I haven't done one of these for a long time. But tonight I saw a tweet asking fans to post what #YTFCMeansToMe. I stopped to think about it. Memories came flooding back.
I grew up in Yeovil, and by the age of about four, I was an Arsenal fan. There's a photo as part of a family montage on the wall at my parents' house: me in full kit, one foot poised on top of an orange and black football...one of those that if there was just a gentle breeze, would blow in any direction bar straight if you kicked it. Next to me, is my Dad. Sporting full on not-quite-the-end-of-the-seventies big hair and beard.
Then the walk upstairs, always via the programme seller first, into the old wooden stand. I remember sitting about four or five rows from the back. Behind us, were men older than my Grandad. Who spent every game, in any weather sat with blankets over their knees, smoking pipes. The smell of pipe tobacco instantly takes me back to those moments. Invariably during that period, they spent most of the game berating every Yeovil player with the catch-all "Bloody rubbish nine/four/six."
At that time, Yeovil played in the Alliance Premier League. And, they were bad. What made it worse, was local rivals Weymouth were better than us. As were Gateshead if I recall right. And they were rubbish too. I'm sure they beat us 5-0 at home once.
It was the first time i'd heard swearing, and the Mary Poppins-esque "Chim, Chiminee, Chim-Chim Cheroo, we hate those bastards in claret and blue." I felt so grown-up whispering those words to myself!
Early in those sporadic home game attending days, we once took my best mate too. We were allowed a packet of mint polos (10p each), then took our seats. During the first half, one of the crossbars snapped in half. Match abandoned. No money back.
Generations
At a certain point, Dad and I got season tickets. I'll never forget the home game against Sutton United when we beat them in front of over 6,000 fans, squashed into the main stand. Or queuing up between Christmas and New Year for tickets for The FA Cup home game against QPR. St Albans City helped serve up probably the direst game I ever saw (a 0-0 draw) in front of about 8,000 fans. In the cup game itself, as by then I was a bit older, we'd moved over to standing on the half-way line. I still remember Paul Randall's miss. 😢
My boys club Pen Mill asked John McGinley to become our President. He turned up to our end of season awards at a pub at the back of my house, with his hand bandaged up. One of the Dads had been at The Gardens nightclub the evening before, and saw him get involved in a dust up!
When you grow up supporting and watching your home team, the ground takes on a special status. In my final year in the Cub Scouts, something magical happened. Our team St Michaels got to the Cup Final, and we played a team from the Cokers. My Dad was the manager, and remembers due to the sloping pitch, he couldn't see our right winger at the top, from his position in the dug-out.
Unfortunately, we lost 4-1. Rob Hughes, who I later went to school with at Preston, lobbed me three times in goal. His Dad was a former player and managed Yeovil for a while. Rob's older brother later also put Yeovil on the map himself. As part of Shaft, who appeared on Top of the Pops playing Roobard and Custard!
TOTP
Around this time, the group of people we used to stand with started going to away games. John (Mr) Flatters was my PE teacher at school. He and one of his daughters would often join us in a car. Other times Mike Smith would. I think Mike worked with my Dad at Westlands and could have been a stand-up comedian.
During these times, we went to Basingstoke Town to watch an AC Delco Cup Final win against Hayes on a Bank Holiday. The game was memorable for a small wall on the opposite side of the ground collapsing after Yeovil scored a goal. And for a fight in a beer tent behind the goal at half-time. You couldn't see what was happening, but the sides of the tent were bulging like in a kids cartoon. We also ran on the pitch at full-time after winning the second leg of the Bob Lord Trophy at Kidderminster Harriers on a school night. Doing our best David Pleat at Luton Town impressions.
As I got a bit older, I also started to realise that Yeovil had a small group of fans who liked a punch-up and attracted a bit of grief at away games. My U16s captain walked past me with blood pouring out the back of his blond haired head, after someone threw a brick into the away end at Weymouth. The bus in front of us coming home from a brilliant FA Cup win in Hereford travelled back to Somerset with a missing window after another flying brick. And one fan, who became a bit of a cult-celebrity, once got arrested before a pre-season home game against Bournemouth for trying to run across the pitch. I can still remember the crowd cheering as he was dragged to the corner flag by the police, as his trousers fell down, exposing his arse.
It's not coming home
There were also other memories, that all really stand out. A home game against a team from London in the Vauxhall Opel League days. As a player came to take a throw-in, someone a few rows behind me shouted out "you black bastard." Neil Cordice, a black Yeovil Town midfielder walked straight over. The guy behind then said (as if it made it better): "I didn't mean you Neil." The response was one I never forgot: "We're all the same. You abuse him, you abuse me. Think about it." No swearing. No aggression. Zen-like calm. The best lesson you could ever have. Delivered within touching distance.
A match played to celebrate the end of Yeovil's time at The Huish before moving to a new stadium. Barry Fry played in a testimonial match. A helicopter landed on the pitch. No idea why.
I also remember that I had to miss the very final home game ever. My sister was a bridesmaid for the first and only time. We had to go to Bristol. I sulked like mad. (My dad too). And I sat under a table at the reception listening to Radio Bristol. I later missed out on another giantkilling at Walsall (my Dad and his friends went and really rubbed it in) as my best friends took me to see Vic Reeves' Big Night Out live in Bristol.
A new stadium was exciting, but sad at the same time. My Dad went to primary school at Huish, so he wasn't keen on the move either. We went on a tour with Gerry Lock, which you could do as it was being built. We went to the first ever game, a pre-season match against Newcastle United, racing back from Heathrow where we'd picked up my German exchange friend. And finally, inexplicably stood on the away terrace as there was no more space, we watched as promotion to the Football League was sealed.
After leaving Yeovil College, I moved away to University, then to London to work. A small group of friends would always come together to watch Yeovil away. Generally involving trains, beer, and fuzzy memories. And, of course, The FA Trophy win at Villa Park. All of the friends i'd grown up with, sat behind the goal. I'd started work at The FA and could get some tickets. Which also meant I could treat my mum and dad to some hospitality seats, and my Dad could wear a suit, watching Adam Stansfield and Carl Alford send us barmy in the Holte End.
Yet another memory was when I'd been working at The FA for a while. Although I was in the Communications team, we sat with the Marketing colleagues, and one of the guys became a mentor to me. One of his jobs was to organise for people to check The FA sponsor boards for televised games. So when we drew Liverpool at home (still not a penalty Harry), it meant I found a way to come home for another big cup match. Just like when Ian Wright and my equally beloved Arsenal came to Huish Park.
Famous: in the programme
Moving away, meant that I became a disciple of the Ciderspace website. I got to know Hoagy and Badger through message boards and the early days of Twitter. Badger also shared a big love of the band James. I still find look for updates on Twitter, and have to remember he passed on far too early.
When I moved to Zurich to work for FIFA, coming home always coincided with trying to see a game. Taking my kids and nephews to pass a love down the generations. Catching up with old friends and their kids. Almost becoming those same old men from my first games, moaning and groaning at misplaced passes, or another aimless hoof.
When the club sealed their place in a play-off at Wembley, I was following an online stream during a meeting, and let out a '"fucking come on" at the final whistle. Much to the bemusement of some international colleagues; less so to a mate and colleague from Newcastle. When we had the play-off final to go up to the Championship, I persuaded an American friend to connect my laptop to his TV. He watched with a mix of concern and embarassment as I burst into tears at the final whistle. We were going to play one level below the Premier League. Madness.
At the Copacabana
What has happened since, is such a shame. The free-fall on the pitch back to 'non-league' has coincided with lots of murmurings off the pitch. Fans don't seem happy with the owners. A while ago, someone I met at a conference got back in touch and told me they were interested in potentially getting involved in the club in future. Let's see.
For the size of Yeovil as a town to get to the Championship was a miracle. The crowds it historically attracted, the budget it must have had compared to others, means that in my mind, it has no right to be two or three tiers higher than where it is now. However...it's the hope that kills you they say.
Family memories. Rites of passage. Ian Botham squeezed into the shortest shorts. Jimmy Quinn midfield massacres. Guy Whittingham sent from another planet. Seeing your club jump from Page 318 on Ceefax to the big time. Horrific coffee. Singing "you dirty Northern bastards" to Bristol Rovers fans, then grinning. Remembering how proud you were when your mate's brother played in goal for the Reserves, or Nick and Andy Flory made the first team, when you spent much of your youth playing against them. Pulling on the green and white to see Brazil demolished by Germany 7-1 in Belo Horizonte, and when England beat Colombia on penalties in Moscow. Or seeing Darren Way and Terry Skiverton invite my old man into their office to talk about the new season, after he came out of hospital, thanks to Jimmer.
Dad at Huish Park
What has happened to Bury, could easily happen to other clubs. Could easily happen to Yeovil. It would be horrible to think that the club could fold. When my Grandad got much older, I used to ask him if he wanted to come with Dad and me. His response was always: "They never came to see me when I was bad." Funny the memories you have. And how fresh they are, when you remember what a big part of your life something was. This is what #YTFCMeansToMe.
