Let’s Go Down By The River

Down by the river a young couple pass by hand in hand nervously excited about what lays ahead of them. They are dressed in thick wool coats, gloves and an official scarf each. It has already been a perfect day, with great Thai Food for lunch and a nice drink in the The Murderers. Now they are silent; but the tingle, as one smiles sheepishly at the other, is so strong that there is nothing to be said.

Just to the side of them, a woman in her 20s strides in her Doc Martins and leather jacket – hands clamped in her pockets, a hand-rolled cigarette in between her lips, cursing the fact she has forgotten her gloves. She has a party to get to after the game, and makes a mental note to drop by a friend’s house to pick up records that they have borrowed. The Clash, Ramones and the new one from The Jam. They better not have scratched them.

She is followed by a gaggle of excited boys and girls who are darting this way and that through the crowd, playing a game of whoever spots the floodlights first will win. A nervous mother in a replica shirt and wearing dark, oversized sunglasses calls them to heel, taking a break in chatting away to her friend about the supposed amazing new band her husband saw at the arts centre last night. She thinks he said they were called Oasis something, but isn’t absolutely certain.

A group of lads, all Fred Perry and Levis, banter and jostle each other – talking about who got with who at Ritzy last night and quietly nursing hangovers. Some of them start to sing and others around them join in, and before long they are all marching, chins high and chests out, waiting to see what the terrace has in store for them.

They overtake two older gentlemen, in flat caps puffing on long pipes talking about how they don’t like the new foreman, how the apprentice is getting too big for his boots, how this week might be the week their pools come in, and how they can get out of that bloody place once and for all. Perhaps they would never have to smell mustard again.

Just behind them, a young man is wearing his army uniform of olive green tunic and trousers, enjoying his brief leave from the front in France. He feels sad that his brother could not make it to the match with him, but he is determined to enjoy it all the same – and, yes, will also have an ale in a pub afterwards, no matter what the result turns out to be.

The group is increasing ever larger here, as they stride up the path next to the river – where opposite the warehouses, the docks and the luxury flats shimmer in the late afternoon sun, waiting until Monday when they are back in use again.

People on bicycles zoom past, closely followed by horses with carts. Cars whizz along the main road. In the distance there’s a whistle of a steam engine just now pulling into Norwich station, its load of coal training behind; and the clack of an electric locomotive as it pulls away.

Feet crunch on snow, splash in puddles and, for the over eager, kick leaves. Chants start and fade. There’s an air of apprehension, tension, excitement and, yes, derision for the match today. The city around them seems to have stopped, just for now. There’s the castle and the cathedral, sitting proud – and the chimneys, the church spires and the office blocks. But no one is paying attention to them right now, as they are all moving towards one place.

And right up, past the warehouses, the factories, the railway sidings, the pubs, the bowling alley, the nightclub and the restaurants, there are queues forming outside of the stadium. Turnstiles clunk and click. Barcodes are scanned and beeped, stubs are ripped; 5 pound notes, half crowns and plastic credit cards are exchanged. All about, men and women, boys and girls are chattering about all and sundry. There’s the smell of fried onions, salted and vinegared bags of chips, factories, cigarette smoke, coffee – a young girl excitedly asks her father to get her newly purchased scarf out from its yellow plastic bag so she can wear it and fit in properly with all of her friends; a young boy asks if he can buy a pin badge from the man selling them with his huge collection next to the bridge – the answer is no.

Inside, the pitch lay green and lush, surrounded on all four sides by packed swaying terraces, thousands in flat caps and those having a little sit and read of the programme while they have the chance. There’s two two-tiered stands, a terrace with a distinctive roof, a wooden stand with steps made from railway sleepers, an open terrace behind one goal, a concrete and steel all-seated stand with TV gantries and, a fine old grandstand with a roof and a clock.

There’s music on the PA, the Beatles, the Stone Roses, Eurythmics, Elton John, Charli XCX. All about lies advertising; for Colman’s Mustard, Caley’s Chocolate, Sky Bet, Robinson’s Squash, Mackintosh’s Toffee and some hardy souls have perched themselves right on top of these giant billboards, itching to get a good view of Huckerby or Bly or Goss or Forbes or Culverhouse or Eadie or Buendia. Boy they can really light the place up if they get going with the ball.

Then the teams are in the tunnel, the tension ramps up all around and there’s a roar as they arrive on stage. ‘On The Ball City!’ Everyone cries, hoping that they really do keep on the ball and don’t make that same mistake at the back like last time. Keelan, Woods, Green, Nethercott, Gunn, Ruddy are applauded and cheered as they jog to the goal they are defending, and they give a hearty clap in return while smiling and stretching.

All are here because this is more than just watching 22 men play sport. This a shared experience of a whole community that, for this brief moment on a Saturday at 3pm, has always come together, united by the same collection of dreams, the same belief that one day it might be them that gets to share the success with all of these others around them. And as the referee puts the ball down on the centre spot, there’s a roar, a din so loud it is heard across the river, and down the terrace houses and over the flats and over the top of clunking factories and the whine of traffic, as everyone knows that we are starting it all over once again.