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Nov. 20th, 2010 11:52 pm
Back to the Smoke again today, this time on a sentimental groundhop. In last month's When Saturday Comes, Iain Aitch wrote an article about taking in a Clapton FC game having just moved to a house very close to the ground, contrasting this homely little East London sporting venue with the forthcoming Olympics just up the road.
That had a special significance for me, as Clapton were the team I watched as a poor student in 1991-92 since they were my local team, and I had to be moved by their current plight, bottom of the Essex Senior League and winless, with just two points, on sub-30 crowds nearly every home match.
So, with today bringing the first combination of Hawks away and Clapton at home since the article appeared, I headed for the Old Spotted Dog Ground for the first time in 18 years to see Clapton v Mauritius Sports Association. Mentioning to the lady on the gate that this was my first visit since 1992, she remarked that she hadn't even been in the country then - she was back home in Dublin. I observed that she'd well and truly picked up the London accent; she replied in pure Dublin "Back home I talk like this, but no-one can understand me," then reverted to pure cockney for the rest of the afternoon.
With 45 minutes to the scheduled 3pm kick-off, there was some doubt as to whether the game would go ahead. That morning the machine for marking the white lines had broken down, so the markings were invisible. The ref was standing in the corner with the Irish lady and another woman connected with the club, and informed us that if pitch markings were satisfactorily in place in time to kick off at 3.15, he'd play the game, otherwise it would be off.
I made for the clubhouse to pass the time, only to find the place deserted and no-one behind the bar. Eventually a tall black guy in a club scarf and coach's coat appeared, sold me a drink and said he couldn't stay long so would get someone to come and man the bar. A fan, who knew him, had joined us; as the black man talked to him you could tell he had a lot on his plate on match days. I asked him "What do you do at the club?" and he replied "Everything." He turned out to be the manager, Wilfred Thomas.
Back outside, with the delayed kick-off approaching and the pitch markings in place, two girls were discussing X Factor. One of them said how much she hated Katie, and they agreed that Treyc had an amazing voice and shouldn't have been evicted. I went over to concur, but they went dead quiet and shy with me around so I retreated to my chosen spot at pitchside. A bit later, when the fan who'd been in the bar appeared, the Katie-hater, who'd been telling her friend she'd been rehearsing her singing with some backup tapes, told him that she was going to be on X Factor - presumably next year's; even Simon wouldn't parachute someone completely new in halfway through the final stage! The fan then told the turnstile lady and her colleague "And she's only 14". That flabbergasted me; the warbling Katie-hater looked in her mid-20s to me, but no, she's 15 in the next few weeks. Then Wilfred appeared, ranting about someone who clearly hadn't brought his boots or another item of kit.
The first half had its moments, but ended goalless. At half time I talked to the fan in the bar, and Wilfred who popped in for a stint of tea and coffee-dispensing duty, shared with the second lady. When I said I'd travelled up from Portsmouth, he asked if I'd come because of the When Saturday Comes article. I said it was a combination of that and my having history with the club. The fan had mixed feelings about the Aitch article, since it started off with genuine affection for the team but ended on the note that Aitch had seen one game and that was enough. "He should be coming to every game," was the fan's assessment, so I told him about a tweet I'd had from Aitch that he hoped to come back soon as the club needed the support.
I spent the opening minutes of the second half behind the goal talking to the fan, another supporter, and club chairman Dennis Wright. When I mentioned that my previous Clapton game had been on 25 April 1992, a 4-0 win over Hertford Town, the first fan mused "There's a lot of water passed under the bridge since then." Dennis said "Let's hope we can get a goal this half, we haven't scored at this end this season." My conversation with them confirmed what had become clear from Wilfred and others' pre-match comments; that this is one of those non-league clubs that are kept going by one or two volunteers working their socks off. I salute the unsung heroes of Clapton FC who maintain all the electrics, mark the pitch and do all the other necessary tasks, all unpaid.
Everyone, me included, was disappointed that I had to shoot off early, but with the District Line out of action thanks to engineering work, and reduced services at Forest Gate station ditto, I had no choice if I was going to get back to Victoria for my Greyhound. So with the score still 0-0 I set off for the station with fond goodbyes, and exhortations to come again, ringing in my ears - I explained to them that I do text-messaging duties for my club, Havant & Waterlooville, but that if the Hawks had no game on 11 December, or an away game at which my texting services weren't needed, then I'd be back that day for Clapton v Eton Manor.
On my way out I said apologetically to the turnstile lady that I had to leave to travel back to Portsmouth; when she realised I'd come all that way for their game she insisted on taking my name and address and promised to send me some club badges. "Have a safe journey back," she and her husband, one of the volunteers, said, both shaking my hand.
Text message on the train to say Hawks had drawn their Trophy tie with Basingstoke. So on Monday night we face them for the third time in a week. Back home, checked the Essex Senior League website - the Clapton game ended 1-1. That puts them on three points now...
That had a special significance for me, as Clapton were the team I watched as a poor student in 1991-92 since they were my local team, and I had to be moved by their current plight, bottom of the Essex Senior League and winless, with just two points, on sub-30 crowds nearly every home match.
So, with today bringing the first combination of Hawks away and Clapton at home since the article appeared, I headed for the Old Spotted Dog Ground for the first time in 18 years to see Clapton v Mauritius Sports Association. Mentioning to the lady on the gate that this was my first visit since 1992, she remarked that she hadn't even been in the country then - she was back home in Dublin. I observed that she'd well and truly picked up the London accent; she replied in pure Dublin "Back home I talk like this, but no-one can understand me," then reverted to pure cockney for the rest of the afternoon.
With 45 minutes to the scheduled 3pm kick-off, there was some doubt as to whether the game would go ahead. That morning the machine for marking the white lines had broken down, so the markings were invisible. The ref was standing in the corner with the Irish lady and another woman connected with the club, and informed us that if pitch markings were satisfactorily in place in time to kick off at 3.15, he'd play the game, otherwise it would be off.
I made for the clubhouse to pass the time, only to find the place deserted and no-one behind the bar. Eventually a tall black guy in a club scarf and coach's coat appeared, sold me a drink and said he couldn't stay long so would get someone to come and man the bar. A fan, who knew him, had joined us; as the black man talked to him you could tell he had a lot on his plate on match days. I asked him "What do you do at the club?" and he replied "Everything." He turned out to be the manager, Wilfred Thomas.
Back outside, with the delayed kick-off approaching and the pitch markings in place, two girls were discussing X Factor. One of them said how much she hated Katie, and they agreed that Treyc had an amazing voice and shouldn't have been evicted. I went over to concur, but they went dead quiet and shy with me around so I retreated to my chosen spot at pitchside. A bit later, when the fan who'd been in the bar appeared, the Katie-hater, who'd been telling her friend she'd been rehearsing her singing with some backup tapes, told him that she was going to be on X Factor - presumably next year's; even Simon wouldn't parachute someone completely new in halfway through the final stage! The fan then told the turnstile lady and her colleague "And she's only 14". That flabbergasted me; the warbling Katie-hater looked in her mid-20s to me, but no, she's 15 in the next few weeks. Then Wilfred appeared, ranting about someone who clearly hadn't brought his boots or another item of kit.
The first half had its moments, but ended goalless. At half time I talked to the fan in the bar, and Wilfred who popped in for a stint of tea and coffee-dispensing duty, shared with the second lady. When I said I'd travelled up from Portsmouth, he asked if I'd come because of the When Saturday Comes article. I said it was a combination of that and my having history with the club. The fan had mixed feelings about the Aitch article, since it started off with genuine affection for the team but ended on the note that Aitch had seen one game and that was enough. "He should be coming to every game," was the fan's assessment, so I told him about a tweet I'd had from Aitch that he hoped to come back soon as the club needed the support.
I spent the opening minutes of the second half behind the goal talking to the fan, another supporter, and club chairman Dennis Wright. When I mentioned that my previous Clapton game had been on 25 April 1992, a 4-0 win over Hertford Town, the first fan mused "There's a lot of water passed under the bridge since then." Dennis said "Let's hope we can get a goal this half, we haven't scored at this end this season." My conversation with them confirmed what had become clear from Wilfred and others' pre-match comments; that this is one of those non-league clubs that are kept going by one or two volunteers working their socks off. I salute the unsung heroes of Clapton FC who maintain all the electrics, mark the pitch and do all the other necessary tasks, all unpaid.
Everyone, me included, was disappointed that I had to shoot off early, but with the District Line out of action thanks to engineering work, and reduced services at Forest Gate station ditto, I had no choice if I was going to get back to Victoria for my Greyhound. So with the score still 0-0 I set off for the station with fond goodbyes, and exhortations to come again, ringing in my ears - I explained to them that I do text-messaging duties for my club, Havant & Waterlooville, but that if the Hawks had no game on 11 December, or an away game at which my texting services weren't needed, then I'd be back that day for Clapton v Eton Manor.
On my way out I said apologetically to the turnstile lady that I had to leave to travel back to Portsmouth; when she realised I'd come all that way for their game she insisted on taking my name and address and promised to send me some club badges. "Have a safe journey back," she and her husband, one of the volunteers, said, both shaking my hand.
Text message on the train to say Hawks had drawn their Trophy tie with Basingstoke. So on Monday night we face them for the third time in a week. Back home, checked the Essex Senior League website - the Clapton game ended 1-1. That puts them on three points now...
