MATCH OF THE AWAYDAY Derby County 2 - 2 Leeds United Pride Park, Derby, 31st October 1998
Get up. It's raining, goes on raining. Bike it to the station, and my legs get wet. On the train, two nice old dears reminisce about their husbands' lovely college rooms. Outside, the East Anglian fields are draped in sheets of water. Change at Leicester, with time for a walk. The town is busy, and full of Army & Navy Stores; defensively, some women peer out from black linen letter boxes. Change at Nottingham. On the platform opposite a baby howls in desperation; a man ignores it, goes on ignoring it. Is this what evolution's for? A corned beef sandwich and a large tea please: they are smiled to me dutifully by Kerry, whose name badge I have plenty of time to memorize, and who is being gracious under the pressures of working the station tea room alone with some awkward Saturday customers. Arrive at Derby. Buses wait to whisk away fans straight to the ground. I go to the Brunswick. The usual clump has gathered round a piano, in a difficult-to-find upstairs corner, warming up with the usual brew of beer, and gossip, jokes and laughter. Nige's “5 minutes’ walk to the ground” turns out to be another joke, one that takes twenty minutes to tell at the rate we go. Inside, “We're at the front, we'll be on Match of the Day”, I say. Dorigo's playing for them, but gets a great reception from us (don't we always love the team that won us the title?) Early on, Rob Molenaar splats someone flat to give away a penalty and a goal, but later head-rockets one in at the right end to make amends, this highly emotional kind of one-two being a familiar trick of his. Harry Kewell scores a neat one from the edge of the box, but it took a deflection — only, as they say, it was a Slight one rather than the outright theft of a much more juicy Wicked one. Anyway: Joy. Stephen McPhail is pleased as punching the air right in front of us. We jump at the goal and love the high spirits bursting out in our young team. At half-time we cheer and boo the latest scores, and I laugh for the bloke who, head in despairing hands, is sitting plum next to the Happy Bloke from London who, childlike, just loves tapping that toy Leeds drum of his, non-stop and all the time, framing the perfect Match of the Day half-time crowd shot. First half good, second half bad. Lucas Radebe goes off on a canvas stretcher, torn between the pain in his leg and the loud reception he gets from us: he grimaces and applauds back, and, right in front of us, looks humbled by the support, deafened by the volume of his own name. We miss Lucas. They equalize. More pressure. We hang on for 2-2. Buses wait to whisk away fans straight to the station. Me, Dave and Niggy think this time we might as well, but, on the back seat and too late, the Munich ‘58 song tells us we're on the wrong one. A blue-jumpered, England-badged, no-haired guy shouts at everything and everyone, bangs the window. Outside his targets bite, bang back. Inside again someone else grabs out the window for a hat. Like Derby shirts, the sudden madness going on is black and white, and our more colourful shades are grimly greyed out. The world is rapidly rewinding back to front. Boots aim at the window. Normal songs sung now sound sinister, evil. “We're Yorkshire's Republican Army, we're barmy”. The window buckles and bends. The nicked hat is stuffed down the nicker's crotch, and brandished out and up like a trophy. At the front, a girl grins knowingly at No-Hair. He rants some more, drunk on iced hate, boot at the window again. We expect it to give, and blood and glass to fly. “You're a disgrace to the good name of Leeds United,” No-Hair tells us. The bus speeds off for the station. The long way round. What can you usefully say back to something like this, I wonder. Jesus Loves You. Is this what evolution's for? The station — police and safety. Nutters and lunatics scramble first. Then we thank the driver; he doesn't believe us. The pubs are shut, but we wander to an empty hotel bar, and sink an edgy pint in safety, and let normal service resume. “I was frightened”, says Niggy. I was too, but blokily blather about fight or flight. More pints, sunk slower; it's Bass, the Fruit of the Trent, and we sniff to see if (as Sarah puts it) “It smells like wet dogs.” We talk of football nutters in Halloween movies and what happens to bodies left to medical science. Back to the station. We pass up the chance for food; “There's a chip shop at home with me name on it.” More trains, more banter; everyone is a fan. Next to us there's Darren the Derby fan, down as usual from Boro with the kids and a pack of Derby mates. A nearby Sheffield Wednesday season ticket holder lends us his Sports Green for the full-times, and says today proves what a w*nker Danny Wilson really is. Some others sing “Stand up if you love the Leeds”. A Brummie fan moans about their ref. Darren from Boro gets his specs out and looks down his nose at this letter he's got from Derby County, telling him off. “It was this Man U fan in our end – he jumped up when they equalised and waved his arms about. I thought it's just like last year all over again. It was the red mist, I don't normally, but he was goading us like mad. I went down and just slapped him. Wasn't a real punch.” “Yeah well it says here you've a choice — relocate to another stand or hand the season ticket over. Hit a Man U fan with glasses, would you? Lucky that steward said he provoked you.” The jokes, moans and stories flow on. There was this luxury holiday timeshare in Lanzarote, all mod cons and well-appointed, brand-new and brochure-perfect. “We'll be off for a swim in our pool,” promised Darren. When they arrived the kids got on their trunks and inflatables, took a quick scan round for the absent pool, then said “Dad, get digging”. Finally something twigs Darren on to the fact he's been confiding in Leeds fans for the past half-hour, and he groans comically. “Dad, get digging,” say the kids at every available opportunity. The other Leeds sing “Stand up if you hate Man U”, and one feels obliged to keep standing till Sheffield — so fundamentalist all he's missing is the black linen pillar box to pout out from. At Sheffield it's Cheers all round, and See you next week to Niggy and Dave, and on to Doncaster, alone. It's the end of October, but Christmas comes early to Donny. The night is cold, hard, but bright, as the walk from station to shopping centre reveals the town is decked out with real stars above and plenty of electric tinsel ones below, well in advance. The subways shelter a few folk with sleeping bags imagining passers-by who come along bearing gifts. Saturday night's starting up, and the gangs are roaming: girls in long legs and short skirts, blokes in shirt sleeves, tails and tongues hanging out. Hunger alters my plans; my name changes to MacDonald, and I eat a Big Mac. Two drunk old blokes fumble the cash for one, too; three times they ask if there's mustard on it, eat half, then drop it on the floor, cursing some more. Back outside the dance music blares, the tinsel town pounds. The next train, the London train, is from Aberdeen or something, so so what if it's a few minutes late. Smooth, erudite students from America say Paul Simon is awesome. We are sorry the buffet can't serve hot drinks due to a mechanical failure, but the microwave is still working. Peterborough. The South. It's raining. Stevenage. It goes on raining. I get out. Fireworks are going off for some reason, but straight into the clouds, so it's the neon shop signs and Tesco's car park that lighten the dampness. >From the footbridge I can see down into a subterranean art gallery where people are viewing carefully tended works oblivious to the watery world above. In the station there’s another room waiting, people inside glazing outside at the blank, endless wet. On the platform a man carefully picks out a speck from the corner of his girlfriend's eye, then holds her waist contentedly as the patient rain drips about them. They dive into their train entangled. Evolution's back on track. The last leg at last, quietly back to Cambridge. A middle-aged, grey-haired man sits reading a large, old, red dictionary. I bike it home, my legs get wet. Des Lynam shuns us on the telly; they only show the goals, filmed, what's worse, from behind us, so our moment of glory is gone for another week, but there's a great shot of Lucas looking all pained and grateful. “Let's hope we'll meet again on Tuesday for Leeds against Roma,” says Des at the end, but his closing headline omits a soundbite caution against the bus ride. I go to bed, flick off the light. They miss out so much on Match of the Day, I reflect. I dream of my wife-and-children-to-be, and Leeds United. (c) and all that Gav Burnage _______________________________________________ Leedslist mailing list Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org MARCHING ON TOGETHER
