Get Up, It's Football Day!

Disclaimer: For those of you out there in the blogosphere that don't like sports and especially dislike football (soccer) don't read this, because my enthusiasm might just make you ill.

The title of this post is taken from "Green Street Hooligans," one of my favorite movies and one which is well worth a watch for anyone who has the slightest like for sport. Yesterday was, for all intensive purposes, my introduction to live in-person football. Thus, while my throat recovers from 120 minutes of screaming, I'll take the time to reflect. Many might remind me that I've been down to Gillette Stadium a few times to see the New England Revolution of the horribly pathetic MLS, to which I would say if you think that's what a match should feel like than you've lost all feeling from your body.

Let me set the stage. I've been living in Bridge of Allan, a small village in Stirling County, in central Scotland. Considered part of the "greater Stirling area" many locals follow Stirling Albion FC, a small club who plays in Scotland's Second Division. Yesterday was the club's opening round fixture in the Scottish League Cup (known to the marketers as the Co-Operative Insurance Cup.) Opposing them was Ayr United, a club representing the town I lived in six years ago. The choice of who to support might have been less clear to many, but to me it was easy to choose Ayr--the Honest Men--the choice club of the two friends I still stay in touch with.

So, my friend David made the trek up the coast from Ayr, we ate a sandwich, grabbed an Irn-Bru (the best soda in the history of the world) and walked through the center of Stirling to the Forthbank Stadium.

Now, this was not the World Cup, this was not the Champions League, it wasn't even a Scottish Premier League match, but it was a time that I will never forget. David had bought me a traditional black Ayr United training sweatshirt which I proudly wore and we eagerly qued with the rest of the Ayr United faithful some half hour before game time. This was not a small stadium, in fact at capacity it only holds about 3,000 spectators, but even so it was heaven. The smell of black coffee and steak pies wafted through the stands and I finally felt that I was where I belonged.

Unlike what all of us in America would expect, the stadium was divided into two seperate stands on either side of the pitch. One was for the home support, the other for the visiting support. In larger venues the away support might only recieve a small fraction of the entire park but nevertheless it must be noted that fans of opposite teams are purposely divided. You enter and exit from seperate gates, buy your refreshments from a seperate vendor etc. Besides the obvious safety concerns which prompt this distinct seperation this divide makes it seems as if the two teams' supporters are opposing armies in a good war movie, yelling and banging things in order to intimidate or harass the other.

The twenty or so minutes before kickoff were rather quiet but right about the start the diehard fans showed up, already piss drunk at 3PM. They started the songs, something which sorely missed in most American sporting events. "Ayr Ayr Super Ayr" was chanted, accompanying "the referee's a w***er" everytime a less than favorable call was made. I rarely joined in, not wanting to make my American accent readily audible, but nonetheless such support was emphatic and contagious.

Ayr United won the match 2-1 in extra time. Scoring on a bomb from center-back Willie Easton from about 25 yards out, and a scrambling winner about 115 minutes in.

The result definitely made the day more enjoyable, but the overall atmosphere was what did it for me. While there were only about 1500 fans in the entire crowd nearly all of them were so intune with what was happening in front of their eyes, so behind their side, that I wished it would never end. Most had scarves wrapped around their necks, the crest of their sides emblazaned on a shirt or hat and no matter what the score they had something either supportive or divisive to shout.

There were no riots, no scuffles, only a few birds flipped after a nasty tackle, and epiphets yelled following a missed call. But it was just like I had imagined--the singing, the support, the devotion. I'm not saying that American sports fans are any less devoted to their teams. In fact, I would say that I am just as supportive of my Red Sox and Bruins. Yet it is the way that it is expressed. Fans are so involved in these matches--whether it be singing or swearing or dancing that I can't help but wonder why that sort of fervor is so lacking in the States. Maybe it's just not the culture--and maybe soccer's unique flavor is the thing that delivers such enthusiasm. Whatever the answer may be, if one exists at all, I hope that I get to experience that rush again. It is something I will never forget.