Guest Post by Matt Caputa
When the wheels touched down at Heathrow nothing felt comfortable. I had too much luggage, no cash, and a not a clue where my living accommodation was located. Grudgingly, I experienced the tube and spent the entire ride wondering why it was even called a tube. I am studying abroad with the intention of involving myself in British life, and the morning of my arrival I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and watch American football.
It was a dark Saturday and West Ham was hosting Liverpool. A generous fan had offered me a ticket to the game but I had no idea where Upton Park was in relation to Islington London, so I passed and opted to find a soccer pub to watch the match. The first pub I entered asked me what league West Ham played in. “What league was West Ham?” “Where was I?”- They were the only thoughts lingering on my mind. I was forced to run the streets of central London trying to find a place to watch the game. Luckily I found an American resembling sports bar and caught the second half of our brilliant performance against Liverpool. But I was worried. I was the only fan in the building.
The next couple weeks I was plagued with concern about West Ham. London was fantastic don’t get me wrong, but for the life of me I couldn’t find a supporter. I am located in the dead center of London, where are the Hammers! Student after student told me they were for Arsenal, Chelsea, and even the brave admitted to Tottenham. I booked my first ticket to the QPR match with a cautiously optimistic excitement. Was it even going to be worth it? Was this entire pilgrimage for a mediocre experience? Well the next three weeks gave a resounding response to my nervous energy.
I arrived to Upton Park for the first time alone four hours early. I must have paced up and down Green Street one hundred times. The merchandise tents, cheap fried chicken, and the people swarming with scarves and thick jackets gave me the feeling I was finally in the right place. I remember walking up the steps into Upton Park and taking my seat right under the G in the Upper Trevor Brooking stand. I asked the steward where I get my bubbles, and he looked at me like I had three heads and said that people don’t actually blow bubbles. I was stunned and to date that was by far the most embarrassing moment over here, but boy did he get a kick out of it. I’ll spare the details of the game, but as I funneled outside the stadium after a wonderful 2-0 trouncing of QPR, something inside me felt alive.
After the international break and an inspiring win at Burnley, I knew I had to see the Hammers up close. Cue to the morning of the 25th. I was in Queens’s pub sipping on a Guinness. I was by myself again, but for some reason I felt so connected with the fan base. I sat in a corner and watched fathers laugh with sons, grandparents wrap their arms around the younger generations, and more importantly not a single City jersey could be spotted. The comradery was not superficial. The energy was laced with a hundred years of loyalty and intricate memories. Feeling buzzed, I walked to the stadium and took my seat 5 rows up from the field. When Amalfitano scored Upton Park was became a circus. Fans from all sides of the stadium were on their feet with arms raised in a heavenly direction above their heads. Could this be the day I see something special?
And then, the moment happened, or shall I say, Sakho happened. I’ve been to American Football playoff games, basketball games, hockey, you name it. But when Sakho tacked on goal number two, the eruption from the stands was unheard of before. There were no sirens, or marching bands, just pure unadulterated excitement blasting from the vocal chords of those in ecstasy. In the United States stadiums have become accustomed to trying to outdo each other with manufactured volume. Boat sirens go off in hockey arenas. Football stadiums have music and even cannons on site. Not here though. It’s not needed. With the singing, and chanting, and the laughing and oh my goodness just typing this has created a stir of emotion. It carried its way to the grueling 90 minute mark and the eruption again poured from all ends as we beat City!
Now I know what some might think. I’m that simple minded American influenced by an incorrect film about an outdated time period starring the guy from the Hobbit. I get that. But this migration to London has taught me so much about life, and the games at West Ham have taught me even more. I’ve learned that this isn’t a hobby, or an interest. There isn’t a hint of casualness on game day. Life is West Ham. I cannot wait to travel to Stoke on Saturday, and to get a taste of West Ham supporters on the road. Because of ticket prices and still a lack of anyone to be a loyal supporter of whom I live with, I will continue to see as many games as possible until December 15 (when I return home) on my own. I would love to arrange to meet with anybody up until that date, and hope the next month allows me to network even more amongst the Hammers community. This has been a surreal experience so far, and from the bottom of my red, white and blue heart, I want to thank the city of London for being so wonderful.