Barney Magrew sent me a guest post, so I thought I’d turn it into a series called MY UPTON PARK MEMORIES. So if you have any memories you’d like to share during our final season at Upton Park, send in your articles and I will publish as many as I can over the course of the season.
My personal farewell to The Boleyn
Until now, I have always resisted the temptation to put ‘pen to paper’, convincing myself that my thoughts were too personal and the basic sentiment a little selfish. My reticence has been overcome by a desire to not only say ‘goodbye’ but also to say ‘thank you’ to someone who started what can only be described as a life-long love.
There are many who know how and why they came to support their football team. Some can even remember when. There are others, like myself, who have known nothing else. The often used term ‘in your blood’ is highly appropriate for people like us. It feels as though the link was formed as a natural part of our human development. ‘Look, you can see the arms, the legs, the facial features, all coming along nicely, and there is the claret and blue heart’.
Knowing that it isn’t actually possible to come out of the womb wearing an Alf Garnett scarf, I have always been inquisitive as to how it all came about (being a fan that is, not the conception). I was born in Forest Gate in the early 60’s but moved to the edge of nowhere (Basingstoke) at the age of three. My grandparents remained in East London and there were many weekend visits to St John’s Terrace and Curwen Avenue. I vividly remember watching ‘World of Sport’ on a black and white TV and eagerly anticipating the final scores coming through after the wrestling. This wasn’t only important from a result perspective, but also to see if Brian Moore was reporting from the Chicken Run television gantry. My heart leapt if he was, as this meant that West Ham would be on ‘The Big Match’ the following day. Back in Basingstoke, this would sometimes lead to traumatic Sunday afternoons, as I would be pestering my dis-interested parents to re-tune the TV via the ‘communal’ aerial to ‘London Weekend’ from ‘Southern’ as I didn’t want to be watching Southampton v Portsmouth, thank you very much! The nightmare scenario was finally getting the TV re-tuned and finding out that the London version of the programme had started an hour and a half earlier than the advertised Southern counterpart. This is when the word ‘sulk’ was invented.
Whilst watching Dickie Davies introducing wrestling from Bridlington with Kent Walton, I would interrogate my grandparents with questions about Upton Park. I was obsessed with it. I’d never seen it and I was fascinated as to exactly where it was, from where we were sitting at that moment. They lived just off Green Street, Romford Road end, and I can’t tell you how frustrating it was to be told ‘it’s just down that way’. Every weekend, we would go home to Hampshire without having got any closer to The Boleyn. I was desperate for someone to take me to that elusive place. Anybody, I didn’t care. One of my great hopes was that one of Mrs Ford’s boys from around the corner would let me tag along, but it never happened, even though they were regular visitors.
In the end, I had to wait until I left school at 16 and earning my own money, to finally make the trip I had always yearned for. It was the middle of our 1980 winning cup run. We had drawn Aston Villa at home in the quarter final and the tickets were going on sale at 7am on Sunday morning. My mind was made up, I was going to London on Saturday night, staying with my Nan and Grandad and queueing for tickets the following day. I wasn’t even put off by the fact my Dad had helpfully arranged for me to be chaperoned by a mate of his from the pub. I had never met this man before, but ended up top and tailing in bed with him (behave), just to get to see my beloved Irons for the first time. I bought my ticket, which was a bit of card, about half a not-so-glamorous step up from what you might get at the bingo. I stepped through the turnstiles onto the concourse under the East Stand. This is where you were encouraged to make your way to the exit with grubby little ticket in hand. But I couldn’t resist. The steps were unguarded in front of me and I had no hesitation in leaping up them to catch my first sight of the Boleyn grass. I was captivated. I still am.
Regularly I would ask my Dad as to how and why I loved West Ham so much. He would show pictures of me wearing West Ham memorabilia at a very young age and tell me stories of how, as a babe in arms, I had watched Bobby Moore from our upstairs flat in Green Street, holding the Cup aloft on the open top bus parade, but he would never explain any further. He was from a generation of East Ender’s, which included my Grandad, who regarded West Ham as a bit of joke. The saying ‘West Ham always come down with the Christmas decorations’ never seemed to tire with them.
There is one particular picture that has always made me question my Dad even further. I’m about 6 years old and I am standing in full West Ham kit with my foot on top of a ball, classic pose. I really should be questioning him as to why I am wearing a shirt and tie under my kit, but I have concluded that it was the 60’s and even though money was tight, there were standards, don’t you know.
He is 72 now and since he retired, he has started to really show an interest in all things West Ham. He watches games on BT Sport, buys merchandise from the Club Shop and even had an interest in who would replace Sam (it got to us all Dad). He also finally admitted that he was the one who encouraged me at a very early age to love West Ham. He was the one who bought the kits, the balls, the rosettes, the scarves. All probably very obvious to anyone reading this, but for my whole life it is something he has denied.
I have to admit that I still can’t come to terms with the fact that we are moving to the Olympic Stadium and The Boleyn will be no more. I understand that time passes and things change, but it hasn’t got any easier to accept. My dream would be that for one game in our final season I could share it with my Dad. It would mean so much to me as it is an experience we have never shared before. Unfortunately, he is not as sentimental as me and is much more of a pragmatist. When asked, he cited the journey, the crowds, the hustle, the bustle, the noise and the language as reasons for not being able to go.
Stranger things have happened, he may change his mind. Here’s hoping.
COYI