When a Park Becomes a Home

Folkestone Ivicta 1 Hendon 0
October 16, 2006

Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence

A three-hour drive after a morning of business meetings in Cambridge takes me to the sea-front town of Folkestone on the English southeast coast. Rather than return to my hotel in Worthing direct from Cambridge I had decided to attend the only game I could find and impose on myself and my rented Ford, a further two hour drive back to my Worthing base following the match. Tonight’s Premier Ryman League game between mid-table Folkestone Ivicta and last-place Hendon is still more than two hours away from it’s scheduled kick-off.

Driving into Folkestone, turn after turn, roundabout after roundabout, I am convinced I am lost. I surprise myself when in my peripheral vision I catch a black and white glimpse of the “Folkestone FC” sign over my left shoulder as I drive past the park. An explorer at heart, I consider driving on and touring the area. But in the relief of finding my end destination so suddenly I decide not to take a chance and instead to park the car and stretch my legs.

Stepping out of the car I notice that I am parked next to the ruins of an old rundown cricket field. A primeval covered stadium with 5-6 rows of stone benches extending 400-500 meters curving round about thirty percent of the circumference of a cricket field that had long since turned to weeds. It has the appearance of Circus Maximus, Rome’s oldest hippodrome where hundreds of thousands of Roman citizens would stand on curved stone benches just like these to cheer on their favourite chariot drivers. Unlike Circus Maximus that vanished ages ago however, the remains of this old stadium are today put to good use by local kids in need of a good spot for smoking and drinking.

The circular pattern of concrete tiers is broken at its midpoint with steps leading up to a stately clubhouse that appears as unused as the pitch. I can easily imagine the comings and goings of regal gentlemen of long ago, clad in white, wearing straw hats, and bounding down the stairs from the clubhouse tossing a cricket ball in one hand and holding a bat in the other.

Returning to reality, I see far across the unkempt field, four young teenage boys taking turns bowling for each other while the batsman knocks balls and the other two youngsters retrieve them. It’s not an organized match – just a few friends playing an impromptu pick-up game. A spontaneous game not organized by overly structured and ambitious parents is rare enough as it is but a pick-up game of cricket is for me an absolute first.

As intrigued as I am by the ancient cricket ruins and the game across the way, I am even more curious about the football grounds on the opposite side of the car. I know there is a football park behind the dilapidated old stone wall and wild brush that sprouts at times higher than the wall itself, only because I had passed the narrow brick rickety ticket house when I drove past it a few minutes earlier. With so much time to pass before kickoff and no one present to stop me I walk through the opening and into the home of the Folkestone Ivicta Football club.

Just inside the entrance but before heading up the uneven stone ramp for a view of the pitch I am greeted by an old boarded-up small stone building. A barely decipherable sign on the wall of the deserted stone structure gives evidence of its past role with the faded word “Toilets” barely readable. A nearby much newer sign provides explanation for its current state of disuse, and hints at the frustration of club management to the apparent lack of care from at least some of its local visitors. It reads: “Closed Due to Vandalism”.

I walk up the disheveled ramp leading to Buzzlines Stadium, the home of the Seasiders of Folkestone. The decrepit old buildings and terraces with crumbling brick walls and flourishing weeds leaves me a little disillusioned. In many ways Buzzline is what you might envision a seaport football park to look like. Imagine three dockside warehouses each with one of its long walls removed and then positioned to form a u-shape around the pitch. The fourth side - almost as an after-thought – is left open for uncovered terraces and home to a variety of flora and fauna.

If not for a beautiful football pitch that distracts my attention from the deterioration I would believe that in these grounds there was little appreciation for the sport or for its supporters. But, first impressions can of course be deceiving and I would later learn how wrong I was.

An eye-catching pitch encircled by uninviting surroundings seems like a deliberate declaration by Folkestone club management that it is the game that is most important, not the facilities. It would be understandable if after viewing Buzzlines for the first time one would believe that a prevailing view here is that the happenings off the pitch are insignificant and extraneous. But again, one would be wrong.

There are no signs of footballers or even grounds staff. I walk out of the park slightly disappointed but with plenty of time to walk down Cheriton Road and check out the local neighbourhood.

Originally a small fishing hamlet, Folkestone has a storied history of neglect and incursion. Viking raids were common in this area and frequently left Folkestone in ruins before the 10th century. In 1042 Earl Goodwin of Wessex set the village ablaze after being exiled by Edward the Confessor, and in 1216 the French attacked and once again the village was left destroyed.

Even though Folkestone was not blessed with a deep harbour, in the interest of restoring the village’s viability, it soon after received a charter as a “limb” of the famous Cinque Ports (pronounced Sink Ports by those unfamiliar or unconcerned with proper French pronunciation). Cinque Ports was a security and trade alliance of five major ports on the south coast of England, where the English Channel is at its narrowest - Hastings, New Romney, Hythe, Dover, and Sandwich.

The houses in Folkestone near the football grounds show signs of once stately importance and charm. But these houses, that in their day might have been quite spectacular, today take on a ramshackle appearance from decades of neglect. In recent years, the prospects of economic improvement have been fortified by the opening of the Chunnel crossing just a few miles from the town center, but there has been little evidence, during this walk at least, of an economic upswing.

I wander about aimlessly for close to three-quarters of an hour and then finally head back to the football grounds knowing that the players would soon be taking to the pitch for their warm up.

As I approach the entrance for my second time, I am welcomed on this occasion by a gentlemen sitting in the brick ticket house who asks for nine pounds before allowing me to enter. Although only few supporters have arrived, unlike my previous visit there are now signs of life as both teams are on the pitch and club staffers wander officiously between the two-storey clubhouse and the field.

I walk the length of the pitch and past the side terraces toward the concession trailer I see in the opposite corner of the grounds from the clubhouse. From a rather stout fry-cook wearing a stained white muscle shirt and a stained white apron I order the healthiest choice possible, chips and hot chocolate. I sit on the empty terrace to enjoy my feast and look across to the far side of the pitch at the only seated stands in the grounds. I see a cryptic “FIFC” acronym spelled out in white seats against a background of blue seats, the stands simply too small to formulate well-formed letters. I wonder whether the FIFC will be visible once the crowd arrives.

In front of the seated stands but just back from the edge of the playing surface I notice that both player benches are old style dug-outs. As the term suggests, “dug-outs” are excavated so that players and other bench personnel step down to enter, and the roof over their heads is only about 3 feet above the level of the pitch. Looking at the dug outs and the low-profile stands behind them, it suddenly dawns on me for the first time that the purpose of these dug-outs - in many old football parks and American baseball parks – is to avoid obstructing the view of the seated supporters behind. After years of watching baseball and soccer this has never occurred to me until this very moment.

As the 7:45 pm kick off time approaches, supporters now begin to stream in to the park, most in small groups of three, four or five. The visitors invariably stop at the bar or concession trailer before gathering in slightly larger groups under the covered terrace at the west end of the pitch and not along the long side as is the preference in North America.

Wanting to be nearer to the local supporters, once my dinner is finished, I toss out the greasy paper tray and make my way over to the west-end terraces. The others all seem to know each other. Their greetings seem endless. Individuals wander the terraces looking for new neighbours to welcome, new conversations to start, and old conversations to join.

When the players and officials take to the pitch to begin the match, I find myself hoping that someone will soon turn up the lights. The poor lighting of Buzzlines must be a challenge for the players. I listen intently for the sound of bells resonating from within the ball so that I know that if the ball can’t be seen, it can at least be heard. For this Canadian, the dim lighting conjures up memories of black-and-white photographs and grainy films of old-time smoke-filled hockey arenas that are so much a part of Canadian folklore. The cigarette smoke from the crowd adds to the haze that floats just above pitch level as the competition begins. I decide that it adds to the drama.

The public address announcer tells us that today’s match sponsor is Adastra Software and today’s match ball sponsor is Gregg Davison in honour of his 40th birthday. The announcer pleads with the supporters: “If you would like to sponsor a match ball, come talk to us – it doesn’t cost as much as you might think.” He then delivers the first of many many announcements promoting Buzzlines Travel – “For all your coaching needs”.

I now estimate the size of the crowd to be about 400 people. Only 50 or so are seated while the rest stand, many with plastic beer cups in hand, equipped and ready to cheer on their team. Standing to watch football is for all except the very old and the very young, an unspoken and steadfast rule. Those of able body who choose to sit are not real football supporters. The custom of standing is a statement by loyal fans of support for the players on the pitch. Standing shoulder to shoulder with each other and symbolically with the players is an unspoken affirmation of togetherness, a band of brothers going into battle.

You are not going alone, boys! Win or lose, we stand with you, upright and proud. However if you don't play well, we will scream at you mercilessly.

Buzzline Stadium, with terraces now more than half full, begins to rapidly take on an immensely warmer appearance and hospitable feel. The excitement amongst the gathered community rises almost instantly upon hearing referee Ian Bentley blowing his opening whistle.

From the outset, the Seasiders dominate the play. Hendon’s early performance in the match justifies its bottom position in the table. “The Greens” as they are known by their supporters, struggle to touch the ball and when they do their possession lasts but a few touches and in most cases, only seconds.

This is no longer an ugly football park. It is alive – alive with the chants and songs of a small struggling community who have gathered together in a night-out in common support of their football club. The Seasiders of Folkestone are worlds away from the prestigious elite clubs like Manchester United, Liverpool, and Chelsea but here in Buzzlines stadium the players are not just supported, they are amongst friends. For the fine folks of Folkestone, this is not only a gathering - it is a party.

The missing bricks and the cracks and weeds in the terraces are now almost completely invisible, covered over by the spectators standing in support of their club, and masked by the shadows of an under-lit park. This dilapidated park when filled with friends and neighbours becomes beautiful. I recall reading– most likely in the bathroom of someone’s summer cottage– that it is the friends that visit that makes a house a home. In these Folkestone grounds, it is the friends that gather that makes a run-down old football house into a beautiful home.

At the 16th minute mark of the game, striker Paul Jones narrowly misses giving Folkestone the early lead when his shot skims over the cross bar.

As in most English football matches, the anger of the players is a fascination with me. So much anger but seldom do players resort to fisticuffs. I wonder why players – even teenage ones – can control their anger without it spilling over into more serious incidents. In my country where the passion for ice hockey is as deeply rooted in our culture as football is in Britain, anger is also a part of the game. But from a very young age, Canadian hockey players are conditioned to the eventuality that two combatants at some point may need to step outside the bounds of the game and, as we like to say, take care of business. Right or wrong, hockey fights are considered a part of the game. Both parties are punished – slight by British football standards – and then return to play after serving a prescribed time in the penalty box.

There is a cultural divide when it comes to anger in sport between Canada and Britain. Whereas succumbing to violent conflict resolution is a part of our hockey, the same seldom occurs in English football. It does happen but not to the extent that it becomes a part of the game . When it occurs in football, the combatants are usually severely punished. Back home, we try to insist that our "soccer” players become more vocal but when the intensity that that evokes turns to anger, skirmishes often result. In a culture of hockey, anger without fighting is a difficult balance, particularly for teenage boys.

Folkestone keeper Tony Kessell has the highest goal kicks that I have ever seen. Each kick rockets skyward almost beyond the gloomy light of the park before it returns quickly back to earth growing rapidly from golf ball to cricket ball to softball to football size.

It can only be a matter of time until Folkestone scores its first goal. Jones, just four minutes after his earlier missed attempt, has another great scoring chance but the ball slips inches wide of the Hendon goal. In the 23rd minute of the match, striker Steve Norman also gets an opportunity to be the game’s first goal scorer but when he stretches for a corner kick he knocks the ball wide. Almost as if being punished for his miss, twelve minutes later Norman is replaced by Walid Matata (warmly addressed by the local supporters as “Wally”). With Wally’s introduction to the game, the Seasiders attack becomes even more powerful. Wally finds for himself numerous scoring chances in the ten minutes leading up the half-time break. No goals, but it’s only a matter of time.

The second half brings little change from the first half with the Seasiders demonstrating a dominance of the match but with no goals to prove it. Midway through the second half the local supporters start to feel the pressure as what appeared to be an easy win slips further from certainty with each minute the Seasiders do not score.

At the 75th minute of the match when Folkestone is awarded a free kick just to the right of the 18 yard box my fellow terrace-dwellers and I sense that something significant is about to happen. Folkestone pushes players into the Greens 18-yard box awaiting Wally’s free kick. His kick is cleared out of the box by a Hendon defender, but not far enough. Folkestone regains possession still deep in the Hendon end. The additional players that the Seasiders have moved up, now stay up and gamble that Hendon will not gain possession and catch them out of position. Then, in the blink of an eye, Folkestone captain Adam Flanagan is sent clear behind the last Hendon defender and as the keeper comes off his line, Flanagan powers the ball into the mesh for the games first goal. The small crowd is ecstatic recognizing that the three points in the table that had started to slide away were now only fifteen minutes from being secured.

As the player’s celebration subsides and they return to their respective sides to restart the action, the terraces ring out with sounds of “Say-Say-Say-Cider. Say-Say-Say-Cider”. Once I realize what is being sung, I laugh at myself for my pathetic failure to interpret the local accents and decipher the words. I am such a foreigner. Now as I hear “Sea-Sea-Seasiders! Sea-Sea-Seasiders!” the song resonates with so much more clarity and passion.

Time moves ever so slow when you have a one-goal advantage. As 90 minutes expire, there is no fourth official at this match to tell the crowd how many minutes of added time will be played. One minute passes slowly as Hendon pushes forward. Two minutes have passed and all the referee calls seem to be going against the Seasiders. When three minutes of added time have passed, I head toward the exit – not to leave but to be closer to my car so that I can quickly be on the road back to Worthing when the game ends.

In England – as presumably elsewhere in the football world – unlike many North American sports fans, football supporters do not show up late and they most certainly do not leave early. In small-club football, supporters are supporters. To leave a match early, whether out of disappointment or otherwise, would I presume be regarded as an insult to the players. After all, leaving a party just as its starting to get going is an affront to your hosts.

In the 4th minute of added time, referee Bentley finally blows his whistle three times to confirm that the Seasiders have secured a warmly appreciated home win. Walking toward the exit, I glance over my shoulder at the home supporters standing and applauding their team while the players move as a pack to the edge of the terraces to offer their mutual appreciation. It was a good night.

I drive away wondering how an ugly park like Buzzlines could be transformed so magnificently into something beautiful. The wonderfully warm sharing of community togetherness reflects much more than a love of the sport. It shows an intrinsic need that we have to gather with friends and create new memories. Football is the opportunity, not necessarily the reason.

If beauty is rightfully in the eye of the beholder then I see beauty as I see art. Like art, beauty is the convergence of creativity and emotion. The creativity of the Seasider supporters and the emotion that radiated from them during the match tonight turned an ugly park into a beautiful spectacle as if by magic. It was the people of Folkestone who conjured up a beautiful event and made the decaying surroundings simply disappear.

I turn my rented Ford off Cheriton Road on to the dual carriageway leading to the M23 distracted by thoughts of the magical transformation of Buzzlines Stadium. I am abruptly startled to see through the rain, boisterous pedestrians sticking angry faces and shaking fists through my “wind screen”. What could possibly be going on?

I soon realize that as I hastily headed toward the motorway I had turned down the right side of the road and not the left. I am such a foreigner. Extremely proud and openly boastful of my exceptional British driving prowess, I am hugely embarrassed by the blunder and sit sheepishly behind the wheel absorbing the barrage of abuse as the uprising swells outside. Fortunately, only those who read these words and the Folkestonians witness to my crime will ever know of my transgression. As much as I enjoyed my evening I decide then and there that I would not soon be returning to Folkestone.