Nearly Reach the Sky

by Brian Williams

  As it happens you both get away with it … this time. But wouldn’t it have been so much better if there had been an area set aside where fans of both clubs could go in together and enjoy a laugh with their mates, safe in the knowledge they would emerge at the end of the game with their lives intact? We’ve got a family section, why not a mixed section? You’d need a few safeguards, naturally. But it would be perfectly possible if there were the demand for it.

  Any takers? Or will it just be yours truly, surrounded by Tottenham-supporting friends politely asking me to remind them of one or two of the finer points of the game, like why the fella standing in front of the goal is wearing a different coloured shirt to the rest of the team?

  Where were we? Ah yes, the Sir Trevor Brooking Stand, where – despite it being called a stand – you’re supposed to sit down. In all, there are the best part of 6,000 seats – some of which are given over to visiting fans, who generally refuse to use them. The big clubs get the majority of the lower tier, but most just get the left section. West Ham supporters who like to enjoy a little good-natured banter with our visitors take up the right half when they can. Unsurprisingly, there is invariably a generous filling of police and stewards in the middle of this particular sandwich. Above them is the family section, and you can only get a ticket for that if you have a child in tow. (It was in the family section that my son first abused a referee. I nearly died of shame. He called the ref a nincompoop! Of all the insults he could have come up with, he had to use nincompoop. People have been ejected from the ground for using words with that many syllables. I’m pleased to say, he uses much shorter ones these days when analysing a referee’s performance.)

  The seats in the Trevor Brooking Stand – which, until 2009, had spent the previous fourteen years answering to the name of the Centenary Stand – are part of an overall capacity of just 35,016, which, you will recall, is why we’re having to pack our bags and leave. I was on the North Bank to see us draw 2–2 with Spurs when there were 42,322 in the ground, which is the official record attendance at Upton Park (it’s likely this figure was exceeded in the ’30s but no one knows for sure because many of the club’s records were destroyed when the ground was bombed during the Second World War).

  In the 1970 game against Spurs, they had the likes of Pat Jennings, Martin Chivers and ‘nice one’ Cyril Knowles; we had Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and the real Frank Lampard. The two teams were evenly matched and both knew how to pass the ball.

  Games between West Ham and Spurs regularly attracted crowds approaching 40,000 back then, but this one was given added spice by the fact it marked Martin Peters’ return to Upton Park after a controversial swap deal had taken him to White Hart Lane in exchange for £50,000 and a rather rotund Jimmy Greaves. It finished 2–2, with neither Peters nor Greaves on the scoresheet. Their goals came from Mike England (who wasn’t English) and Alan Mullery (who was the first man to be sent off playing for England). Ours were scored by Peter ‘useless’ Eustace and the not-so-useless Hurst.

  The significant thing about Hurst’s goal that day was that it made him the second-highest scorer in our history. In all, he went on to score 248 goals in 499 first-team games for West Ham – still some way behind the phenomenal record of Vic Watson, who scored 326 times for the club over fifteen years in the ’20s and ’30s – but nevertheless a tally that is unlikely to be surpassed in my lifetime, and probably anybody else’s. Although I don’t recall that being the first thing to go through my head as I punched the air in celebration, showed two fingers to the Tottenham fans (indicating it was the second time we had equalised, you understand) and took several involuntary steps down the terracing as the shoving from the back rippled down.

  To your left is the East Stand. You’re right: it does seem totally out of place now, dwarfed by the rest of the stadium and looking rather sorry for itself. But it was quite the thing in its day. This was built in 1969, when England were world champions; Harold Wilson was Prime Minister; the Beatles dominated the charts; Moore, Hurst and Peters were still playing in claret and blue – and I was on the North Bank because I didn’t know about the shortcut that made it possible to get to the East Stand from Upton Park station without having to trudge all the way down Green Street, turn left at the Boleyn pub and then take the Barking Road far enough east to gain access to the fab new stand from Priory Road.

  The trick is to nip off down Tudor Road, which takes you to a footpath that snakes through a gap between the ground and the local bus station. My mate Tony, who wore two-tone tonic suits, showed it to me – and I have been grateful to him ever since.

  The East Stand may now be the oldest and smallest in the stadium, but once it was the loudest. And the funniest. What made it different was the terraced lower tier that was to become, in West Ham folklore at least, a legend in its own right: the Chicken Run. (In the interests of accuracy, I should probably point out that the original Chicken Run was an old wooden construction surrounded by fine-mesh wire, knocked down to make way for the new East Stand – which in turn awaits its own appointment with the bulldozer. But a name that good shouldn’t be allowed to die when we move to the Olympic Stadium. Let’s find room for Chicken Run III.)

  I didn’t discover this unique part of the ground until the early ’70s but, when I did, it was love at first slight. No one was spared the insults that came flying out of there like machine gun bullets – opposition players, officials, even our own players. Actually, it was especially our players – particularly the ones who were judged to be failing to put in the required effort. It wasn’t just the barbs themselves that lifted this abuse into an art form; it was the timing with which they were delivered. If taking the piss had been an Olympic event rather than part of the mandatory drugs test, these boys would have won every gold medal going.

  The only time you didn’t want to find yourself in the Chicken Run was on one of those rare occasions that saw the sun shine on E13. In fact, it’s a problem to this very day in the lower part of the East Stand. Unless you have the foresight to go armed with a peaked cap, you have to spend most of the game shielding your eyes with your hand when it’s sunny. From the other side of the ground it looks like a parade ground saluting its commanding officer, which is quite amusing for them, but becomes a bit annoying if you have to do it for an entire game.

  Still, that’s a small price to pay for all the fantastic humour that came out of there over the years. Funnily enough, a lot of that seemed to go when they ripped out the terrace and put in seats. Did I ever tell you about the campaign for safe standing, by the way? Oh. Seems I did.

  If the Boleyn Ground was to have been saved, it would have been done by redeveloping the East Stand, which can only hold 5,000 people. As recently as 2005 this was still very much on the cards, to the extent that planning permission was being sought. The idea then was to use the extra space that became available when the old West Stand went west – both literally and metaphorically. That happened in 2001. It was replaced by a new construction, which was repositioned several yards further back to allow more elbowroom for the playing surface. (I much preferred things when fans were closer to the pitch down both sides, but I can understand why opposition players and shortsighted linesmen didn’t.)

  But I know that isn’t going to happen. No one is going to save Upton Park, not now it has been sold to property developers Galliard. Still, if rubbing shoulders with cockneys all these years has taught me anything it’s that there’s no mileage in feeling sorry for yourself, so let’s get on with this tour before someone realises we shouldn’t be here and chucks us out.

  Opposite you is the imposing Bobby Moore Stand. You will notice that there are two tiers and the 9,000 seats are painted in such a way that they spell out the name of our magnificent club. As far as I know, the contractors who were given the job stuck to the terms of their contract. (Unlike the artist who was charged with painting a giant seagull in the main stand when Brighton moved into their new Amex Community Stadium. He added a little scatologi
cal flourish on one of the seats below, which was later painted out because it was considered to be in bad taste.)

  It used to be the poor relation in its days as the South Bank, which is perhaps why the away fans were housed there. Back in the heyday of hooliganism, that’s where West Ham’s serious psychos went in search of aggro. Not that they needed much encouragement, but they got it from time to time from other parts of the ground with the scarily sinister chant of ‘South Bank, South Bank, do your job’. There is a story that the Boleyn Ground is haunted by one of Anne’s maids. But when I go in the stand that now graces the southern end of the ground and is named after the most famous figure in our club’s history, the ghosts I see wear braces, bovver boots and Ben Sherman shirts. To be honest, they are about the only thing I won’t be sorry to leave behind.

  To your right is the main stand, which can accommodate up to 15,000 Happy Hammers. It also accommodates a whole bunch of happy hangers-on, who are regularly invited by their business chums to watch a game from one of the executive boxes that separate the two tiers. Have you ever watched football from behind glass? It’s like having sex with your trousers done up.

  This is the stand you saw on the way in – the one with the iffy plastic castles attached to the outside walls. It has been suffering something of an identity crisis in recent years thanks to the wonders of corporate sponsorship. When it was rebuilt it was named the Dr Martens Stand, which must have pleased all those former skinheads who had stomped around in DMs back in the ’60s and ’70s. That deal ran out in 2009, and for a couple of years it resumed its former unimaginative but geographically accurate title. The West Stand was not to be left in peace, however, and was renamed once more when currency broker Alpari became the club’s sponsors. Then they went belly up. We haven’t had a lot of luck with sponsorship deals in recent years – this was the second one to end in tears following a debacle involving the XL airline in 2008. As Lady Bracknell would have undoubtedly observed had she been a West Ham season ticket-holder: ‘To lose one sponsor may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness.’

  Anyway, there you have the Boleyn Ground. You’ll excuse me if I don’t show you the changing rooms and the directors’ box and the trophy cabinet (not that that would take very long) – if you want to see that sort of stuff you’ll have to take the official stadium tour. No doubt they’ll also throw in a few facts I’ve left out, like West Ham’s first game here ended in a 3–0 victory over The Hated Millwall in front of 10,000-odd spectators (the spectators weren’t odd, the number is; well, 10,000 is even actually, but I’m sure you get my drift). They might even point to the part of the pitch in the south-west corner that was hit by a Nazi flying bomb in August 1944, forcing us to play all our games away from home until December (apparently we won nine on the bounce, before returning to Upton Park and promptly losing to Tottenham – which is the kind of thing West Ham does).

  But I haven’t invited you here to listen to a load of facts and figures. I just wanted to show you the place that has meant so much to me and countless others before we have to leave it. To be honest, I should have brought you when there was a game being played – that way you could have really understood the unmistakable feel of this unique part of the world for yourself.

  Honestly, there’s no place on earth like the Boleyn Ground. If you don’t believe me, you really ought to try it for yourself before it goes the same way as poor old Anne.

  Chapter 3

  One day in the life of…

  6.58: I open my eyes cautiously and, as the bright red figures directly in front of me reshape themselves into focus, I become aware of the time. Normally, the alarm clock would be on the point of loudly reminding me of the need to leave my warm, comfortable bed. But I don’t have to bend the knee to its tyranny today. It’s Saturday. Easter Saturday, to be precise. I have plans, but they can wait.

  8.35: Those plans can wait no longer. The extra sleep was welcome, but it’s time to abandon the duvet and do the decent thing with the kettle. The slumbering members of my family get their first tea of the day. Getting up is never difficult on match day.

  10.16: I turn on the sports channels in search of some early team news. A second cup of tea and a hot cross bun constitutes breakfast. I’ve showered and dressed. Jeans and a white, short-sleeved shirt with claret and blue trimmings, which commemorates our 1980 FA Cup final triumph against Arsenal, plus the lucky socks – all assembled in the correct match day order. There is a cartoon strip by Charles Schulz in which Charlie Brown is explaining to his little sister that on the day of a baseball game he always puts on his left shoe before the right one, otherwise they would most certainly lose. ‘Have you ever won?’ she asks him. The final frame depicts Charlie, long after the game has started, still sitting on his bedroom floor looking hopelessly at both of his shoes, unable to decide which one to put on first. Schulz was nothing if not perspicacious (see – it’s not just Arsenal fans who know long words). It is true my lucky socks don’t always do the trick. But I choose not to think about the Peanuts dilemma today.

  11.04: Geoff and I are on the train as it pulls out of Brighton. Di has decided to give this one a miss. The sun is shining. My hopes are high. This has all the makings of a great day.

  11.15: It’s a chance to catch up on how my son’s doing at university. This is a crucial time for him: after four years at Warwick he will soon take his master’s exams. Then come some life-changing decisions. What career to follow; where to live; whether to take some time out to go travelling or find a job? They are his choices, but as a parent I feel privileged that he wants to share his thoughts with me. Over the years football has given us the chance to talk in a way we may not have done otherwise. Rules could be relaxed when there was a game involved. And on those rare occasions the father–son relationship was strained to the extent we didn’t really want to talk to one another, there was always West Ham. Pardew better than Lyall? Di Canio as good as Brooking? Upton Park or the Olympic Stadium? Some issues just have to be discussed, if not resolved.

  11.42: Time to check that my mate from south of the river is up for the contest. Mark supports Crystal Palace, today’s opponents. We’ve got a pound-a-point bet about who will have the more successful season. After they had lost nine of their first ten games it looked like I was in for some easy money, but that’s not the case now. Palace have gone three points above us after a shock result at Everton during the week. We need to win this one. ‘Feelin’ lucky?’ I ask Mark by text.

  11.45: Seems he is. There’s even a gag about him having seen our teamsheet, a reference to a minor controversy that’s simmering between his side and Cardiff City.

  11.48: I resist the temptation to be too bullish at this stage. I took a lot of stick from Mark when Palace won at Selhurst Park earlier in the season, and I’m going to enjoy repaying him in kind today. I keep my reply non-committal, with a limp crack about Allardyce v. Pulis being London’s answer to El Clásico. I’ll save the rough stuff until later. Keep it simple when we take the lead, then work on something more imaginative for the second goal. That’s the point of a bet like ours – it’s not about the money, it’s about the bragging rights. It’s going to be a long summer if we finish below Palace. Still, no need for negativity. Win today and we go above them on goal difference. After that, with just three games to go, we should be able to keep our noses in front until the end of the season.

  12.04: I glance out of the window and catch sight of the Shard, the pointed monstrosity built next to London Bridge station that towers over the capital. In exchange for a small fortune, you can go to the top and take in the view. I ask Geoff if he remembers a more modest construction that we had climbed in search of a vista during the Easter holidays several years ago. Of course he does – that was Zamora’s Tower! At least, that’s what it’s known as in our house. It was 2007. West Ham, looking certainties for relegation, had gone to the Emirates. We’d gone to the Lake District to visit family. On the Saturday afternoon, rath
er than listen to the Hammers getting stuffed on the radio, we went for a long walk through the Cumbrian hills where we came across an old Roman fortress, no doubt built to keep marauding Scots at bay. A couple of the look-out posts were still intact, so Geoff and I climbed one for no other reason than when a male sees a tower in the middle of nowhere he generally has to scale it. While up there, Geoff noticed it was half time. Nervously, he asked if we should check the score. We feared the worst, but decided to look anyway. Astonishingly, the magic of the worldwide web allowed us to tap into the news from north London. And, even more astonishingly, it turned out we were winning! The solitary goal of the first half had been scored by Bobby Zamora. We didn’t find out until later that it was a fluke. Neither did we have any idea that, in our goal, Robert Green was playing a blinder. What we did know was that, having discovered we were winning while up the tower, we couldn’t possibly come down until the game had finished. Furthermore, those family members on the ground had to stay there if the spell was not to be broken. Luckily, both Di and her sister Linda had inherited enough of their dad’s DNA to understand that this wasn’t just mindless superstition; we were dealing with the universal law of the cosmos, and that was not to be messed with when West Ham was involved. So they continued the walk with my brother-in-law and daughter, while we sat it out on the tower. As any football supporter will know, we couldn’t look at the score again – that would have surely invited disaster. So we waited until several minutes after we were certain the final whistle had sounded, took our courage in our hands and checked the score. To the cockney boys, 1–0! We had become the first away team to win at the Emirates (having been the last away side to win at the Highbury Library). It was our third victory on the bounce, and we did eventually avoid relegation by the skin of our teeth. It truly was the Great Escape. But it never would have happened if we’d abandoned Zamora’s Tower.