Читать книгу For The Claret & Blue - Mickey Smith - Страница 11
ОглавлениеMy first game on my own was against the Busby Babes in 1967. A big game for them, because a win against West Ham and they would have clinched the title. That day was madness on and off the pitch. (For more on this read Want Some Aggro?, by Cass Pennant and Micky Smith.) I knew my father was at the game with his brothers but did not want me around. As a fourteen-year-old I deemed I could look after myself, which I could in a fashion. The events that took place that day changed my life forever. Indeed, they did so for many an older West Ham fan as well, with many swearing never to go back to football again. The age of the football hooligan was here.
Some say an advertisement was placed in the local paper the, East London Advertiser, saying that the Manchester boys were coming to the East End to show what a night on the town was. I don’t know if this was true or just an old wives’ tale, but judging by the people at the game something urged it on. What happened that day made headlines around the country. The game would never be the same.
Still smarting after their 1964 semi-final loss, the Manchester fans sought revenge and the many thousands travelling down to London got some – but not as easy as they would have hoped for. On the pitch they flogged us 6-1 to clinch the title. Attitudes changed towards them. They had some respect after the Munich air crash and many an old boy round our way admired the way they had rebuilt after that. After 1967 any respect they had went out the door and it hasn’t changed to this day.
Over the years I have followed West Ham up and down the country. I have been abroad to Heysel to see us lose the 1976 ECWC final – Lampard (arrrrggghhh!) and Van Der Eldt, who later played for us, killed us. The then mighty Anderlecht on their home ground were too good. I was hoping for another double like ’64/’65 but had to make do with just 1975 this time. The 1975 final was really a boring game to me, now I was a lot older and wiser (well, I thought I was).
I watched as Fulham were beaten by us 2-0. Alan Taylor (‘Sparrow’) was the hero as in the previous games against Arsenal and Ipswich in the semi. The crowd was just as potty then but half a skinful of drink in me made the afternoon more enjoyable. I remember my mum telling me not to eat one of those hamburgers, with a wink in her eye. I guess you can’t fool your mum as easily as you think you can. The fans engaged in a giant piss-take: one banner read ‘West Ham 2, Dads Army 0’, referring to the older Fulham players like Mullery and our Bobby Moore, who had left us to join Fulham at the end of his marvellous playing career. This was his first year at Wembley again, but not as captain. Many felt sorry for him, but it soon passed. The final whistle and we had won. The fans went crazy and invaded the pitch. It had been a decade since we had won something and we had steam to let off. Some said it was to fight the Fulham fans. That was rubbish – it was just the sheer pleasure of having won. It was about twenty to twenty-five minutes before the Cup was lifted and the West Ham fans went spare. It was party time.
I still had my scarf from the 1964 final with me and had bought another one at that game, an away one based on the Manchester City ‘sort of’ theme scarf. Many older fans will know what I mean. I must have looked a sight with two scarves tied around the wrists, Bay City Roller-style, but who cared – we had won and it was party time.
After the game many headed off towards Trafalgar Square. We joined in for a while, then off to Green Street. On arrival the place was packed right down to the ground. People dancing, cars could not get through, many just left their motors and joined in, which added to the chaos. We managed to get a few take-away beers in the pub opposite Upton Park station. We could not get near the Boleyn and the Queens was packed out of the door, but who cared. It was party time!
I have been lucky enough to see four Wembley finals with West Ham, if you count the 1966 England game as having been won by us (which I do). With the 1964 match being my first senior game I feel I am more lucky than some. I still love my team with a passion, even after living a large part of my life in Australia. As I said earlier, it was hard in the early days to get any information here on any English football. Sometimes it was Monday’s paper before you could get the results or maybe a Sunday drink with other ex-pats to see who had heard anything. Now with the Internet and Pay TV it is great and a lot easier to follow your team.
When I think back on how the game has changed since I left, I think of the rip-off prices for season tickets the modern-day fan has to pay. I’m told most of the crack has gone, it’s all so sterile now the all-seater stadium is here. It’s no longer a working-man’s game. The East End has changed. Gone are most of the traditions now. In come the -isms – racism, fascism, feminism etc. It’s another world. So when people say I am not a supporter – just a fan, a part-timer, because that’s what the dictionary says – because I don’t go any more, I think, Yeah, right. They will never see what I have seen live, and anything they will see I will watch from the comfort of my own home without paying the rip-off prices the clubs demand from ordinary punters. So I stay a part-timer if that is the case. Now I am nudging fifty I doubt if I will see West Ham live again. My reasons are simple: I retired at 45 and was then told I had MS (Multiple Sclerosis) and was going blind. So my life is sort of restricted now. I still enjoy what I can and when I go totally blind then I’ll start worrying about it. Until then I keep sorting my old West Ham stuff out and earmark a lot of it for mates in the UK, who I know will look after it. The 1964 scarf (as I mentioned) I have already given to a good mate who I have never met but I know he is West Ham through and through, one of the old school, and he will pass it on no doubt to his kids. My kids were born here and while they know how to hate many teams it’s hard to explain the love of West Ham. They know I am potty about them and my daughter proudly wears my West Ham tops to college. She knows who Bobby Moore is but, alas, that is it.
My collection, built up over the years, is going to good homes. Some to Toronto – to Stumpy, who has already got some. Others to Bef, a solid West Ham lad, and a few of the bits and pieces I dig up around the place to other people. Bobbie the Mod has some Sixties badges to go with his fashion of the time – hope you enjoy them, Bobbie. Basically that’s it, my life as a West Ham fan. There is loads more I haven’t included here but I have tried to keep this book about the uniqueness of being a West Ham fan not about anything else.
