Guest Post by Saqib Khan
I wish I’d given in to the hubbub of the 1980 FA cup final. I remember being at primary school in Ilford and there being noise about West Ham in a cup final. I was six and a half and it hadn’t made a great deal of sense to me. I can’t remember the final and only vaguely recall something the following year when Ricky Villa’s magic won it for Spurs against Man City. I was aware of the Cup Final by the following year when Spurs beat QPR in 1982. Lucky for me though, by then I’d already been seduced by the all-conquering Liverpool of Dalglish and Rush.
You see, my old man had come over from Pakistan and given how unwelcoming all football grounds seemed, or at least felt to the average immigrant, he was never going to go. More than that though, sending money ‘back home’ and looking after a young family was a hand-to-mouth affair and going to the football was a luxury he couldn’t afford. With no-one to steer me to a local side, I ended up falling for the glory team of the day.
Where does West Ham come into all of this? Fast forward about 30 years and one of my best mates from university writes a book called ‘Son Of My Father’, a beautifully written homage to his late father and their relationship through the ages intertwined by going to watch their beloved Derby County together. I’d been umming and ahhing ever since my son had been born in 2008 before about whether to raise him as a Liverpool fan or go for something more local. Reading my mate’s book had sealed it, it was going to have to be a London club given I was now now married and well settled in Wanstead.
Chelsea we’re never in with a shout, Spurs too would never feel right, another of my uni mates suggested Leyton Orient on the strength that it would be ‘character building’, I said I neither hated my son nor wanted him to hate me and but I did check in with my mate Nick a season ticket-holder who took his two sons to the O’s. I thought maybe I might be overlooking something by only thinking about top flight clubs. Nick’s reaction to that said it all “Mate, they are sh**!, I spend half my time watching them thinking ’they’re getting paid for this!’ and that makes it worse. You’ve no family ties to the O’s, my Dad made me suffer, I’m doing the same to my sons, save yourself and your boy.”
It was back to a straight shoot out between the club that had been my local all my life and was a bit of a sentimental choice and another that had been the artisans of the last 15 years, Arsenal. I’d already been to the Emirates with a season ticket holding mate and found it a bit eery and bit too middle-class, like watching a game at Twickenham. I couldn’t identify with the North London middle-class aficionados or with their other fans from the eastern Mediterranean backgrounds, more than that, it was like being in on someone else’s patch.
Although West Ham felt right on local grounds both to Ilford where I grew up and where my Dad first arrived and also to Wanstead where I was and planned to stay and raise my kids. I still had a (misplaced) anxiety about whether West Ham would want me or my boy. Fairly or unfairly, there was still this nagging wariness of the perception I grew up with in the 80’s of West Ham having an underbelly of NF, and latterly BNP and EDL support within Irons supporters. I remember Googling ‘West Ham and Asian Fans’ on the KUMB forum and coming across a very reassuring thread with stories of Asians who’d been going for years without bother and hearing that Claret and Blue was the only colours that mattered.
That was it, I took the dive and signed my boy up as a Junior Hammer, took out an Academy membership myself and started our own father-son footballing odyssey on 1 September 2012 against Fulham. He was 3 years 9 months old, Carroll had been signed on loan the day before, Nolan scored in the very first minute and we were 3-0 up at half time. We went home happy.
We went back 3 weeks later and my boy stood up on the seat next to me and out of nowhere starts singing ‘one-nil to the Cockney Boys’ with his arms aloft. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was Sunderland who’d just taken the lead, still, we grabbed an equaliser that felt like a win in the 93rd minute and again, we went home happy.
In fact, from his first dozen games, we saw eight wins and 4 draws. It was his 13th game, the last of our second season, against Palace, that we finally saw them lose. Even now, at the end of his 3rd season as an Iron, the only other losing match he’s seen is this season’s League Cup penalty shoot out loss against the Blades.
The financial side of it, though not crucial has been a massive bonus, the kids for a quid games have been a great introduction for us and though we came in through that marketing channel, we did spend £700 at the club in our first year, which included taking friends to the Man Utd FA game and the Liverpool home game.
Three seasons later, we’ve just bought season tickets for the final season at the Boleyn as testament that there’s been nothing close to the experience of supporting our local side, I’ve felt more invested in West Ham than I ever did as a ‘Satellite Scouse’, even though I’d go up to Anfield once a season, as good as it was, it never felt mine the way West Ham does. Whatever else West Ham might be, it feels like home because it is close to home and there’s a kinship with other Irons because I can relate to a shared geography and experiences because I’ve grown up around West Ham fans and still live amongst them. But most of all, for me it’s more than just about West Ham, its more than just about football, it’s about going with my boy to our local team. Our team. Our private, father-son experience, as private at 35,000 gets anyway.
So why am I an Iron a Hammer (delete as preferred)? Simple, for my son.