I went to two football matches today. In the evening, one at the Tottenham Hotspur stadium, a vast construction of steel and glass and with all these escalators that make it look like an airport. In the morning, here — Hackney Marshes, with none of those things. I have to say, I preferred the morning.
This trip started in London on 6th January and ends here too. But it’s time to go home.
I try not to put too many football pictures up here but I do like this one, simply because of her face, and the general contrast with the rest of the scene. And it does epitomise the day, with me not having arrived in the city until noon, local time. Either way, the match (Cape Town City v Orlando Pirates) and the general experience were very fine: a great introduction to the country.
Both the weekend’s photos are from the football; two contrasting experiences. Here, the positive one at Padiham FC, an enjoyable game in a congenial stadium, one with character and distinctiveness. This mural has been painted since we last visited here two years ago, and, I think, its effectiveness can be judged by the fact that you do have to look twice to realise Joe, in his dark coat and grey woolly hat, is not actually part of it.
3pm on a Saturday, and all around the country, a certain proportion of the players and spectators stand for a minute of tribute to someone or other. Here at Brighouse Town (the guys in orange), it was to commemorate a recently deceased former goalkeeper, it seems. Not that anyone had heard of the guy until this moment but all the same, it is good to take a minute now and again to stand and collectively create silence, a commodity that is not always easy to acquire.
This afternoon I saw L S Lowry’s famous painting, Going to the Match, which is currently on display in Bury Art Gallery. Then I went to Bury FC’s ground, Gigg Lane, where 2,790 people decided they wanted to Go to the Match. For a ninth-division game, this is pretty good, and I think Lowry might have approved.
The gentleman in the hat, pondering the action, is Steve Gritt, coach of Hornchurch FC. Though this story is, I am sure, of only the vaguest interest to most people, the reason I depict him on here today is that back in 1997 Mr. Gritt was appointed manager of Brighton & Hove Albion FC (a.k.a. ‘my lot’), when they were 11 points adrift at the bottom of the entire Football League and facing relegation and oblivion. A few months later, however, he had achieved the seemingly impossible, and Brighton survived with an (in)famous 1-1 draw at Hereford, who went down instead. 27 years later and the Albion are playing their eighth season in the Premier League. Not that Steve Gritt had anything much more to do with that part of the tale (he left the club in 1998) but all Brighton fans certainly owe him our thanks.
And so, realising that he was the coach of the club I had randomly come to see, I waited to shake his hand and give him that thanks as he came off the pitch. And I was pleased I had had the opportunity, and took it. OK, random stalker moment over, moving on…
That’s definitely some rain coming in. The players are about to get wet, as, I imagine, are most of the people sat in the main stand to the left, with its rather inadequate roof. At least those of us stood on the ‘East Paddock’ of AFC Fylde’s Mill Farm stadium had more satisfactory cover.
Five minutes into the second half, and the cue came to watch the rest of the game from inside the clubhouse at Huddersfield Amateur FC (a place that has been seen before). Perhaps the visiting team, in orange, might have wished to join us, as they were at least 8 goals down by this point and we were nowhere near the end.
Followers of this blog will be aware that I go to quite a few football matches — tonight being my 53rd of 2024 so far — but I try not to let the theme dominate these daily posts. However, Hurst Cross is a fine example of the genre and worth depicting. It’s been continuously in use by Ashton United since 1884 and so is one of the oldest extant grounds in the world, and a perfectly decent place to spend a Thursday evening, if you ask me.
The younger members of the small crowd at AFC Bentley v AFC Phoenix disport themselves in an aesthetically pleasing manner over the little main stand. It would have been very easy for this one to have been cluttered up by a number of things — signs on the back wall, or dangling wires, maybe — but other than at the bottom right corner, these things are not present (and I did consider cropping further, but then the standing couple would have been too near the edge). I doubt any of them particularly cared that the visiting team won on the day, they were just enjoying the sunshine, as was I.
Being 42 