Prologue
Saturday, 12 February 2000. I’m working at “Eastern Electricity” whose office backed onto Portman Road and I’ve been living in Suffolk for just under a year. A colleague – strangely enough an Arsenal supporter – suggested we go to watch a game at the ground just behind us. Out of boredom, I agreed.
I expected little. I’d seen a few football games in the past, but never supported a team. Football to me was supported by ur-males, more intent on swearing and scuffling than anything else. But as I sat down for the first time in the North Stand, I was amazed at the number of women attending. The real surprise for me though was the reaction when the Town striker, David Johnson, failed to score a penalty. As he was Black, I anticipated the hateful monkey-jeers I’d heard at other grounds. There was nothing, and at that moment, I fell in love.
Suddenly, I was part of a family.
Football is a monotheistic creed: one can have many loves in one’s life, read different authors, listen to music from all genres; but only support one team. “Ipswich till I die”.
Till I die.
I’m not a “true” supporter. I had a season-ticket for a while, but no longer go to games. However, I follow the Town up and down, and the last two seasons, when they were promoted from the third tier to the Premiership, have been blissful, as faint hope turned into incredulous optimism. Suddenly, my beloved Ipswich was being featured in the national and international press. We had made it back to where we felt we belonged. But having left the wilderness of the lower leagues and arrived in the Promised Land – how would we fare in that unfamiliar terrain?
Thursday
It was only meant to be a quick drive to the shops. But as the sound of Radio Five filled my car, I had to check the display to see what station I was listening to. The unmistakable tones of Brenner Woolley were coming through my speakers. I’ve been hearing them for the last 21 years on Radio Suffolk, his excellent commentary bringing even the most miserable game – and they’ve been too, too many of them in that time – to life. What was he doing on national radio? The answer was, talking in an hour long special about my team. I stayed in the car in the Aldi carpark, rapt and rapturous whilst my club was the sole topic of conversation.
Pride in the name of love, as the song has it. So proud.
Friday
My love is as a pale palimpsest, a faint scrawl compared to that of others. Several of my colleagues at my current job have been to every game, even in our darkest moments when we seemed destined to stay in the third tier (I abhor the renaming of the leagues that misnomer it “League One”; how could it be, with several leagues above it?).
That is true love and devotion when, devoid of hope, one martyrs oneself willingly, and at some expense, to endure 90 minutes of hopeless slog, when one witnesses empty seats, supporters barely able to raise a cheer, when “Come on, Ipswich!” is a dirge rather than a battle cry, and one leaves the stadium on a cold winter’s night with a journey home redolent of the retreat from Moscow.
I message them at the end of the day, knowing where they will be at 12:30 tomorrow but unable to comprehend what they’ll be feeling. I’m nervous enough and I am, as I said, a mere neophyte, a supplicant rather than a disciple. I wish them a good game, a rich reward to see household names appearing on what is literally our “turf”. Photos of the ground show a sward of verdant, virgin green. Field of dreams.
Saturday
Last night, my friend told me of swarms of jocular Scousers keeping him company on his train journey to Ipswich. Estimates of the income that promotion to the Premiership will bring to Ipswich (the town, rather than the club) vary, but it’s certainly in the tens of millions, and this is the first of such largess.
On the streets today though, it’s the blue of Ipswich that prevails, although the third strip featuring artwork by Ed Sheeran and the colour of Suffolk pink is also highly visible.
Having one of the most popular musicians in the world as a vociferous supporter – and now shareholder – is, like our promotion, something rather special. His sponsorship of our shirts, which bear his concert logo rather than, thank goodness, that of a betting company, has meant that they are amongst the highest-selling pieces of kit in the country. Pink shirts, blue shirts, boys and girls, men and women of all ages, perform the Hajj for the first time this season as, from all directions, they walk to Portman Road.
After the match
No one expected victory. Sure, there was hope, there always is in a game where anything can – and quite frequently does – happen. All we wanted though was to avoid humiliation. The fact that for two-thirds of the game we kept a clean sheet and came close to scoring was enough. Our first hour in the Premiership, and we were giving one of the toughest teams in the toughest league in the footballing world a run for their money.
That’s all that mattered. The game was lost. The pride remains.
We have a new(ish) motto now. “Run towards adversity”. The club is owned, not by oligarchs or petrochemical “sportswashing” dictatorships, but by a pension trust for the Arizona public services. One of their number, Jason Schechterle, survived fourth degree burns suffered whilst in the line of duty, and gave a talk to the team and management at Portman Road two years, not long after we had been purchased. “Run towards adversity” he told them; and they did, and got back-to-back promotions.
Every team would like to think of themselves as more than a collection of players and supporters, but Ipswich Town FC, I truly believe, is more than just a football team. As our chairman said after Jason’s talk:
“The Club, and everyone that represents it, will always strive to do the right thing.”
I believe in that. I know that, up or down, ITFC are my team and always will be, and that when each Saturday comes, I’ll be watching or listening, willing them on.
Uppa Towen.
