That increasing rarity, a well-argued and intelligent article, appears in today’s Guardian on the subject of whether it is acceptable for a football fan to switch allegiance. Luke McLaughlin, for it is he, concludes that, “not only is it acceptable to switch allegiance, it actually makes more sense to base your support on what’s going on in your life at the time. If professional athletes can represent more than one country, let alone several clubs, why shouldn’t fans switch teams?” I had always been in the camp that says that a football club is for life and that, for better or for worse, you’re stuck with your first choice team for life, apart from the awkward fact that I jumped ship when I was barely a teenager.
I lived in the Brislington area of Bristol, Briz to actual locals, which was very much within Bristol City’s catchment area and before I knew it my next door neighbour, a season ticket holder at Ashton Gate, was taking me to some matches. I have very limited memories of those days and can’t even remember where I stood, never mind retaining memories of any specific matches, but strangely I have powerful memories of the players of the time. I am guessing that the pre-adolescent me would have celebrated goals and felt disheartened by defeats but, perhaps conveniently in view of what follows, I can’t be certain. But what happened next is something I am certain about. Lifelong old pal Nick, who sadly shuffled off his mortal coil last year, suggested in around 1972 that I join him at Eastville Stadium, home of City’s rivals Bristol Rovers. It was love at first sight.
It was clear from the start that Rovers were the poor relations of Bristol football. While Ashton Gate was not exactly palatial, it had better facilities, was more comfortable and had a big new stand named after legendary owner and benefactor Harry Dolman, but that didn’t matter to me. The rickety old wooden South Stand, which later burned down in ‘mysterious’ circumstances, the Tote End where the hard lads went, the towering North Stand and the massive uncovered away end, the flower beds behind the goal, the mediocre football, the whole miserable package, it drew me in from day one. This was my life.
Watching the Rovers was, for my teenage years, my twenties and early thirties was a secondary consideration because I was a terrible footballer, plying my trade on the parks of Bristol on Saturday afternoons, so my terrace appearances were limited, but this was my team, my club, for life. While my support has lapsed – I have not been to a game since 2018 and cannot foresee any circumstances where I would go back – my allegiance has not been transferred to any other club.
Instead of going to games, the only team I watch regularly, and that’s only on the crystal bucket, is Liverpool, but I am not a fan or supporter. No one who doesn’t actually go to games is a fan or a supporter in the real sense of the words. The only circumstances I could imagine myself supporting another club would be if I moved away from Bristol.
If I moved to Rotterdam, I would find it easy to support Feyenoord, who were the first club I ever saw play live, long before City or Rovers entered my life. But if I moved anywhere else – and this scenario is so unlikely it’s barely worth even considering – I have no idea whether I’d start supporting the local club. But I know people who have and the principle of supporting one’s local club, as opposed to being a glory-hunting armchair fan (like me), strikes me as being much higher level of what you could call the moral high ground.
So, is a club for life? I don’t think there’s a definitive answer to that question. And I don’t think it matters too much, either. There was a time when a huge part of my life revolved around supporting my team and club. Obsession would not be an exaggeration. Every second Saturday, along with numerous week nights, would be sacrosanct, an immoveable object in my diary, around which all manner of social events and occasions would revolve, as well as family holidays. And if I wasn’t at the game, I was volunteering for the club or debating the club on forums and social media. That is, or at least was in my case, the lot of a football fan/supporter. For reasons too boring to go into, my decree absolute came through many years ago and while Rovers will be the only club I ever support, it’s all firmly in the past. There will be no other club, although that could well be down at least in part to my increasing disillusionment with football in general, and I am firmly at peace with that.
I’m getting old now, aware of my mortality and surrounded by bucket lists of things to do before I too shuffle off my mortal coil and return to the nothingness I was part of before I was born. My life as a fan is one of memories, some happy, some sad, but as Rick Nelson pointed out in his classic song Garden Party, “if memories were all I had, I’d rather drive a truck”. For me, the life of a football supporter ended with Bristol Rovers and it didn’t transfer to anywhere else. But that doesn’t make it right or wrong and in any event it’s no one else’s business.
The people who have owned, managed and played for my old club in recent decades have all been here today, gone tomorrow people, so why not the fans?
