Travelling away
I’m sat on a train.
I should be standing, swaying, rocking in to fellow supporters — singing, chanting or moaning about Sunday services — not sat reading about wines from the region I am heading to. I want to sing, but I’m not sure I even have the songs in me; want to chant, but fear British Transport Police will whisk me away.
I’m sat in an airport departures lounge.
I should be standing amongst giants of men, six deep at that bar. Hollering orders through as I show my ticket to bouncers — thick necked men with hair-trigger views on who can drink in their boozer. Telling me they haven’t seen me before, asking me what stand I am in — trying to sniff out the wrong’uns. Next they’ll be asking me what the time is!
I’m sat on a plane.
I should be inching my way to the front of the queue, fighting with a turnstile that should have been decommissioned in the ’80s. The 1880s. Elbows sharp and extended to stop someone jumping past me. Making eye contact with the turnstile operator — pleasantries exchanged — before a person in a lurid orange hi-vis coat eyes me up and down. Nothing to check here pal.
I’m sat on the bus.
I should be on the concourse. Should be trying to neck as many warm plastic bottles of godawful lager as I can before having to spend 45 minutes sobering up. My taste buds revolt. They refuse to let the liquid-pretending-to-be-beer pass over them. Stomach full — no room at the inn. Then we move, en masse, as one, up the stairs — into the bright sunlight, the rain, the darkness of the stand. Vertigo, or is it alcohol, momentarily grips us round the knees as we sway forward, catching how high up we are. Reflex action forces a song out of our mouths as we move towards our seats — knees pressed into the back of the person in front of us — so that manspreading is the only, comfortable and acceptable way to sit.
I’m sat at the hotel
When I should be waiting for the whistle to blow. Singing loudly. Saluting a mate who sits in another part of the stand. Gearing up for the game to start.
****
For three years I have been travelling to Vercelli — a warm, wonderful, welcoming city with a comatose rather than sleeping giant of a club at its heart. I love going to the games — love more the opportunity to catch up with friends from Vercelli, from Holland — to see the surprised looks on the faces of the locals not yet befriended on Facebook (it already thinks I am Italian) when I tell them I am there for the calcio.
“Juve?”
“No.”
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“Milan?”
“No.”
“Vercelli, no?”
“Vercelli, yes!”
“Why/Perché?”
Four times I have been to watch Pro Vercelli play. Four joyous times where I am still yet to see the side lose; three wins and a draw, with one failed promotion party (put on hold for a month later) that only dampened the spirits slightly. I’ll most probably be back next spring — hoping to see them charge further up the table, and, well, do the unthinkable and secure promotion (via the playoffs, we’re not greedy) to Serie A. The promised land. The sniff of an eighth scudetto tantalisingly closer — yet still so far away.
It’s a simpler experience of following a football team where you get to meet the manager, Claudio Foscarini, doing a last minute supermarket shop on Friday night; or seeing the eventual match winner, Mattia Mustacchio, walk lovingly with his partner through the city before heading off to the stadium, wash bag (what is in those wash bags?) under arm. No security ring, no blacked out windows. Heroes in human form. Could that ever happen again in England?
It’s a far cry from eating a kebab on Tottenham High Road, my real footballing home. Where I cut my teeth, not on gristle, but the concrete terraces as a boy; then a man. A season ticket holder who was then exiled to Leeds — who gave up that ticket as costs, not just footballing costs, soared. £800+ for the ticket. £80+ for a train ticket that can’t be bought too far in advance in case TV steps in and sets up a Super Sunday, Manic Monday or now even a FFS it’s Friday. Even the cost of the beer and peanuts equate to the deposit on a small holding in the country. It’s a well worn path away from the premier league — but to foreign football?
Comparison wise the costs are pretty much the same. £65 for the plane over. £50 or so for the various train and bus fares either side. £8 for the match day ticket — sure the hotel cost and the fact I have to eat out at restaurants skew the final figure greatly, but if I wanted to take this seriously, to throw my hat in with Pro alone, then I could easily do five or more trips across and back within a 24 hour window for not much more than it would cost for the same to see Spurs.
But that’s a logical comparison. You can do all the maths you want when comparing the cost of going to a Premier League match and a match abroad, but you can’t put a price on standing nose to nose with a mate on a crowded tube, or the risk of half a pint of lager sloshing down your front, as a drunken fan spills their beer as they try to get through the masses at the bar. That is always missing when I head over to Vercelli. There is no tube, just a relaxed walk through the eerily quiet city. The fans aren’t drunk, heaven forbid; the bars aren’t crowded — the ground is fairly sedate (unless your Italian is up to understanding the abuse hurled at everyone on the pitch). The buzz isn’t there.
It may well be for Gideon van der Staaij, who talks and writes passionately about the club in the ground or from his home base in Holland. A published author based on his time following the club — he clearly cares. You can see it in his eyes; those bright, child-like eyes as Massimo Secondo, the club president, invites him on to the pitch to present his book to the club. Oh to smile that widely and mean it. He jokes that should Pro put 5 (five) past Como that day, that I will have to eat the local delicacy of fried frogs. I think that sums up my position perfectly — that I am more worried about amphibians than the usual pre-match butterflies in the stomach. Thankfully, for all concerned, Pro win two-nil. Gideon is happy with the win, I am happy with my pasta with truffles.
So what now? Do I rejoin the member’s list at White Hart Lane in a bid to get my season ticket back — one which has thousands of others waiting patiently for the grandiose stadium re-design to come to fruition. A season ticket for one, that won’t include my two young children who may well want to follow Daddy’s dreams of being the “fourth best club in the best league in the world”? Or do I take them, and my better half, to Vercelli a couple of times of year. To eat good food, drink good wine and stay, arm’s length from the passion and dedication required to be a true fan of the club?
The deciding factor, with everything, is money. Money to get to where we want to go and money to feel like I am part of what I want to be. Gideon and I enquired about signing up to become season ticket holders at Pro Vercelli last season, when the club were offering tickets for €50 (for 19 games) in the Curva Nord, where the Ultras sit. Our hopes were dashed by Italian bureaucracy that demand country specific official fan clubs be set up, that would have cost upwards of €20,000 split across club and fans alike. Not a problem if you have a twitter campaign the likes forged by the determination of Sid Lowe and Real Oviedo, but where are we going to find 4,000 fans in the UK to pay €5 a “share” as an extension to playing as Pro on Football Manager and never likely to see them play?
Chances are my life as a football fan will have to remain that horrid, hybrid mix of greater-part media based — shouting at the TV and radio, English for Spurs or dodgy internet feed where Pro are concerned; whilst occasionally making it out to a match where possible. Begging mates to log on for early ticket sales on the Spurs site (never, StubHub) or using contacts in Vercelli to pick up tickets on my behalf. It’s not a bad lot, really. Fried chicken and pints in Tottenham or the fear of Frogs and a good Ruché wine in Vercelli. At least I get to go to matches. What chance for the kids, or the kids of our kids as they are priced and spaced out even more. Maybe they’ll find another way?
I guess, if I am honest, that the balance of jumping around sporadically with Spurs or attending, but being detached with Pro feels better than the alternative — throwing my hat in with a local club I can’t ever see myself loving. But then, can you really fall in love again? Is it possible to ever get that first game sensation back — that first jolt when you feel as you realise, this is my club?
Not for me. I will only ever truly love one club. I just so happen to like being surrounded by wildly gesticulating fans who take great pleasure in informing the referee how he can improve on his performance. Or at least that’s what I think they are say.
Ciao.
