Broken Hearts & 45s

Football. A universal language. A openly abusive relationship that you find hard to escape morally based purely on geographical grounds.

It’s routinely made me fall in and out of love with regular disregard to my emotions outside of the laws of the game and will continue to do so until I leave this mortal coil.


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Should you be lucky enough to be born within the postal codes that cover the Nou Camp or the Bernabau then life is routinely made somewhat easier as a football fan. Even those raised within the poorer parts of Glasgow get largely some routine emotional relief through being born into a footballing realm where silverware and glory are never far from the horizon.

Yes you’ll suffer pain, misery, embarrassment and heartbreak but it’s tempered by the regular winning of trophies and dominance of respective leagues.

But no. I was born in Plaistow. Into a family of West Ham fans. Once I at an early age discovered the existence of the beautiful game, I was through geography alone, on a path to a life less glory filled, but nonetheless character building.

I fell in love with West Ham through osmosis. As I say, family ties and geography dictated. Travelling past this vast building which magnetically drew people to it. Which was home to people I saw on tv, in Shoot, and Match, wearing claret and blue. It was a home before I’d even set foot in the place. An extension of my local area, my surroundings and my developing persona.

Long before I managed to set foot in the Boleyn Ground, I immersed myself into the club, its history and culture. An avid reader with, due to my family, an extensive collection of tomes to read, I did so. Assimilating knowledge of the game itself but as much as I could of West Ham.

I’d already fallen in love with West Ham at the age of six, very soon after we were FA Cup champions. Swashbuckling our way to the Second Division title, playing European football, generally being further enticing although offering early introductions to heartbreak. Losing our FA cup reign in Wales. Luton becoming early targets for contempt and not being able to win against Liverpool in cup finals. These themes were unwittingly were to resurface as time passed.

I fell in love with the Boleyn Ground at first sight. Just as schoolboy crushes hit hard and linger. The moment I first set foot in the ground and soaked up the atmosphere. The environment, sights, smells and people within it were intoxicating. I spent most of that first game, Southampton on Boxing Day 1983 watching and analysing the crowds as much as the football. I was hooked further. Not by the football, but by how it brought this cacophony of emotions, sounds and senses together.


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I learnt quickly that optimism was often misplaced. Daring to dream was an occupational hazard rather than a genuine option. The boys of 85/86 brought me the nearest to the ultimate. Tweaks would surely see us grow and become true giants. Within a few years we’d lost not only hope but our stars, manager and top flight status. But still my heart was yet to be broken.

The first time came in the aftermath of the Bond Scheme. Losing, relegation, humiliating defeats. I’d grown to get used to. It was part of our DNA, it’s what set us apart. No matter what, I’d see the same largely the same people, experiencing the same emotions, revelling in the highs, shrugging off the lows. But now football wasn’t for the first time in my life being fun anymore.

Angered by the board, again a theme that was to resurface, crowds dwindled. TV meant kick offs were strange, it felt a chore to go at times simply because the camaraderie has been dealt a blow, some of those remaining seemed brow beaten. Life in general was getting complex, the main release I had from it equally so.

Fate and a new friend conspired to rekindle the fire somewhat. Though I never threw the towel in, and still to this day haven’t, I came as close as I’d ever been. But on we continued. And in the midst of the Premiership hype starting, the lure of Lee Chapman, Dale Gordon et al fuelled a second wind.

It wasn’t long until I was fully entrenched again. We evolved, I evolved. Match days took on a new style. Pre and post match pints with friends became a key component. My love of football took on a new dimension. It became secondary to the whole match day experience. A sometimes inconvenient distraction.

Not so much through the joys of watching our home grown jewels flourish amongst the mercurial delights of Di Canio and Sinclair. But certainly as we endured the shambolic demise of Redknapp. The frustrations of Roeder's second season. The sowing seeds of disparity in footballing finances. Champions League money. Foreign investments. Killing dreams, eradicating core aspects of the domestic game and fuelling overinflated egos and a sense of entitlement at the heart of fanbases that should have known better.


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We still battled on. Financial meltdowns. Supporter meltdowns ensued. Each time we seemed on the cusp of something special we managed to contrive to bring people down to earth with an almighty bump. To say only at West Han would underplay the trials and tribulations undergone by many clubs. Some of whom have undergone loss of existence. But for a club of our size and stature we do appear to suffer more than we should.

The club broke my heart again on leaving the place I loved - The Boleyn Ground. Naively I thought it was in the name of progress. The dream was sold. The reality not wholly apparent until it was too late and we’d been railroaded into having no choice other than to walk away from the club.

Sadly it’s an option plenty have taken. My core group of some 20 odd people going week in week out has dwindled to 4. In the process diminishing some of the elements that kept me going. The social side. Tourists with popcorn and carrier bags of merchandise do not a lively debate about the genius of Devonshire, Bonds and Brooking make.

We had the reinvigorated era of Moyes. The European campaigns leaving an indelible mark on the footballing world and our long suffering support. But us being us, once again things soured. Change was needed but done without due diligence and intelligence. Six wasted and divisive months that once again brought our support to its knees. The punters seemingly the only ones who could see glaring errors and the remedial work needed. Graham Potter now in charge brings us hope and optimism for a brighter period in our history. Again!

As the top flight has evolved, the divisions between the 'haves', the 'have nots' and the 'want to have but not allowed to the dinner table', have only led me to lose a bit of love for the game.

I’ve not walked away from the club I love. The joy it’s given me. The heartbreak it’s caused. I can’t. I won’t. But football as an entity is extinguishing the core of what makes it so great. It’s chipping away at the true supporters who made the game so enriching, captivating and special.

Football. A game where fans routinely risk an appalling waste of a day in the forlorn hope that you’ll have the best day in your life. All set against the backdrop of your soundtrack of choice. Evoking memories good and bad, but always unforgettable.

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