C’mon, Worth-ING!
One Canadian’s First Experience with Small Club English Football
Written by Stephen Spence
November 12, 2005
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
Victor Gladwish Stadium – a stadium indeed! Entering the diminutive Woodside Road football grounds in Worthing for only my second time in two months, I felt like I was returning to Grandmas house – familiar and relaxing yet adventurous and exciting.
On my first visit to Worthing just a few months ago, the local cab driver laughed when, thinking I would sound like a local, I asked him to take me and the work-colleague I’d dragged along under a hint of possible termination, to the “Worthing Stadium”. If my Canadian accent hadn’t given me away as an outsider, referring to Worthing‘s football park as a “stadium” would have.
You would think I would have known better. Earlier that day I had asked the young man working at the front desk of my hotel, and someone I felt fit the demographic of a typical football fan, if Victor Gladwish Stadium was within walking distance of the hotel. He replied “Victor What?”. I have to assume from his response, and by the 20 minutes it took us both to find the stadium on his map of Worthing that The Victor Gladwish Stadium was not a popular attraction for visitors to this part of the south coast of England. I subsequently discovered that the Worthing Stadium, like many English stadiums, is known by the name of the road on which it resides and therefore this one is simply known as “Woodside”.
The driver made a series of abrupt turns suggesting we were approaching our destination but there was no sign of a stadium, only row after row of small quaint English-style houses, contiguous and similar, and all fronted by high brick fences. Located so close to Woodside, I have to assume that the local residents felt safer behind the brick barricades protecting themselves against the tens of rowdy Rebel football fans running rampant through the neighbourhood on match days, some I would soon learn were under 70 years of age.
As the cabbie pulled up to the curb signifying the end of our short journey, it was hard to imagine that the brick wall now facing us was the front of the stadium. I soon noticed, screwed to the top of the wall, a small metallic and almost unreadable sign that read “Worthing FC”. Just to the right of the brick wall we noticed a narrow entrance way, not much wider than an airplane lavatory door. Either Worthing football fans were a slender lot or those brick walls on either side were more flexible than they looked.
As insignificant as the external Woodside facade was, it presented all the rustic allure that I had expected but had feared may only have existed in my mind’s glorification. For me, passing through the turnstile was like passing through a portal to a new world; a world of small-club football and the promise of a new devotion. It was my first visit to an English football park but it seemed like I had been here so many times before. Now was the beginning of the transformation of my long-held passion to a full fledged, unadulterated out-of-the-closet obsession. I knew now with absolute certainty that small club football was to become for me an insurmountable compulsion.
On the football side of the turnstiles you stand on Woodside’s short three-level terraces just meters from the back of the nearest goal. The terraces extend around three sides of the pitch, the opposite ends as well as along the side with the player benches.
For those unfamiliar with old football stadiums, terraces are concrete tiered standing areas in most stadiums before 1990. Terraces were banned from large stadiums following the 1989 Hillsborough disaster, when ninety-six supporters died in over-crowded terraces at an FA Cup semi-final match in Sheffield, but still exist in many small parks. In the smaller parks the crowds are simply not large enough to present this risk.
Attending a local football match is really like going to a friend’s house party. Settling into a chair for two hours at a party is a sure way to bore yourself and everyone else around you. On the other hand, staying on your feet and moving about keeps you engaged in the activities of the event. A football match is a party but one that only last’s two hours and, for at least most of the season, requires you to keep your coat on.
There are stands located on the left side of the pitch for those who prefer to sit. Elevated 10-12 feet or so above the playing surface, supporters choose their preferred wooden drop-down seat being careful not to choose one behind one of the many pillars holding up the roof. At Woodside the luxury of sitting will cost you an extra half-a-quid.
A few days after my first visit to Woodside I was in Rotterdam on business and I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to visit magnificent De Kuip stadium, home of the Feyenoord football club and one of the most spectacular football stadiums in all of Europe. Regressing to my childhood, I found an open door and made my way into the stadium and sat myself down as its sole occupant in one of its 55,000 comfortable seats. Although truly an impressive site, De Kuip lacked the old-world charm of the Rebel’s 100-year old tiny brick home. Give me brick over metal any day; old over new; small over large.
Small parks like Woodside are special because unlike majestic stadiums like De Kuip that tower above nearby office towers, sprawling parking lots, and busy cosmopolitan streets, parks like Woodside seem to have sprouted organically amid the warmth and compactness of old familial neighborhoods. Small club parks like Woodside are not shiny monuments or magnificent engineering feats but humble gathering places for a community of local football supporters. There is no need for executive suites, jumbo screens, or half-time entertainment in small-club parks – only a friend’s ear and a good set of lungs for the referee. All throughout Britain, families and friends gather in these small venues not just to watch the competition but to visit with neighbours, tell a few jokes, laugh with others, bellow at referees, and dispense personal football wisdom. In neighbourhood football parks, friends get together to share news and opinions as they do on the front-stoop of an old Brooklyn neighborhood or at a kitchen party on Canada’s Atlantic coast.
Now, just two months later I am visiting Woodside for the second time. My first Woodside match was between two reserve squads competing primarily to give players, who generally have little opportunity on the senior team, some extra playing time. But today, I have the pleasure of seeing a real English Cup match.
The mighty Worthing Rebels currently hold down 3rd position in the Premier Division of the Ryman Premier League, a league that is seven colossal levels below the English Premiership. Eliminated from the venerable FA Cup in the first preliminary round just three weeks ago the Rebels compete today in the second round of the less-prestigious FA Trophy against Stamford, a 105-year old club from Lincolnshire. The FA Trophy was originally called the “FA Amateur Cup”, a cup competition primarily intended to provide two fortunate amateur club teams an opportunity to play the finals in London’s revered Wembley Stadium. In English football, as with so many other sports, the line between professional and amateur became so blurred that reference to “amateur” was removed and the competition was re-named.
Stamford competes in the Central Division of a league strangely named “Doc Marten”, even lower in the pyramid than Worthing. They are currently in fourth position behind such football powerhouses as Boreham Wood, Corby Town, Enfield Town and Waltham Forest. Although Stamford was founded in 1894 and Worthing in 1885, the two clubs have never before met in any competition.
Some of the nicknames of British football clubs are a little odd to say the least but the “Daniels” of Stamford must take the proverbial cake. “The Daniels” are named after the heaviest British man ever. When he died in 1809 Daniel Lambert weighed 728 pounds or 52 stones. I really don’t understand the linkage here but naming a football club after someone who presumably spent a good part of his life eating and sleeping might explain Stamford’s lowly position in the hierarchy of English football. Why didn’t they just call themselves, “The Fat Boys”? A Worthing win, although not guaranteed, is expected.
Eager to be on time, I left my hotel with street maps stuffed into my pockets for what I expected to be a leisurely fourty-five minute walk. Just fifteen minutes later, I passed by Woodside over an hour before the 3:00 pm kick-off and not wanting to appear to others as pathetic as I felt, I just kept walking. I eventually found my way to the Clifton Arms Pub, a modest establishment with a big-screen TV and where the tables are wiped clean monthly. When I ordered a pint and a sandwich, a jolly wobbly patron of the house, who I would guess is on their mailing list, approached me when he detected my accent and asked if I was from Norway or Denmark or … “Kent”. He began laughing thunderously with his own reference to “Kent”. He continued laughing well into a game of billiards he started playing against an invisible but apparently argumentative opponent. Fortunately, he finished his game soon enough to serve me my lunch, stealing one of my chips from the plate as he placed it unsteadily in front of me. I thanked him and he responded with an uproarious, “Kent!” and again left laughing.
Just as I finished my sandwich I looked at the big Guinness clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was 2:55 pm. Since Woodside was at least five minutes away I quickly said good bye to my new friends, promised to return, left the pub and ran to the grounds in time to miss the kick off.
I entered through the portal once again into my new world and stopped to look around and fully absorb the old-world atmosphere. I was immediately struck by the noise – not from crowd but from the players. Interspersed amongst the steady stream of angry commands and reactive outbursts from the players, individual shouts of instructions from well-meaning fans in the terraces reverberated off the roof and went nowhere special.
A crowd of about 400 people distributed themselves on the four sides of the park. Despite my love for watching football on my feet, for some inexplicable reason I paid my 50p and made my way to the luxurious wooden-seats. I climbed up the full eight rows and moved toward the far end, ducking as I passed in front of the little windowed hut that bore a sign that said “Press Box”.
Worthing had started in a traditional 4-4-2 formation and Stamford’s choice of a 3-5-2 was undoubtedly an attempt to control the midfield against the stronger Worthing squad. Worthing tried to take advantage of the Stamford back three by playing balls down the flank to stretch out their defensive shape and open up the middle for the Rebel’s two skilled strikers, Stafford Browne and Richard Paquette. The Rebels right defender, Andy Lutwyche was called upon many times to deliver a ball down the right side but was clearly struggling. Each attempt seemed to send the youngsters in the stands blissfully scrambling to be the first to recover the errant ball. The old-timers in the crowd not appreciating the failed attempts as much as their younger counter-parts let their displeasure and their unabashed grumpiness be known.
The noise from the supporters began to rise. Vociferous instructions from older gentlemen in the crowd became more frequent and louder while young boys gathering near the edge of the pitch rhythmically banged on the advertising boards. Worthing took noticeable control of the match as if responding to the increasing noise from the perimeter. The right-flank tactics paid off for Worthing in the twentieth minute when midfielder Danny Davis played a nice cross to striker, Stafford Browne who was fouled in the box. After checking with his assistant, the referee awarded a penalty kick and Browne knocked the ball confidently into the upper right corner to give Worthing the early lead. Following the successful penalty kick, the Stamford keeper tried to convince the referee that his awarding of the penalty kick was solely due to his unsuitable qualifications and, for being unconvincing in his arguments, the keeper was issued a caution. Worthing took at 1-0 half-time lead into the break and looked well positioned to hold on.
Before heading down for a hot chocolate I listened carefully to the public address announcer awarding the winning raffle prizes with so much interest you would think I had purchased a ticket myself. Proudly announcing that the first-place ticket holder received a “bottle of whiskey”, he made no mention of a specific brand - just a “bottle of whiskey” - no ceremonious presentation to the lucky winner by the Vice President of something-or-other from Ballentines or Glen Fiddich. The second place winner it was announced would receive an equally brandless “bottle of Gin”. Clearly, Worthing must be a Scotch town! The third place winner received a “bottle of wine”. Hearing the third-place prize I regretting not buying a ticket and handing it over to my laughing chip-stealing friend from Clifton Arms to share with his invisible billiards partner.
At the half time break I had a little talk with myself and reaffirmed that the stands were not for me. I must stand to watch football. So, I headed off to buy my drink and then made my way down to the far side of the park and staked a claim on the peak of a small mound just above the terraces, only ten or twelve feet from the edge of the pitch. It was the right decision. From this new vantage point, I not only had a closer view of all the action I was better able to hear all the colourful comments from the individual fans and the small groups gathered close by.
To absorb the proper game atmosphere you have to choose your location carefully. Although sitting in the stands is more comfortable and offers guests the best possible viewing angle of the action, it is on the terraces where you absorb the real spirit of the game. On the terraces, a person feels a part of the action. I don’t know of any other sport that offers as holistic an impact on its followers as football. The terraces personify this essence and by partaking in the game from this perspective you are virtually dropped into the epicenter of the game rather than observing it as an outsider. Most sports fans attend a sporting event for its entertainment but terrace-dwellers go to the match to live it. On the terraces, football is not a game - it’s a way of life.
British writer and Arsenal fan, Nick Hornby believes that the removal of terraces has removed some of the entertainment value for others attending the matches. Fortunately the terrace spirit lives on, albeit somewhat scaled down, in smaller clubs. Hornby says that for the seated fans who no longer have the added amusement of watching the terraces, support invariably rises or wanes with the teams on-field performance. Sometimes the game delivers and sometimes it does not. The prevalence of older supporters at Woodside struck me as a sign that the younger football fans, growing up in an era of all-seater stadiums, may be less patient with the ups and downs of supporting a local club. These older fans may represent a bygone age – supporters that Hornby says suffer through years of anguish and disappointment just for those few glorious opportunities to celebrate the clubs successes together with their community. Are these grand old gentlemen becoming a dying breed? I hope not - they look so great in their red and white scarves.
As the second half started, it was clear that Stamford was a different team. They had more energy and quickly began to capture the critical midfield territory. The noise level on the field as well as the noise level in the crowd (and the depth of anger in both) increased sharply in the first few minutes of the second half. It was as if the first half was just for fun, and the real competition was now beginning.
Almost immediately, poor Lutwyche started up his game of fetch with the kids, sending ball after ball into neighbouring gardens where the young boys and girls boldly scampered to retrieve them. At the 62-minute mark, Worthing Manager Alan Pook had seen enough and substituted for Lutwyche. As the disheartened Lutwyche turned to sit down and for some reason slipped a little on the player’s bench, a fan near me exclaimed, somewhat cruelly and probably close enough for him to hear: “Look, he even missed the bench.” The substitution however did not stem the Stamford tide and the Daniels pushed forward intently, looking much more like scoring than they ever did in the first half.
The kingpin of the Stamford squad and the team captain was midfielder Garath Pritchard. Although he looked more like an ultimate fighter than a footballer and his temperament seemed on the edge of going Wayne Rooney at any point, he was highly skilled and a constant threat to the Rebel defenders. At the 66-minute mark, Pritchard took a ball from a throw-in just outside the edge of the 18-yard box, and directed a screamer of a low shot at the Worthing goal. Keeper Mark Ormerod could not react quickly enough and the score was leveled at 1-1.
Worthing pushed hard to score the winning goal and repeatedly sent hopeful balls up front to the twin strikers who each time seemed to play with the ball too much, even when under pressure from two or even three Stamford defenders. The fans grew frustrated as each missed opportunity lead to a loss of possession and often one of the strikers collapsing on the ground with arms in the air, attempting to draw a foul that seldom came. With only about twelve minutes to go in the match, Worthing brought on substitute striker Sam Francis for midfielder Roy Pook. With fresh legs, Francis made run after run and gave the fans some hope, but could not help put in the winner.
Knowing that a draw would result in a replay back in Lincolnshire, The Fat Boys wasted time whenever they had the chance. At one point, a fan next to me, annoyed by the attentiveness of the referee to an injured Stamford player, yelled out:”Why don’t you just kiss it better, ref?”
I soon noticed that as things stopped going so well and the Rebel terrace-dwellers became more anxious they would launch into periodic and frantic outbursts of “C’mon, Worth-ING!“, with an exaggerated emphasis and prolongation of the second syllable. Desperate pleas from fans on the cusp of panic; not organized collective chants but individual outbursts from distressed fans that was part futile resignation of an unbearable defeat and part encouragement for the boys on the pitch to pull it together and put an end to the misery. “C’mon, Worth-ING! “
As the excitement grew, I became more of a fan and less an observer. I found myself cheering and making inarticulate and not very helpful outbursts of my own. I clapped and shouted at the players. At one point I cheered on Danny Davis and like my fellow terrace-dwellers, used his first name for that little extra push. Davis was eventually named Man of the Match and I can’t say for certain this would have been the case if not for my personal encouragement.
“C’mon, Worth-ING!“
For a few moments, I was so caught up in the action I considered dropping by the little red shack that sold Rebel merchandise to buy a red and white Worthing FC scarf for myself that so many of the locals wore so proudly. I decided against the purchase, feeling that I had not yet earned the right to be a Rebel fan. After all, what right had I earned to attire myself in the same garb as some of these grand old gents who had probably been coming to Woodside since they were young boys? I was not sure if I could convincingly explain why a Canadian businessman had such a close attachment to a football team in a city he had only been to once before and a team he never previously watched. “C’mon, Worth-ING! “
As the last few minutes ticked by the crowd noise finally began to rise above the level of the players. In the 80th minute it appeared that Worthing might secure the win as the ever-dangerous Browne was sent clear but when his shot bounded off the post out of trouble, we all knew it was not going to happen that day. Fifteen or twenty young Stamford fans – their total support at Woodside that day – began banging the ad boards in a recognizable cadence, chanting loudly: “Stam-ford” BANG, BANG, BANG.
“C’mon, Worth-ING! “
The match finished a 1-1 draw. With the final whistle, Stamford players, coaches, and fans celebrated as if they had captured the FA Cup while many Worthing players collapsed dejected on the pitch, knowing that they had let success that should have been, slip mysteriously out of their grasp. They would now have to do it all over again, in just three days, and this time in Stamford’s home park.
As I walked to the exit, with my fellow football lovers, I listened intently to conversations around me. An older man to my right and clearly a Stamford supporter spoke breathlessly and blissfully into his cell phone. He described with notable enthusiasm how “great the boys played” and proudly described the Stamford support as “terrific”. He said that he had never before heard Stamford fans’ chanting “Stamford!”, and said how great it was to be there for it.
Further along, I passed a Worthing fan who was also speaking on a cell phone. Even though his team had only drawn, he spoke with comparable excitement in his voice. He told the invisible listener that the atmosphere in the park was “fantastic” and “we get to do it again on Tuesday”.
Although the afternoon did not finish happily for Worthing, it was a magical afternoon for Stamford fans and players, but it could not possibly have been any more magical for anyone than it had been for me. Leaving the stadium I was left feeling like a young boy waking up the morning after Christmas recognizing that, after all the build up and the excitement of the Christmas festivities, in the blink of an eye, it was sadly all over. That is, until next time. Maybe next time I will buy that red and white scarf at the little red hut, after all.
Written by Stephen Spence
November 12, 2005
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
Victor Gladwish Stadium – a stadium indeed! Entering the diminutive Woodside Road football grounds in Worthing for only my second time in two months, I felt like I was returning to Grandmas house – familiar and relaxing yet adventurous and exciting.
On my first visit to Worthing just a few months ago, the local cab driver laughed when, thinking I would sound like a local, I asked him to take me and the work-colleague I’d dragged along under a hint of possible termination, to the “Worthing Stadium”. If my Canadian accent hadn’t given me away as an outsider, referring to Worthing‘s football park as a “stadium” would have.
You would think I would have known better. Earlier that day I had asked the young man working at the front desk of my hotel, and someone I felt fit the demographic of a typical football fan, if Victor Gladwish Stadium was within walking distance of the hotel. He replied “Victor What?”. I have to assume from his response, and by the 20 minutes it took us both to find the stadium on his map of Worthing that The Victor Gladwish Stadium was not a popular attraction for visitors to this part of the south coast of England. I subsequently discovered that the Worthing Stadium, like many English stadiums, is known by the name of the road on which it resides and therefore this one is simply known as “Woodside”.
The driver made a series of abrupt turns suggesting we were approaching our destination but there was no sign of a stadium, only row after row of small quaint English-style houses, contiguous and similar, and all fronted by high brick fences. Located so close to Woodside, I have to assume that the local residents felt safer behind the brick barricades protecting themselves against the tens of rowdy Rebel football fans running rampant through the neighbourhood on match days, some I would soon learn were under 70 years of age.
As the cabbie pulled up to the curb signifying the end of our short journey, it was hard to imagine that the brick wall now facing us was the front of the stadium. I soon noticed, screwed to the top of the wall, a small metallic and almost unreadable sign that read “Worthing FC”. Just to the right of the brick wall we noticed a narrow entrance way, not much wider than an airplane lavatory door. Either Worthing football fans were a slender lot or those brick walls on either side were more flexible than they looked.
As insignificant as the external Woodside facade was, it presented all the rustic allure that I had expected but had feared may only have existed in my mind’s glorification. For me, passing through the turnstile was like passing through a portal to a new world; a world of small-club football and the promise of a new devotion. It was my first visit to an English football park but it seemed like I had been here so many times before. Now was the beginning of the transformation of my long-held passion to a full fledged, unadulterated out-of-the-closet obsession. I knew now with absolute certainty that small club football was to become for me an insurmountable compulsion.
On the football side of the turnstiles you stand on Woodside’s short three-level terraces just meters from the back of the nearest goal. The terraces extend around three sides of the pitch, the opposite ends as well as along the side with the player benches.
For those unfamiliar with old football stadiums, terraces are concrete tiered standing areas in most stadiums before 1990. Terraces were banned from large stadiums following the 1989 Hillsborough disaster, when ninety-six supporters died in over-crowded terraces at an FA Cup semi-final match in Sheffield, but still exist in many small parks. In the smaller parks the crowds are simply not large enough to present this risk.
Attending a local football match is really like going to a friend’s house party. Settling into a chair for two hours at a party is a sure way to bore yourself and everyone else around you. On the other hand, staying on your feet and moving about keeps you engaged in the activities of the event. A football match is a party but one that only last’s two hours and, for at least most of the season, requires you to keep your coat on.
There are stands located on the left side of the pitch for those who prefer to sit. Elevated 10-12 feet or so above the playing surface, supporters choose their preferred wooden drop-down seat being careful not to choose one behind one of the many pillars holding up the roof. At Woodside the luxury of sitting will cost you an extra half-a-quid.
A few days after my first visit to Woodside I was in Rotterdam on business and I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to visit magnificent De Kuip stadium, home of the Feyenoord football club and one of the most spectacular football stadiums in all of Europe. Regressing to my childhood, I found an open door and made my way into the stadium and sat myself down as its sole occupant in one of its 55,000 comfortable seats. Although truly an impressive site, De Kuip lacked the old-world charm of the Rebel’s 100-year old tiny brick home. Give me brick over metal any day; old over new; small over large.
Small parks like Woodside are special because unlike majestic stadiums like De Kuip that tower above nearby office towers, sprawling parking lots, and busy cosmopolitan streets, parks like Woodside seem to have sprouted organically amid the warmth and compactness of old familial neighborhoods. Small club parks like Woodside are not shiny monuments or magnificent engineering feats but humble gathering places for a community of local football supporters. There is no need for executive suites, jumbo screens, or half-time entertainment in small-club parks – only a friend’s ear and a good set of lungs for the referee. All throughout Britain, families and friends gather in these small venues not just to watch the competition but to visit with neighbours, tell a few jokes, laugh with others, bellow at referees, and dispense personal football wisdom. In neighbourhood football parks, friends get together to share news and opinions as they do on the front-stoop of an old Brooklyn neighborhood or at a kitchen party on Canada’s Atlantic coast.
Now, just two months later I am visiting Woodside for the second time. My first Woodside match was between two reserve squads competing primarily to give players, who generally have little opportunity on the senior team, some extra playing time. But today, I have the pleasure of seeing a real English Cup match.
The mighty Worthing Rebels currently hold down 3rd position in the Premier Division of the Ryman Premier League, a league that is seven colossal levels below the English Premiership. Eliminated from the venerable FA Cup in the first preliminary round just three weeks ago the Rebels compete today in the second round of the less-prestigious FA Trophy against Stamford, a 105-year old club from Lincolnshire. The FA Trophy was originally called the “FA Amateur Cup”, a cup competition primarily intended to provide two fortunate amateur club teams an opportunity to play the finals in London’s revered Wembley Stadium. In English football, as with so many other sports, the line between professional and amateur became so blurred that reference to “amateur” was removed and the competition was re-named.
Stamford competes in the Central Division of a league strangely named “Doc Marten”, even lower in the pyramid than Worthing. They are currently in fourth position behind such football powerhouses as Boreham Wood, Corby Town, Enfield Town and Waltham Forest. Although Stamford was founded in 1894 and Worthing in 1885, the two clubs have never before met in any competition.
Some of the nicknames of British football clubs are a little odd to say the least but the “Daniels” of Stamford must take the proverbial cake. “The Daniels” are named after the heaviest British man ever. When he died in 1809 Daniel Lambert weighed 728 pounds or 52 stones. I really don’t understand the linkage here but naming a football club after someone who presumably spent a good part of his life eating and sleeping might explain Stamford’s lowly position in the hierarchy of English football. Why didn’t they just call themselves, “The Fat Boys”? A Worthing win, although not guaranteed, is expected.
Eager to be on time, I left my hotel with street maps stuffed into my pockets for what I expected to be a leisurely fourty-five minute walk. Just fifteen minutes later, I passed by Woodside over an hour before the 3:00 pm kick-off and not wanting to appear to others as pathetic as I felt, I just kept walking. I eventually found my way to the Clifton Arms Pub, a modest establishment with a big-screen TV and where the tables are wiped clean monthly. When I ordered a pint and a sandwich, a jolly wobbly patron of the house, who I would guess is on their mailing list, approached me when he detected my accent and asked if I was from Norway or Denmark or … “Kent”. He began laughing thunderously with his own reference to “Kent”. He continued laughing well into a game of billiards he started playing against an invisible but apparently argumentative opponent. Fortunately, he finished his game soon enough to serve me my lunch, stealing one of my chips from the plate as he placed it unsteadily in front of me. I thanked him and he responded with an uproarious, “Kent!” and again left laughing.
Just as I finished my sandwich I looked at the big Guinness clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was 2:55 pm. Since Woodside was at least five minutes away I quickly said good bye to my new friends, promised to return, left the pub and ran to the grounds in time to miss the kick off.
I entered through the portal once again into my new world and stopped to look around and fully absorb the old-world atmosphere. I was immediately struck by the noise – not from crowd but from the players. Interspersed amongst the steady stream of angry commands and reactive outbursts from the players, individual shouts of instructions from well-meaning fans in the terraces reverberated off the roof and went nowhere special.
A crowd of about 400 people distributed themselves on the four sides of the park. Despite my love for watching football on my feet, for some inexplicable reason I paid my 50p and made my way to the luxurious wooden-seats. I climbed up the full eight rows and moved toward the far end, ducking as I passed in front of the little windowed hut that bore a sign that said “Press Box”.
Worthing had started in a traditional 4-4-2 formation and Stamford’s choice of a 3-5-2 was undoubtedly an attempt to control the midfield against the stronger Worthing squad. Worthing tried to take advantage of the Stamford back three by playing balls down the flank to stretch out their defensive shape and open up the middle for the Rebel’s two skilled strikers, Stafford Browne and Richard Paquette. The Rebels right defender, Andy Lutwyche was called upon many times to deliver a ball down the right side but was clearly struggling. Each attempt seemed to send the youngsters in the stands blissfully scrambling to be the first to recover the errant ball. The old-timers in the crowd not appreciating the failed attempts as much as their younger counter-parts let their displeasure and their unabashed grumpiness be known.
The noise from the supporters began to rise. Vociferous instructions from older gentlemen in the crowd became more frequent and louder while young boys gathering near the edge of the pitch rhythmically banged on the advertising boards. Worthing took noticeable control of the match as if responding to the increasing noise from the perimeter. The right-flank tactics paid off for Worthing in the twentieth minute when midfielder Danny Davis played a nice cross to striker, Stafford Browne who was fouled in the box. After checking with his assistant, the referee awarded a penalty kick and Browne knocked the ball confidently into the upper right corner to give Worthing the early lead. Following the successful penalty kick, the Stamford keeper tried to convince the referee that his awarding of the penalty kick was solely due to his unsuitable qualifications and, for being unconvincing in his arguments, the keeper was issued a caution. Worthing took at 1-0 half-time lead into the break and looked well positioned to hold on.
Before heading down for a hot chocolate I listened carefully to the public address announcer awarding the winning raffle prizes with so much interest you would think I had purchased a ticket myself. Proudly announcing that the first-place ticket holder received a “bottle of whiskey”, he made no mention of a specific brand - just a “bottle of whiskey” - no ceremonious presentation to the lucky winner by the Vice President of something-or-other from Ballentines or Glen Fiddich. The second place winner it was announced would receive an equally brandless “bottle of Gin”. Clearly, Worthing must be a Scotch town! The third place winner received a “bottle of wine”. Hearing the third-place prize I regretting not buying a ticket and handing it over to my laughing chip-stealing friend from Clifton Arms to share with his invisible billiards partner.
At the half time break I had a little talk with myself and reaffirmed that the stands were not for me. I must stand to watch football. So, I headed off to buy my drink and then made my way down to the far side of the park and staked a claim on the peak of a small mound just above the terraces, only ten or twelve feet from the edge of the pitch. It was the right decision. From this new vantage point, I not only had a closer view of all the action I was better able to hear all the colourful comments from the individual fans and the small groups gathered close by.
To absorb the proper game atmosphere you have to choose your location carefully. Although sitting in the stands is more comfortable and offers guests the best possible viewing angle of the action, it is on the terraces where you absorb the real spirit of the game. On the terraces, a person feels a part of the action. I don’t know of any other sport that offers as holistic an impact on its followers as football. The terraces personify this essence and by partaking in the game from this perspective you are virtually dropped into the epicenter of the game rather than observing it as an outsider. Most sports fans attend a sporting event for its entertainment but terrace-dwellers go to the match to live it. On the terraces, football is not a game - it’s a way of life.
British writer and Arsenal fan, Nick Hornby believes that the removal of terraces has removed some of the entertainment value for others attending the matches. Fortunately the terrace spirit lives on, albeit somewhat scaled down, in smaller clubs. Hornby says that for the seated fans who no longer have the added amusement of watching the terraces, support invariably rises or wanes with the teams on-field performance. Sometimes the game delivers and sometimes it does not. The prevalence of older supporters at Woodside struck me as a sign that the younger football fans, growing up in an era of all-seater stadiums, may be less patient with the ups and downs of supporting a local club. These older fans may represent a bygone age – supporters that Hornby says suffer through years of anguish and disappointment just for those few glorious opportunities to celebrate the clubs successes together with their community. Are these grand old gentlemen becoming a dying breed? I hope not - they look so great in their red and white scarves.
As the second half started, it was clear that Stamford was a different team. They had more energy and quickly began to capture the critical midfield territory. The noise level on the field as well as the noise level in the crowd (and the depth of anger in both) increased sharply in the first few minutes of the second half. It was as if the first half was just for fun, and the real competition was now beginning.
Almost immediately, poor Lutwyche started up his game of fetch with the kids, sending ball after ball into neighbouring gardens where the young boys and girls boldly scampered to retrieve them. At the 62-minute mark, Worthing Manager Alan Pook had seen enough and substituted for Lutwyche. As the disheartened Lutwyche turned to sit down and for some reason slipped a little on the player’s bench, a fan near me exclaimed, somewhat cruelly and probably close enough for him to hear: “Look, he even missed the bench.” The substitution however did not stem the Stamford tide and the Daniels pushed forward intently, looking much more like scoring than they ever did in the first half.
The kingpin of the Stamford squad and the team captain was midfielder Garath Pritchard. Although he looked more like an ultimate fighter than a footballer and his temperament seemed on the edge of going Wayne Rooney at any point, he was highly skilled and a constant threat to the Rebel defenders. At the 66-minute mark, Pritchard took a ball from a throw-in just outside the edge of the 18-yard box, and directed a screamer of a low shot at the Worthing goal. Keeper Mark Ormerod could not react quickly enough and the score was leveled at 1-1.
Worthing pushed hard to score the winning goal and repeatedly sent hopeful balls up front to the twin strikers who each time seemed to play with the ball too much, even when under pressure from two or even three Stamford defenders. The fans grew frustrated as each missed opportunity lead to a loss of possession and often one of the strikers collapsing on the ground with arms in the air, attempting to draw a foul that seldom came. With only about twelve minutes to go in the match, Worthing brought on substitute striker Sam Francis for midfielder Roy Pook. With fresh legs, Francis made run after run and gave the fans some hope, but could not help put in the winner.
Knowing that a draw would result in a replay back in Lincolnshire, The Fat Boys wasted time whenever they had the chance. At one point, a fan next to me, annoyed by the attentiveness of the referee to an injured Stamford player, yelled out:”Why don’t you just kiss it better, ref?”
I soon noticed that as things stopped going so well and the Rebel terrace-dwellers became more anxious they would launch into periodic and frantic outbursts of “C’mon, Worth-ING!“, with an exaggerated emphasis and prolongation of the second syllable. Desperate pleas from fans on the cusp of panic; not organized collective chants but individual outbursts from distressed fans that was part futile resignation of an unbearable defeat and part encouragement for the boys on the pitch to pull it together and put an end to the misery. “C’mon, Worth-ING! “
As the excitement grew, I became more of a fan and less an observer. I found myself cheering and making inarticulate and not very helpful outbursts of my own. I clapped and shouted at the players. At one point I cheered on Danny Davis and like my fellow terrace-dwellers, used his first name for that little extra push. Davis was eventually named Man of the Match and I can’t say for certain this would have been the case if not for my personal encouragement.
“C’mon, Worth-ING!“
For a few moments, I was so caught up in the action I considered dropping by the little red shack that sold Rebel merchandise to buy a red and white Worthing FC scarf for myself that so many of the locals wore so proudly. I decided against the purchase, feeling that I had not yet earned the right to be a Rebel fan. After all, what right had I earned to attire myself in the same garb as some of these grand old gents who had probably been coming to Woodside since they were young boys? I was not sure if I could convincingly explain why a Canadian businessman had such a close attachment to a football team in a city he had only been to once before and a team he never previously watched. “C’mon, Worth-ING! “
As the last few minutes ticked by the crowd noise finally began to rise above the level of the players. In the 80th minute it appeared that Worthing might secure the win as the ever-dangerous Browne was sent clear but when his shot bounded off the post out of trouble, we all knew it was not going to happen that day. Fifteen or twenty young Stamford fans – their total support at Woodside that day – began banging the ad boards in a recognizable cadence, chanting loudly: “Stam-ford” BANG, BANG, BANG.
“C’mon, Worth-ING! “
The match finished a 1-1 draw. With the final whistle, Stamford players, coaches, and fans celebrated as if they had captured the FA Cup while many Worthing players collapsed dejected on the pitch, knowing that they had let success that should have been, slip mysteriously out of their grasp. They would now have to do it all over again, in just three days, and this time in Stamford’s home park.
As I walked to the exit, with my fellow football lovers, I listened intently to conversations around me. An older man to my right and clearly a Stamford supporter spoke breathlessly and blissfully into his cell phone. He described with notable enthusiasm how “great the boys played” and proudly described the Stamford support as “terrific”. He said that he had never before heard Stamford fans’ chanting “Stamford!”, and said how great it was to be there for it.
Further along, I passed a Worthing fan who was also speaking on a cell phone. Even though his team had only drawn, he spoke with comparable excitement in his voice. He told the invisible listener that the atmosphere in the park was “fantastic” and “we get to do it again on Tuesday”.
Although the afternoon did not finish happily for Worthing, it was a magical afternoon for Stamford fans and players, but it could not possibly have been any more magical for anyone than it had been for me. Leaving the stadium I was left feeling like a young boy waking up the morning after Christmas recognizing that, after all the build up and the excitement of the Christmas festivities, in the blink of an eye, it was sadly all over. That is, until next time. Maybe next time I will buy that red and white scarf at the little red hut, after all.
posted by Stephen Spence at
12:17 PM
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