My
old primary school is at the end of my road. I walk past my pre-school. The
college where I sat my A-Levels is further down the street towards town. It’s
not in the right order, seeing as the school where I got my GCSEs is the other
side of town, but the walk to the station is like a run-down of where I spent
my childhood. On that same theme, I’m going to the station, changing at Clapham
Junction and going to Chelsea.
I
remember rushing back from my own football games on a Saturday, getting dad’s
car filthy with mud, showering and then rushing back out to catch the train up.
Or we might drive then get a tube at Southfields. The carriages absolutely
packed, even more so than they are today after games, or so it seemed. The old
District Line thudding along the track from Wimbledon to Earl's Court and back
again. Thud-THUD, thud-THUD. It doesn't make the same noise anymore now
that they've upgraded it.
I’m
up in central nice and early today, miserable grey skies as joyless tourists
scurry around me. Station concourse loiterers cling to paper cups like they
might float away otherwise, chugging down caffeine first thing. The morning
drug; just until lunchtime and back onto the alcohol, normal service resumed.
On
to the Finborough and dad is there. The Old Man. Shakes my hand and I clap him
on the back. Making sure he’s healthy, that he’s still there. He thanks me
sincerely for the pint I buy him and I just shake my head, not really able to
formulate what I’m thinking into words. “Don’t be stupid” seems to be closest,
so I blurt that out in the middle of the noisy pub. I wonder how many pints of
beer warrant suitable reparations for however many years of bed, board and
football tickets that he’s given me.
We
discuss football. But not Chelsea and the media and the culture and everything
else, the actual football, nothing refracted. I mention that we hardly
do this. Seeing as we go to the same games, see it from the same angle, I
assume he has the same opinions as myself. Luckily, it turns out for the most
part, he does. A wave of relief swells over me and I feel a calmness which has
been absent ever since my barber suggested midweek that we should sell Diego
Costa as soon as possible and that Baba Rahman is world class.
Alex
and Rich are present too and it’s all brilliant for short while, because we’re
all Chelsea together. I think back to the excitement you used to feel back at
school when someone else had a Chelsea pencil case and you could immediately
become best friends. Or summers spent bringing a ball to the park and asking
“who do you support?” almost immediately after “what’s your name?”. Of course,
kids who weren’t really into football would be forced to answer “England”.
Right now I’m empty of everything but the football. No work worries or health
problems or anything else. Today, for a few hours at least, we’ll be carefree.
It doesn’t even matter that City tonk us 3-0.
There’s
not many days like this left at this incarnation of Stamford Bridge though. The
change that Conte promises to bring in on the field will no doubt pale into
insignificance compared to a wider cultural change brought on by the Wembley
proposals. Pubs will close or change hands, some fans may be priced out,
or just drift away. All we can do is enjoy it while we can, this season and the
next. If you get a chance, take your time, get there earlier and watch the
otherwise quiet area around Stamford Bridge change as football arrives, just as
it has done for the entirety of Chelsea’s 110-year history. Stroke a police
horse, buy your mates a drink, take it all in. It won’t be here forever.
@JJReid13
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