Once upon a time – yesterday, actually – old pal Sladey and I drove up to Old Trafford, Manchester for the rugby league Grand Final, the Super League decider, between Wigan Warriors, the team I have supported for all my life, and Warrington Wolves. It was a truly great day for all sorts of reasons.
I do not see as much of Sladey as I would like to. We have been friends for well over 30 years, a friendship I hope and believe will last forever, and yesterday, as soon I climbed into the passenger seat of his car on a day that spanned some 10 hours, we talked like there was no tomorrow, making up for lost time and then some.
At least Sladey has familial connections to Wigan whereas I have none. I just fell in love with them when they were rubbish, playing in League’s second division. Yesterday, they were far from rubbish.
We parked the car in Old Trafford Cricket Ground (a mere tenner) and made our way to Old Trafford Football Ground. Passed the Wetherspoons and countless grease burger stalls (I did buy a buy one, I’m afraid, and it was very high fat gorgeous), passing Lou Macari’s Fish and Chip shop and down Sir Matt Busby Way. If the corporate prawn sandwichery of the place, along with aircraft hangar sized ‘superstore’, reflect a rather different world, the statues and the names of the stands admirably recall the history of the club.
Finding the entrance to our seats in the Sir Bobby Charlton stand, we made our way the abysmally poor bar areas beneath our seats. Absolutely ram packed as Jeremy Corbyn might describe it, the food was modest in quality, extortionate in cost and small beer bottles cost a mere £4.50 each, if, that was, you could actually work out where the queue to the bar facilities actually began. And the toilet? One small gents toilet for the entire block we were in, the queue was basically everyone who was in the bar. For the Biggest Club in the World, for people who had paid £80 a ticket, this was rather taking the piss, except that there was nowhere to take it.
If the lavatory and concession facilities were below Conference level, the actual stadium where the seats are is simply magnificent. This was my second visit and whilst this time I didn’t gasp when we entered the arena, my heartbeat picked up considerably. Our seats were perfect, with stunning views across the Theatre of Dreams, just behind the Warrington dug out. Whilst there were Wigan and Warrington ‘ends’, it was for reasons of comradeship and atmosphere rather than active segregation to prevent trouble occurring. There were fans of both clubs by us and we cheered our own teams without fearing the consequences you might attract at certain football games.
The time went by so quickly until Wigan were hanging on near the end, as quickly as time goes when you are lying in bed, half-awake on a Monday morning, waiting for the alarm to go off. Then it almost stopped altogether. Nerve-wracking doesn’t go close to describing it. And then it was over. “We” won 12-6.
Getting back to the car was easy too, passing the phalanx of unofficial tat-sellers and burger vans but it was so well-ordered. We were on the road out of Manchester within minutes of reaching the car.
A few pints might have added to my merriment but for once I didn’t really want it, my financial tightness being ruthlessly exposed by my refusal to pay what would have been around £9 a pint. I managed to survive without that.
I took some photos but the best memories are in my head. Of a great friend, of an epic sporting occasion at one of the great sporting theatres on the planet, of a perfect day.
Our friend Rex made it all possible and I owe him at least a large drink to pay him back. I was a very lucky boy yesterday.
