The First Time

The turnstile turns. Clunk. Your dad pushes you through. Concrete surrounds you. Concrete and people. You stand still, unsure what to do, where to go. Your dad’s hand finds your back, guiding you deeper under the stand. He knows; he comes every week. 

The noise increases. Songs being sang, shouts, the buzz of a thousand conversations. Swear words jump out. And laughter. There’s an energy running through the place that you don’t understand. But you feel it. You want to stop and hear it all, to see it all, to commit every sound, face, colour, to memory. 

A nudge from your dad, moving you towards the steep steps. Your view, a patch of blue sky and a corner of the dark grey main stand, is framed by more concrete that rises high above you. You climb: one, two, three, four steps. Up and up. Your eyes are filled with more colour. A mass of green, surrounded by multi-coloured advertising boards. The crisp white of the pitch lines and goalposts, the black kit of the referee. And red. Everywhere there is red. On scarfs, on replica shirts, people’s jackets and hats.

You can see the players - the actual players - close enough to touch. 

You’ve never been here before but it feels like coming home.

You’re stood on the terraces, part of a mass of people. Your people. Everyone is chanting: ‘United.  United.  United.’  Inside you there is an explosion of nerves and excitement. You feel like your whole body is smiling. 

People come up from the concourse, push you aside and work their way through the crowd to be higher up terrace. A steward in a bright yellow jacket says, “Kids down the front.” Your dad moves you forward and a path naturally opens between the fans. You walk through it, heading quickly down the steps of terrace. At the bottom, closer to the pitch – the actual pitch – there’s a bar that runs along the back of the fence that separates the fans and the football. There’s enough room between the bar and the fence for kids to fit their legs through the gap. Other kids are already sat on it, hands gripping the peeling red bars in front of their faces. 

“United.”

There doesn’t seem to be any room for you. 

“United.”

One of the kids turns and sees you. He’s about fifteen, four years older than you. He looks like one of the boys you avoid at school. Hair shaved right to the bone, a wide nose that looks like it’s be punched more than once. He smiles.

“United.”

He squeezes up, creating a space.

“Get in there mate.”

A space for you.

Nervously, you maneuver your legs, somehow fitting between people. Suddenly you’re on the bar, your hands clamped on peeling paint.

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

And, just like that, you are accepted.

One of the boys on the front row. 

One of the hundreds close to you. 

One of the thousands behind you, to the side of you:  The singers, the shouters, the silent watchers.  All the same. 

You and them.

Them and you.

United.