Читать книгу For The Claret & Blue - Mickey Smith - Страница 7

Following West Ham United is not about how many pieces of silverware they can win. It’s more. With most fans it is a lifelong, sometimes agonising passion. For many it is bred in them and they learn from an early age. It’s the small things that count – like teaching your own kids to play Monopoly, telling them that no matter what they must never buy the Old Kent Road and that they will understand in later life.

In the late Seventies I began a new life in Australia with my new wife, probably the best move I ever made, but West Ham was in my blood, rooted deeply in my soul. The coverage of the English First Division by the media in those days was limited – very limited indeed. It was mainly Liverpool games that were seen on the TV, and then only at about 1am or later – and only highlights. Very little of West Ham was seen – in fact, in most cases you would not get the results till the Monday paper. I don’t know how much I spent on long-distance phone calls back then. I would ring a friend to find out the result at about 2am our time or even later, only to find out we lost. That wasn’t the issue – I just had to know. These days satellite coverage and the internet make life easy when you are 13,000 miles away. Even now my passion for the team has not changed – and never will.

My passion knows no bounds. It was 1980 and we were in the FA Cup final. I was living in Australia on the Gold Coast and my wife was pregnant with our first child. I could not, or did not want to, go back as much as I would have liked to. My wife was insisting that if it was what I wanted then I should go, but I felt I could not leave her alone at that time so I stayed.

The lead-up to the big game saw me decorate the house in all West Ham gear. At work I got invited to an FA Cup party at the local Irish club but knowing the Paddies I declined when I found out that I would be the only West Ham fan there – one Hammer against a dozen Micks did not seem fair as far as I was concerned. I stayed home, well oiled from the drink. I had a mate come around and keep me company. An Aussie bloke, he was not into football, though when the game kicked off he told me he was a sort of ex-Liverpool fan and, because Arsenal played in red, he would go for them. I warned him he had better not be around if we lost.

I had the TV up full blast and as it was midnight Aussie time it seems some neighbours had a whine about the noise, especially when Brooking scored. We went on to lift the Cup against all odds and I was in party mood. I carried on drinking all night and phoning everyone I knew in England till the pubs opened on the Sunday, and then till about 6pm that day, until I was blind drunk when – not having the ability to carry on – I went home.

The next day when I surfaced, my wife told me the landlord/real estate agent had had several complaints about the noise. But it did not finish there. My next-door neighbour whined that I had abused him. This I don’t recall, but my wife said I told him to piss off ‘if he knew what was good for him’ on the Sunday after returning home from the pub celebrations. The man was a Man United fan who knew nothing about his side – he once admitted to me he did like Liverpool once but had changed. So all in all your typical glory-hunting c**t. He never stopped complaining to the real estate agent and in due course I was told I was going to be evicted. This did not worry me – in fact, he had done me a favour as we were looking for a way out because we were about to buy our first house. Two weeks’ notice was given, which tied in nicely with moving into the new house.

I saw the real estate agent in a hotel in Surfers Paradise about six weeks later. I tapped him on the shoulder and was going to buy him a beer to show no hard feelings, but he went on the defence and gibbered on that he did not want to break my lease and in general made a right prat of himself. He said he could not understand why we ‘Poms’ got so worked up about a game of football. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘it’s only a game.’ I shook my head in amazement. He contacted me later on because he wanted some brickwork done on one of his rental properties. So not only had he done me the favour of breaking my lease, he bought me a few beers, grovelled a bit and even put a lot of work my way – all in all, not a bad result. God knows what would have happened if we had lost!

Some of the newer fans I talk to today through mailing lists or chat rooms haven’t a clue. In fact, as far as some of them are concerned, being an armchair fan – as some will call you – seems to make you a lesser fan because you don’t attend games any more. If only they knew – the passion is lifelong and never dies.

Micky Smith