enough time for the ride there again. Halfway through the tube ride the
train was stopped, with claims the train was to be repaired. We appeared to be
stuffed. ÔWhy werenÕt we notified beforehand?Õ my brother raged at a subway
official. ÔSigns were posted sirÕ he calmly responded. ÔThen how come I didnÕt
see any all week then?Õ he shot back. ÔIÕm sorry sir, you were notified,Õ came
the smug reply. ÔBollocks!Õ Racing against time and thanks to my brothers
knowledge of the tube system we made our way on time, with all the odds defied.
On the train with a mass of other Tottenham fans, the excitement grew, as I
watched a family stuff their faces with McDonaldÕs and a Korean downing three
cans of Carling in ten minutes.
Once arriving at the station we followed the crowd to the
ground. In full view, the fans, the noise, home team colours, the dilapidated
housing estates, food stalls, the Spurs cockerill emblem ablaze in the sun all
combined to create a dream state. Cornball perhaps, but this was a lifetime
ambition being realised. Coming up the stairs to the full view of the ground, I
had to pause and take it all in. Sell out crowd, a stadium IÕd watched a
thousand times on TV and now we were here. We took our seats right at the back
of the family section, North Tier. Sitting next to us was a lad with down syndrome.
ÔUhhhhÕ was all he could muster for the next two hours.
The game kicked off seconds after we sat. The crowd was
positive at first, despite TottenhamÕs weak start to the season. The first half
was mostly appalling soccer, as Spurs failed to break down FulhamÕs packed
defense. The crowd started to become restless. ÔCome on you Spurs!Õ was heard.
Then Ôcome on you whites!Õ and best of all Ôdo something!Õ Half time came and
the score was 0-0. Watching in person the game seems more watchable than on TV
where itÕs easy to drift off. The 45 minutes passed in an instant. Still hopes
were high as the second half kicked off, surely the Spurs would pull it out.
Come on lads, do it for us, our first and maybe only game!
It became clear Spurs were incapable of scoring despite a
mountain of possession. The crowd turned on their heroes. Spurs manager Martin
Jol hadnÕt made a substitution yet. ÔWakey wakey Jol!Õ screamed an irate fan.
ÔHold the ball you useless prick!Õ fumed another as the ball was given away.
ÔCome on Mido, do somethingÕ one directed at SpursÕ out-of-form striker.
ÔFucking crapÕ was heard hundreds of times. This was the family section. I
watched fans pointing at the vast expanses of field as the ball failed to be
moved into space. ÔMove the bloody thing! Take them on!Õ A Fulham player milked
the clock walking off the field injured. Chorus of boos. ÔBloody JudasÕ someone
said to an ex Tottenham player now playing for the opposition, forgetting he
was rubbish to begin with.
As the clock would down it became obvious the Spurs
wouldnÕt score and a 0-0 draw was the only outcome. Fans left in droves. We
stayed until the bitter end. As poor as the game was I didnÕt want it to end.
But it did. The down syndrome boy started crying, saddened by the result. Spurs
were booed off the pitch on the final whistle. The weak start continued. ÔWeÕve
only scored two goals this season!Õ I overheard. ÔMust be a European hangoverÕ someone theorized
about a midweek game in the UEFA cup. But nobody was too upset. TheyÕd seen
worse. All of us had. It was with regret we walked out of the stadium and onto
the packed train. There were no running street battles with hooligans. We were
20 years too late for that.
I have the ticket from the day. To attend something IÕd
watched my whole life was a magnificent experience. The atmosphere was all
expected, once in a lifetime stuff if you donÕt have access to it on a regular
basis. Being caught up with homegrown supporters, feeling the anticipation and
seeing the sights and sounds, you canÕt beat it. IÕve been to sporting events
here in the U.S. and they canÕt compare. The fans arenÕt as amusing; thereÕs
more colour in the stands over the Atlantic. It was better than the game
itself. Having left on a one way ticket I had to take a loan from a shark to
make it home, but heÕll never find me. One dream completed. Six thousand left
to go.