A grey Thames, sloshing high up on the banks, under a grey
sky. The rain drops rifle into the river, coming in steady, splashing back up
with the dirty river water until the whole thing looks like it’s bubbling, like
it’s alive. Crack open the Stella and slurp up the excess froth that tries to
escape. The train chugs through the dirty black and brown of
Elephant, like the colours of the tube lines that go through it, and into
South, with flashes of green, rolling away from the houses and up the hills. Up
to Forest Hill, down the other side to Penge. Transmitters stretching up to the
clouds. They’ll be sending images of the game all over the capital, the
country, the world today. But I’ll be there in person, down the front, yards
from the players, rain on my face and soaking through my shoes. A part of it.
I remember reading Zen
and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and how he said that’s there’s
nothing quite like actually being there when you’re on a bike. In the moment,
with tarmac flying below you, no windscreen, no one relaying information.
You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore,
and the sense of presence is overwhelming. Actually being there, as opposed to
behind a screen.
I won’t have any instant replays or ad breaks or have a
pundit telling me what to think. Just me and football. I’ve paid £40 to stand
in the rain and watch my football team play another. The price leaves a sour
taste, but there’s something beautiful in the simplicity of it.
The train grinds into Thornton Heath and I finish my can
hastily, the bubbles shooting up my nose as if going straight up into my brain.
But it’s not just the lager, it’s the excitement, anticipation sending static
shooting all over my body. I watch the light on the ticket machine flick from
amber to green, barriers thumping open. Run past this set of lights while they’re
red so you can get to that set of lights while they’re still green. Suck my
legs up to get over that kerb and not under the van as it whistles past. Faster
than I’ve moved all week after Christmas. To the ‘Spoons opposite the station.
Only just through the doors and it’s rammed, packed, Old Bill not letting
anyone else in. Ten deep at the bar, buy two pints per person to save yourself
the trip next time. Just a sea of greys and blues and blacks. Just pin badges,
familiar faces and our songs identify the pub as Chelsea. Mustard.
____
I’m wearing the big Fjällräven jacket.
The one that’s a bit too Bear Grylls for football, and I know will get the piss
taken out of me. I don’t mind though, because it’s bucketing down on the walk
from the pub to the ground. Seeing Jay bent double in a paper thin Harrington,
saturated before we get to the end of the road. The alcohol dulls the cold and
heightens the exhilaration of walking through unfamiliar streets, singing
songs, locals all staring at us. Laughing about how we all did the same thing
the year before and will probably do the same again next year. Queue to get in
and list the things to moan about. You decided to wear suede shoes. They’ve run
out of programmes. Take the piss out of Croydon while you’re on their patch. All
Chelsea together. Have a beer on the concourse, chat about your Christmas and
your New Year. Just enough small talk to be polite. Talking nonsense, things
you won’t remember the following day after a beer anyway. The song builds and
you can’t hold it anymore, with a smile growing on your face, because this is
what it’s all about. Throwing your head back and joining the roar. Who’s that
team you call the Chelsea?
____
When Willian crashes in one of the goals of the season, it’s
as if all the blood is sucked out of my head. Everything disappears.
Frustrations, worries, sanity. I’ve lost Jay and the others too; God only knows
where they’ve disappeared to. I’m sprinting down the aisle, fighting past
bodies as they fall, jumping on top of strangers as we reach the front. Limbs
all over the shop. Bruised shins and hoisting myself up, balancing on the backs
of the plastic seats. I can swear I see Oscar look at me, and the Brazilian
multimillionaire and I share a moment, his expression the exact same as mine.
For all his money and sponsorship deals and talent, for a moment we’re on the
same wavelength. Screaming back at each other; a roaring, beaming smile because
Chelsea have just made the game safe.
I search the internet for footage of me, looking to see my
beige jacket bouncing up and down on Match of the Day. There’s nothing though.
Just the memories of those who were there, who’ll sing the John Obi Mikel song
for weeks to come. Good. I hate people who live their lives behind a screen,
recording moments like that to relive over and over. It’s something the
television cameras and the Youtube fan channels and Twitter will never properly
encapsulate anyway. What it’s like to be Chelsea when the opposition’s net
ripples and those sparks fly in your brain and you get let everything go. When
all hell breaks loose. Enjoy it to the full, and then it’s over. We go on,
searching for the next one. We’ll need a few more this season.
@JJReid13
