Going to the match...

In my yoof, I was known, very occasionally, to attend the odd football match. In those days (I’m starting to sound like my mother…) there was no undercurrent of vandalism, bad behaviour or social stigma attached to teenage girls, or indeed anyone, attending a football match. It was good family entertainment, not expensive, and fun.

                                  "Going to the Match" L.S. Lowry - Showing Burnden Park, former home of BWFC

The “field of dreams” for me was Burnden Park, the home of Bolton Wanderers FC.  A distant great-uncle had been a director of the club in the 1950’s:  uncle Ted was a family legend..always a good bet to get hold of FA Cup final tickets. My mum often regaled us with tales of sitting within touching distance of HM the Q in the Directors’ box at Wembley for the famous “Stanley Matthews Final”, when Bolton were robbed (as she tells it) of the cup by Blackpool. AND she went to the “do” afterwards at the Café Royal in Regent Street.

My mum’s brother, uncle Bob, had his own cup final story. Once again, uncle Ted had come through with tickets, and great uncle Charlie, uncle Bob and cousin Tony were on the way to Wembley, from the very unsophisticated north.

Uncle Charlie had been warned that London was a Very Dangerous Place, of course, and that he should take precautions and keep his wits about him and his valuables safely hidden. But Charlie was no fool.. Dressed in his Sunday best suit, as one does when going to Wembley, he walked down Wembley way with his younger companions, and uncle Bob checked repeatedly that Charlie had put the tickets in a safe place. Yes, he assured them, the tickets were safe. And they were. As they got to the turnstiles, with hundreds and hundreds of excited fans waiting to enter the hallowed ground, everyone ground to a halt, as Charlie slowly and carefully unbuttoned his overcoat, then his suit jacket, then his waistcoat, then his shirt..to reveal the three tickets, attached to his vest by a safety pin! Apparently, the resulting queue which had built up behind him was both impressive and singularly unimpressed by his precautions.

As the years have passed, and I have two sons, it has been with a certain maternal pride that I’ve watched them develop an interest in football and, unprompted by me, a desire to adopt Bolton Wanderers as “their” team. Initially, they both enjoyed being different from their school classmates who, in this part of the world, tend towards support of the big London clubs, but my boys have stayed true to family tradition, even from a great distance. Son#2 was particularly touched when he completed an internship last year, and as a leaving gift he was presented with a Bolton shirt signed by all the first team players! As a family (yes, even TH has joined in, although his own family roots do mean that he keeps a weather eye on the fortunes of Wolves) we’ve shared Bolton’s ups and downs, through relegations and promotions, the halcyon Sam Allardyce years and a brief and painful chance to play in Europe, and the current less-than-brilliant season which may well see them relegated again.

So, we were all watching, listening or keeping an eye on the weekend’s cup tie with Spurs. 

Fabrice Muamba is 23 years old. A midfielder for Bolton, he came to the UK from what was then Zaire at the age of 9, without a word of English.  After school, where he managed to do extremely well academically, he became a professional footballer and has played for Arsenal and Birmingham City. He’s a father and a professional sportsman who briefly captained the England under-21 squad. On Saturday, he came to London for another day at the office. Just before half time, he collapsed on the pitch and was given CPR for cardiac arrest. His heart didn’t start beating again on its own for a good 2 hours. As I write this, he is still in a critical condition.

I hope, I really hope he makes it. As one fan of the team said, even if he never pulls on a Bolton shirt again, that’s not important. What IS important is his recovery.

Get well, Fabrice.