Taking Mum To The Football

My mum said there were three things she wanted:
1) A jardiniere*
*fancy vase, didn't have to be big or particularly fancy, she just liked them okay?
2) To see the fireworks in London on New Year's Eve
3) To see West Ham "Live"

Of course, having us kids would have been on the list if we hadn't already happened, same with marrying dad. Mum got her jardiniere; it was red and took pride of place in front of the window. We waited until 1999 to do the fireworks properly; by then mum was starting to lose mobility so the millennium came just in time. The football was the tricky one.

You have to realise that our mum was largely unaware of swearing. She would frown at "blimey", and we knew that football crowds are susceptible to venting their spleens, and doing it with strong words. Also there was the potential discomfort. West Ham's highest finishing position in the old 'First Division' (now, laughably referred to as 'The Sky Bet Championship'; stay classy, football...) was in the mid-1980's, when terracing still existed. Would mum be able to stand for two hours, being jostled by lads hellbent on reminding the referee what his Mrs was up to while he was officiating? We had to pick the right game.

Eventually West Ham drew Leicester City (then in Division 2) in the League Cup. This was a mid-week fixture against supposedly lesser opposition, so the crowd would be smaller and there was a decent chance our brave lads would deliver the right result. We got a good spot behind the goal in Upton Park's 'North Bank' (away fans would take up part of the opposite stand) and mum had a barrier to lean on with minimal jostleage potential.

The game was rubbish. Every time the lads at the back of the stand 'encouraged' the team to play up and play the game in their fruitiest language, mum would turn around, give them a look and tut. At one point she replied, "they're only doing their best!" We kept our eyes front. Every time Leicester got the ball, mum shouted: "Why have they let them get it again?!" We tried to explain that 100% possession was a very rare occurrence. Then Leicester only went and scored.

"What was the goalkeeper doing?"

Mum blamed all goals in all games she saw on the television, on the goalkeeper. This theory of hers does at least have logic on its side: what else do they do? These days (since the pass-back rule at least) your custodian is expected to act as an old-fashioned 'sweeper'; it's all about distribution this and distribution that. Back in the day, he stood around in a big pair of gloves getting cold, and rightly so.

Half Time.

Mum was impressed that the man throwing peanuts recognised us, as she was with the guy on the gate, who managed to let five of us in with only three turns of the turnstile. Ahem. But the half-time analysis was scathing. Why had we brought her when they were playing so badly? Had she jinxed the team? And the lads at the back were still swearing, and now they'd had a drink too. Not even Bill Remfry, the Hammers DJ, could sooth the mood with Mike Oldfield's theme to Blue Peter. We were missing 'One Man And His Dog' for this.

The second half started. "Why do they not put more people on the left?"..." When they get the ball on the left we're in trouble."..."Kick it! Kick it!" Enter George Parris.

George Parris was a lovely jolly black midfielder/defender who you couldn't help but love. He always played with a big grin and gave upwards of 125% at all times*. He only went and scored. The goal went in at the other end so, as usual, we got a one-dimensional view of something going in their area, and the unmistakable net ripple. Mum went mad. She carried on celebrating long after the rest of the crowd had stopped. After all, we'd only equalised against Leicester. But, as George came back to take his defensive position for the kick-off, mum was shouting: "Georgie! GEORGIE!!"

George looked round, a puzzled look on his face, spotted mum (still shouting "Georgie!" and waving claret & blue gloved hands), and George gave a shy wave and a big grin. Bless him.

It ended 1:1, I think we won the replay. On the way out, through a ridiculously small door with a "Remember Ibrox" sign above it, the lads parted to make a gangway for mum to go out first. "Move lads, lady coming through." I like to think they saluted her too, but this could be soft-focusing the past. Mum never went again, the game was bad enough to convince her she wasn't missing much, and George Parris made sure she didn't see a defeat.





*according to 'Townsend's first law of soccer statistics'