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So there it was, my last home game ever, or for a good few years
at least.
Walking out of the Loft for one last time, part of me was trying
to soak up as much of the sights, sounds and smells of South
Africa Road as I could (the fans walking down the middle of the
road, the club shop, the girls that work in the club shop….),
part of me was wondering why on earth Santos mistimed the
easiest clearance header I’ve ever seen, and the tiniest bit of
me was wondering whether to risk one last burger from the
god-awful burger van on Loftus Road.
Ahhhh… the true Rangers Experience!
And that was that. Thirty six hours later, myself, my wife and 5
year old daughter hugged our families goodbye and got on a 747
for our new lives and new adventures in New Zealand.
Don’t get me wrong – I love England, I mean really love it. I’m
not ashamed to admit that when England beat Germany 5-1, I
actually cried. In the summer, in the countryside, in the beer
garden of a good old pub with a ploughman’s and a pint, there is
nowhere better in the world. Unfortunately, my day-to-day life
in West London was becoming more about pollution, traffic jams
and crime so we decided that there must be a better place to
raise a family.
Now, if there is something I can’t bear, it’s people that sit
around and moan about stuff, but do bugger all about it. One day
I caught myself, for the third time that day, slagging off the
town we lived in (“blah bloody airport bloody parking bloody
burglaries”) and that, basically, was that.
It’s not until you make a big, life-changing decision that you
realise what’s important to you. I knew we’d miss our best mates
and family and I knew I’d miss some aspects of London life but
nothing could prepare me for how much I’d miss The R’s.
I’ve supported Rangers since I was about ten and a family friend
gave me an Arsenal v QPR programme. The following week I went to
Loftus road for the first time to see QPR play Liverpool. We
lost 1-0 but I was hooked. To be honest I can’t really remember
must detail about the day other than being crushed up against a
barrier for much of the game and chatting excitedly whilst
swigging Corona lemonade from the bottle on the top of the
double-decker 207 bus all the way home.
In the thirty odd years since I’ve seen us lose at home to
Vauxhall Motors, consistently get knocked out of every cup going
at the first hurdle, and been mocked by my Man U / Liverpool /
Arsenal (fill in as applicable…) supporting mates. Yet I still
sing “the finest football team, the world has ever seen…” at the
top of my voice, when, to any rational human being, this is
clearly not the case. I guess the thing that keeps me wearing
the blue and white hoops year in and year out is faith.
Faith is something one "believes in". It serves a major
evolutionary purpose and has been an essential part of human
nature since time immemorial. When shared by members of a group,
faith strongly supports that group's internal cohesion. It
strengthens the group's capacity to cope with the challenges of
a hostile environment. It adds to the group's capacity to
compete successfully with other groups animated by different
faiths and beliefs.
From the outside, as a cynical observer might see it, faith is
an undertaking to suspend one's critical faculties as far as
certain specified basic propositions are concerned; it is a kind
of voluntary, self-imposed frontal lobotomy.
The true believer will never let himself admit, even to himself,
that he has been beaten in an argument about the propositions he
believes in. He is stubborn to the point of total irrationality.
There really is no point in trying to talk him out of his
beliefs, because all you are likely to get from the effort is a
punch in the nose.
Like it or not, being a football supporter is exactly the same.
In fact, more so.
In the same way that a Jehovah’s witness will keep knocking on
doors on a Sunday morning, even though the previous dozen people
have all either said, “no thanks”, slammed the door in their
faces, or threatened violence, I still wait with baited breath
on the latest tidbit of news from the club. More so, now that
going to home games would involve a 22,600 mile round trip and
about 66 hours traveling.
And you know what else? If it was the play-off finals, FA cup
final or other monumental event, somehow I’d be there. It’s
bloody insanity really, if you went to a trick-cyclist and told
them you had a compsulsive-w12-belief disorder, they’d bung you
on prozac and charge you 200 quid.
OK so I’ve traded grimy west London for sea views, better
schooling, a decent summer, world-class beaches and the best
seafood ever, but the only footie I get to see is the occasional
premiership highlight on Sky (they don’t show championship
footie over here like they do in the UK…) and the
not-as-good-now-Billy-Rice-has-gone highlights on QPR world.
It’s simply not enough.
I get up early to call my mates up in the UK (we are 12 hours
ahead), and after the opening “How’s you, how’s the family”
stuff, I then rant on for twenty minutes about whether Dexter
Blackstock will be the next Sir Les and if we should sell Rosie
for scrap. Eventually I realize that they’ve hung up and that
for the last ten minutes I’ve been talking to myself.
So, I guess what I’m saying is sometimes, no matter how
dedicated a fan you are, it’s good to take a step back and see
what you’ve got.
We all need a moan about players and management under-performing
and as season ticket holders we have every right to do so, but
occasionally we should realise just how great it is to be able
to roll up to Loftus Road and know that, if we’re really lucky,
we’ll come home with a memory like “The Oldham Game” and
whatever the outcome, we’ll get the chance to shout, sing, and
be part of something wonderful.
I’m planning a trip to London next August, to see my folks and
to coincide with the first few games of the season.
I don’t mind waiting. It’s only 358 days and 4 hours away after
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