Back in the early 1990s, I was a teenage visitor to an array of dilapidated Victorian cow sheds masquerading as third and fourth division football grounds as I supported my team, Wrexham FC, on their travels.
There were still many pre-Hillsborough fences in place, some of which (most notably in the away end at Crewe Alexandra’s Gresty Road ground) successfully blocked around 90 per cent of the view of the pitch for visiting fans. The catering usually only extended to ‘botulism in a bap’ burger vans and it was always, always cold.
But what I remember most clearly from those far-off days was the voice register of the fans when things went wrong. Conceded goals and poor refereeing decisions were met with a deep, bronchial, collective growl, which seemed to radiate from the damp concrete steps all the way up my spine. It was all wonderfully adult to my young ears, and I couldn’t wait for my voice to break so I could join in.
If you follow Notts County and become bored of the lower-league grind, nipping over for a glamorous bit-on-the-side with Premier League Nottingham Forest is an impossibility
Something odd has happened since then. When I attend games involving my now all-but-unrecognisably successful club (Wrexham were taken over by Hollywood actors Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney in 2021, prompting three successive promotions – we are now just one level below the Premier League) I find the voice register has gone up several octaves. Fans today are more hysterical and quicker to moan – and it affects their vocal cords, resulting in a higher pitched shrieking among adult males than in the past.
The game, at its best, is still joyous, but I can’t help but find supporters of a younger generation less stoic, more entitled and generally less able to tolerate anything below perfection. What gives me hope that fans won’t completely morph into a bunch of polyester-clad divas, though, is that one of the biggest moral lessons a man can ever learn via football remains extant. Because, despite the vapidity and lucre that’s all but drowning the modern game’s essence, supporting a football club still equals lifetime monogamy.
If you follow Notts County and you become bored of the lower-league grind, nipping across the River Trent for a glamorous bit-on-the-side with Premier League Nottingham Forest is an absolute impossibility – unless you are willing to see every last shred of your credibility and status as a fan permanently erased overnight.
This application of total fealty is the only thing that still stops football becoming just another realm of the entertainment industry. If you don’t like the new Bond film, you don’t have to watch one ever again. If you don’t like losing 4-0 to Fleetwood then tough luck mate – you may well have to witness it all again at Stockport next Saturday.
Wolverhampton Wanderers are having one of the worst seasons any team in any division have ever had right now. They’re propping up the Premier League table with an almost surreally low points total of two as we enter the Christmas period, and they haven’t won a league game since April. As painful as their side’s plight must be, I can’t help but feel that the current malaise might work as a useful form of cleansing for supporters of a club who, over the past few years, have had one of the most successful periods since their 1950s peak.
For younger supporters in particular, the current situation at Molineux should at least help forge a morality which can serve a useful purpose in other elements of life – namely that monogamy is the cure to a default emotional state of high-pitched whining and demands for instant gratification.
My sole experience of having an affair has taught me that keeping relationships with two women running simultaneously is 10 per cent excitement and 90 per cent admin. Ultimately, you have to choose a side. And keeping an affair under wraps is, in the long term, no more likely to improve your character (or your standing among your peers) than changing your football allegiances after a home defeat by Hull City.
I’m well aware that the Hollywood bubble surrounding Wrexham won’t last forever. Reynolds and McElhenney sold their stake in the club this week, and in ten years’ time we’re probably every bit as likely to be playing York City as we are Manchester City. But I’ll be there regardless, hopefully with Emma, my wife-to-be, still in tow.
Anyone can adore their beloved when they’re sparkling and triumphant. The real achievement in both love and football is in finding your choice adorable even when both your team and your partner alike are standing in the rain, freezing to death and wondering why they’re in Barnsley instead of Barcelona.
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