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Home Match
(Published in The London Miscellany December 2009)
It's strange to be going back. This is Myfanwy's first big match, at White Hart Lane, but she won't boast about it at school. She's Man U there, along with many in Year Four, while the others are Arsenal. Perhaps Spurs will tempt her.
Boarding the train at Hackney Downs, Spurs supporters chat and jostle, I grab the one seat left, put Myf on my lap. I listen to the jokes, watch the faces, note the fashion, short bomber jackets, well-pressed chinos, Ben Sherman shirts, Levis, expensive trainers. Spurs fans always had style.
'How many stops, Dad?'
'Not many.'
The early May sun is watery on Hackney Marshes. The Lea canal sparkles darkly. Vegetation on the embankments is almost festive as it sways in the wind-pull of the wheels. Bright graffiti livens up the concrete skateboard park. From the train I see abandoned railway huts, an overgrown path that would once have been a road, a few ruined houses. I am pleased to be distracted.
'Bruce Grove, Dad.'
We get off and walk down the curving path. People drift past. Many of the shops have old-fashioned frontages. The sun covers everything and I feel happy.
'Which way, Dad?'
Walking along Tottenham High Road the sun maintains its cheeriness. A fine Georgian building suggests a once genteel Tottenham. The momentum of the fans sauntering up the road excites us both.
'Quite cheap, Dad.'
Myfanwy points to a stall of Tottenham scarves and shirts. As she already has Arsenal, Man U and Roma gear I explain that she should perhaps develop a sense of real loyalty to one club.
'Oh Dad.'
I used to come from Egham, with two other boys I didn't know well, to see Tottenham play, from 1969 to 1971. The worst time was when I was just sixteen and had my first motorbike. I decided to go to an evening match, and found my way on to the North Circular and got lost. It began to rain, and rain, and rain. I was freezing.
We turn off the High Road into Scotland Green, a small road of little shops, Victorian terrace houses and two pubs. We go in to the second one, The Two Brewers, with a sign over the door, 'For Home Fans Only'. The woodwork is painted in Spurs colours. Inside the large spartan bar Spurs supporters of every size and shape laugh and joke and drink. Their collective buzz vibrates, I buy drinks and crisps, we sit in the garden, then stand outside the pub. The road leads down to a river or canal. The scene feels out of time, as if this working-class community has been by-passed by the modern world. We head off.
'There's just time, Dad.'
Myfanwy leads me in to the Spurs shop, we mooch around, she finds a half-price Spurs baseball-style cap, white cotton, the nicest in the shop.
'Okay wretch,' I say, 'I'll buy it.'
When I came as a boy I was never part of anything, though I liked the football. But the worst time was on my motorbike, I couldn't find my way home, so cold, so wet. Eventually I saw 'North Circular', the bike was spluttering. When I got home the house was in darkness and I was so wretched I could only just get off the bike.
Mother was in bed and said nothing as I came in. Father had died six months before. I hobbled in to the bathroom, between my father's room and my mother's room.
Inside the stadium, climbing the stairs, the sound oomphs from the crowd, Myfanwy grips the programme. We find our seats, the players come out, she comments like a pro on a player she recognises from her Match Attax cards.
'Wow, Dad, wow!'
We watch absorbed, munch sandwiches and crisps. I feel at home. Not a great match, Spurs win 1-0, scored a second that was disallowed. As always Spurs hint at brilliance but never fully deliver.
The bath filled up, I sobbed and like a Meccano model managed to get my body in the water, and after a long time I unfroze. When I looked around the bathroom, I thought of my Dad's spluttering morning cough, and hated the cold green tiles round the bath.
'Look at those West Brom fans, Myf,' I point to the stand opposite, 'even though they're relegated they still sing their hearts out.'
'Yeah, yeah.'
We walk back down the High Road.
'I'm Spurs now, really.'
The sky is very blue, the wind sharp. At a table two ex-Spurs players are signing copies of the programme.
'Is it free, Dad?'
I think it is and she lines up with her programme. Micky Hazard, who had been there as we walked to the game, is still smiling and says something nice to her. I don't recognise the other player. When we examine his autograph we can't decipher it. The hot dog stand tempts me but I think of my weight.
'Nice watch.'
She points in a jeweller's window.
'Oh Myf.'
She does need one. We go in, the bearded Greek owner makes my daughter laugh, she chooses a small rectangular watch, with a swirling light-blue face and a matching strap. She walks out, holding up her wrist.
I look straight down the road, which glows in the late-afternoon sun. I want to walk on to see where it leads. Myfanwy stands by the traffic lights at the junction and stretches her arm towards me.
'This way, Myf.' I put her hand in mine.
We get on the train, chatter, make a wrong connection, jump on a bus in Stoke Newington, and get home at seven.
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