It goes without saying that this is the strangest year there has been to be a football fan in living memory. I haven’t been to a Hull City game since the 29th February. I was still in primary school recently indoctrinated and not yet aware of the football club on my doorstep the last time I went that long without seeing them live.
I’m not an "armchair" fan. I’ve no particular problem with anyone who is. They’re as valid as any other fan and given the way football is funded these days, probably more vital to the game than the match going fans. The last eight months support that. The game has carried on without fans in stadiums. It certainly wouldn’t have without fans watching on TV. Lots, perhaps even most, of the people who support big clubs have to be armchair fans because getting a ticket is difficult and eye-wateringly expensive. It’s just not for me.
Going to football has been the biggest thrill in my life for over 30 years (Sorry Mrs S). The football is great, the players important and the result vital. But the sights, the smells, the travels, the tribulations and the company are what make the games. For every game you remember because Geovanni smashed the ball into the top corner or Dean Windass made history, there are a hundred others you remember because of a puncture on the side of the M25, a curry and a pint in the pub, a terrible, watery pie, your mate getting a black eye from Aaron McLean in the pre-match shooting warm-up or a meet up with exiled City fans in the South or abroad.
Most seasons, we’ve seen new signings up close in pre-season. It’s been part of the joy of going to North Ferriby, Winterton, Harrogate, Canvey Island for the HCSS mob, and others down the years. T-Shirt weather. Little kids getting photos and autographs. The surreal sight of England’s Nick Barmby in black and amber. In 2020, it’s December, it’s pissing down and there are lads who joined Hull City six months ago that none of us have seen play. TV, or more precisely iFollow streams, are a hideously poor substitute. We can watch anyone on TV. These days you can easily watch clubs who like Boca Juniors and Fluminese, who once upon a time only existed in the pages of World Soccer magazine.
The level of detachment is impossible to get used to. Barely being aware of the fixtures because there are no tickets to buy, no plans to make or travels to arrange. Remembering little about games because there are no incidents or goal celebrations flashing through your mind. Missing that connection between the travel, the food, the company, the atmosphere, the opposition fans, the injuries caused by tripping over chairs or down stairs, the hugging and dancing with complete strangers – you can try and replicate that last one but you might get banned from Sainsbury’s like me. Just no feeling of “I was there”.
Fans are returning to grounds this week, though sadly not for us poor schmucks in tier 3 areas, and that is a great first step but it’s still a million miles from being what watching football is about. I’m desperate to see my team again but that will be another surreal experience. Though at least we’ll be there. At least we’ll be making plans again, digging out shirts and scarves again, seeing the players again and being heard again.
At least we’ll exist.
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