In a throwback to times when players weren't scared of playing twice in three days, I visited St George's Lane today, the home of Worcester City FC, for a Bank Holiday clash with Solihull Moors. I was expecting twinkly-eyed blokes manning the terraces in flat caps, 90 minutes of hoofball, and buckets of abuse for the referee. As it was, I got all three. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it of course, it was a good way to spend a late summer's afternoon, and I came away from the ground feeling quite good, despite seeing Worcester lose 1-0. That's where I'm feeling uneasy. At any Blues defeat I've ever witnessed, I've come away feeling devastated, and have begun to accept that such a feeling is part of the matchday experience, just like walking to the ground, or (let's chuck in another cliché), the smell of frying onions. If this were a Nick Hornby novel, and I were a walking cliché, I'd be eulogising about how my eyes have been opened to the wonders of non-league football, and how I will discard my Birmingham season ticket in favour of a Worcester one.
'Away, foul piece of plastic! You have robbed me of joy for the last time!'
As it is, I believe I could never bring myself to do it. I noticed that the average age of the crowd today was somewhat older than I normally see down at St Andrews. I'm guessing that these people, at some point or another, were driven away from the Blues, or The Hawthorns, or Villa Park due to the 'money-culture' of the modern Premier League, and have since found solace and comfort in the grassroots level. I doff my cap to these people. But I could never do it, at least, not in the foreseeable future. This is edhiggs.blogspot.com, not nostradamus.blogspot.com, and who's to say in 60 years time, when the Premier League is played on the moon, or heaven forbid, Dubai, I won't do the same? It's perfectly conceivable.
It's a very romantic idea, of course, people supporting their non-league club and shouting 'Up Yours' to the money-men. But in all honesty, give me the sex appeal of the Premier League any day. The emotional bond of supporting the Blues wouldn't be broken easily, I can tell you that. I fully understand AFC Wimbledon's decision to start a new club, and I respect their fans for that immensely. I don't however, see FC United's point. If they were going to 'up sticks', why not do it when Manchester United boycotted the FA Cup for some ludicrous money-making frisson? And why start a new club? Why not give some fans back to the clubs they stole from, the Rochdales and Burys of this world?
I don't hate Manchester City's fans for enjoying their moment in the sun, as I know I'd be doing exactly the same. I wouldn't leave if a billionaire took over at the Blues- far from it. I'd hope, however, that I'd remember my roots, and not display breathtaking arrogance towards the clubs that, not long ago, I was equal to. Reading a Manchester City forum pre-season, the question was posed 'why would Joe Hart want to go to a nowhere club where he'll never win anything?' This comment, of course, came in the wake of Manchester City's treble-winning seas- oh, wait.
It would take something monumental to ply my fingers away from my season ticket at St Andrews. It would have to be something moral. Marlon King signing, for example. I couldn't throw it away through the rose-tinted spectacles of one day watching non-league, because although St George's Lane might look appealing on a bright sunny day, it's nothing compared to St Andrews, and the emotions I feel at My Club, win, lose or draw.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The results are in...
DISCLAIMER: I don't care if you think this next blog is the biggest load of tripe you've ever read- this is therapy!
Tomorrow, of course, is Judgement Day. I'm really not looking forward to the hyperbole, scare-mongering and laughable exaggeration that I'll hear from teachers, clutching my results like a child clutches his sodden blanket, with a look of anger, embarrassment and bewilderment upon my face. I'm a nervous person as it is, and have recently been liable to long periods of swearing under my breath and spontaneously breaking into tears. I'm so desperate to do well that I even thought, whilst watching Blues go 2-0 down to Sunderland, that this is God's way of taking with one hand but giving one another.
'Make him have a bad day today', the Big Man would have said, 'but he'll be happy come Thursday morning'. Then, of course, I realised this was nonsense.
But if the people at UCAS had really had their wits about them, they would have cranked up the tension even further, and coincided results day with the start of the football season. There are a lot of similarities. Blind optimism followed by worry, a nagging doubt that you didn't do enough pre-season training (revision), and for some, a feeling that pre-season (revision) is pointless anyway. Heck, Sky Sports could even have televised it. They could have had Jeff Stelling and friends reading out the results to AS Levels as well as telling us the Ipswich v Burnley score! What a televisual feast that would have been!
'Unbelievable Jeff! He's done absolutely no revision and got 4 As! Unbelievable!'
'There's been a late, late, result for Ed Higgs, which way has it gone?'
Blimey, it sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. At some point or another, we've all wanted to shoot Jeff Stelling, the bearer of bad news. But, of course, he is only the messenger, a Hartlepool Mercury amongst the Gods of Mars (Paul Merson), Bacchus (Matt le Tissier) and Venus (Charlie Nicholas). I have this theory that Jeff Stelling is becoming obsolete anyway. Even before he's announced a goal at St Andrews, I believe that something will have given me a sign, and I'll already know. There's a line in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra which sums this up.
Dercetus: Antony is dead.
Caesar: The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack. The round world should have shook lions into civil streets and citizens to their dens.
In my view, if the Blues are a goal down, I will know about it, because there will be a changing in the tides, a dramatic shift in the weather that will instantly scream 'ONE-NIL TO BOLTON. KEVIN DAVIES'.
Good luck to everyone tomorrow, whatever results you're collecting. I'll be sat at home, waiting for the Sky Sports breaking news bar to flash across the screen, or Moustache Guy to be standing outside RGS, showing the envelopes getting off the team bus with an oversized pair of headphones. Ahh, imagination eh?
Tomorrow, of course, is Judgement Day. I'm really not looking forward to the hyperbole, scare-mongering and laughable exaggeration that I'll hear from teachers, clutching my results like a child clutches his sodden blanket, with a look of anger, embarrassment and bewilderment upon my face. I'm a nervous person as it is, and have recently been liable to long periods of swearing under my breath and spontaneously breaking into tears. I'm so desperate to do well that I even thought, whilst watching Blues go 2-0 down to Sunderland, that this is God's way of taking with one hand but giving one another.
'Make him have a bad day today', the Big Man would have said, 'but he'll be happy come Thursday morning'. Then, of course, I realised this was nonsense.
But if the people at UCAS had really had their wits about them, they would have cranked up the tension even further, and coincided results day with the start of the football season. There are a lot of similarities. Blind optimism followed by worry, a nagging doubt that you didn't do enough pre-season training (revision), and for some, a feeling that pre-season (revision) is pointless anyway. Heck, Sky Sports could even have televised it. They could have had Jeff Stelling and friends reading out the results to AS Levels as well as telling us the Ipswich v Burnley score! What a televisual feast that would have been!
'Unbelievable Jeff! He's done absolutely no revision and got 4 As! Unbelievable!'
'There's been a late, late, result for Ed Higgs, which way has it gone?'
Blimey, it sends shivers down my spine just thinking about it. At some point or another, we've all wanted to shoot Jeff Stelling, the bearer of bad news. But, of course, he is only the messenger, a Hartlepool Mercury amongst the Gods of Mars (Paul Merson), Bacchus (Matt le Tissier) and Venus (Charlie Nicholas). I have this theory that Jeff Stelling is becoming obsolete anyway. Even before he's announced a goal at St Andrews, I believe that something will have given me a sign, and I'll already know. There's a line in Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra which sums this up.
Dercetus: Antony is dead.
Caesar: The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack. The round world should have shook lions into civil streets and citizens to their dens.
In my view, if the Blues are a goal down, I will know about it, because there will be a changing in the tides, a dramatic shift in the weather that will instantly scream 'ONE-NIL TO BOLTON. KEVIN DAVIES'.
Good luck to everyone tomorrow, whatever results you're collecting. I'll be sat at home, waiting for the Sky Sports breaking news bar to flash across the screen, or Moustache Guy to be standing outside RGS, showing the envelopes getting off the team bus with an oversized pair of headphones. Ahh, imagination eh?
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