Alex Steine
I first went to Arsenal in 1955. I was seven years of age. My older friend took me, an Irish lad who supported Arsenal. He had told me on occasions 'The Gunners are my team!' I believed him; he was older than me after all. At sporadic intervals, when together, usually playing ' footie' down in the square, he would tell me how great the Arsenal were. I believed this too. He was my friend. I saw a number of games over a three-season period with him. Sometimes others joined us, but their images, and vague personas have faded into the mists of my memories. Now, I only ever see the two of us in my mind, wandering down Avenell Road on match day; two little street urchins, each bedecked in a huge, floppy, red and white satin rosette. I lugged a gigantic wooden rattle with me, painted in Arsenal's colours. Wow! That was heavy for a little lad, and I had to carry it all day, to and fro'. I wasn't dressed without it, when going to the game.
I saw many enjoyable games in that narrow window of time. Oddly, the first game has slipped away from me. I have no idea who it was against, or the score, possibly because I was in a total state of shock. As I arrived, glimpsing the side of that magnificent structure, my jaw must have dropped open. I saw the flags fluttering, distinctive glass panelling sheltering the upper tiers, the good-humoured crowd, cannon murals, and that very important-looking main entrance, with a man like a soldier guarding the doorway. 'Goodness' I must have thought, 'only people like kings and queens would be allowed in there'. Little boys from that era were easily impressed. I was no exception, but this combination could cast a spell over young football-loving kiddies. It did, and that magic still holds me. When I stepped into the stadium, and saw that green baize of a pitch for the first time, I am sure it took my breath away, and were I to have been asthmatic, I might have keeled over. Then I saw men, who would become gods. They trotted out onto the field in red and white. My personal colour spectrum shifted visibly at that moment. Red and white! Just saying it is so, so special. On that first visit when I went to see my friend's team, he referred to Arsenal often as his team. He was innocently mistaken, for after the final whistle they were my team! I remain fiercely possessive to this day. They are my team!
The games were always enormous. Huge crowds, famous players, Jimmy Scoular of Newcastle, and another Jimmy - Dickinson of Portsmouth. Goals galore. Noise. Laughter amongst the fans, smoking their Woodbines, and an atmosphere I have never been able to replicate, in any other of life's situations. This was Arsenal to me. This baptism was completely absorbed by that little reprobate, namely me. We always saw our football from the Clock End, the first end we came to. Our position was right behind the goal, or as near to it as possible. Why, even Jack Kelsey's knees are woven into my personal Arsenal folklore. I would arrive with two ounces of 'Winter Warmers', or 'Tom Thumb mix' sweets, safely stashed in my blazer pocket; by the time of the bus journey home I would be rooting deep into corners for stray, sticky sweets, usually finding a fluff-covered one.
A few times, we arrived late for our special spot. I guess I, for one, was just wandering the streets around the stadium, in awe, eyes like saucers, mouth catching flies. When this happened, we would find ourselves at the back of the terracing. We'd stand in a forlorn way, looking up at the men with our puppy dog eyes. It didn't take long for a kindly chap (and there were so many back then) to announce to those nearby 'Oi, we've got a couple of nippers here. Come on sonny!' Then we would be lifted bodily, above their heads, to begin a most amazing journey to the front of the spectators. Over the heads of the crowd we were passed, feet first; glancing sideways to ensure my pal was still with me, and hadn't been dropped along the way, I would smile. A sort of smug, embarrassed, yet supremely happy and grateful smile. Then suddenly we were deposited right down at the front, pitch side, with the railings to lean on, and yep, I'd be able to see Jack's knees again.
Leaving after the final whistle was a laugh to us. Children never see danger, or anything that could be described as a potential threat. This gay abandonment changed a long time before I took my own son to a game. Awareness of circumstance, my own brushes with fate, and realising how fickle our existence is, meant a deep respect of football stadiums, and the menace they held to anyone's survival. For us in those days it was just part of the ritual, and the fun. When leaving, we could almost lift our feet off the ground, and just be carried along by the swell of the crowd. Amusing, though a little squashy, to us then. Now I fear for the little chap, that was me. Still, I was already settling into a routine, and I was off home for a welcome mug of hot Bovril. By the time I got off the bus near home, the Pink Classified was on the news stands. This was not a gay dating magazine, but a rushed edition for football fans, often offering a part of a report, and only half-time scores for some games, not wholly satisfactory, but in those days 'beggars couldn't be choosers.' It was a source of strange interest for me to buy a newspaper, and read an account of an event I had just been to. A sense of 'being' for a youngster, I suppose. Unable to describe my feelings, even to myself, I just knew it was important. I expect it was a sense of being a part of an event, larger than the norm. An 'I was there' kind of feeling.
One day in February, 1958, just a month or so before my tenth birthday, I went to the Arsenal with my pal. We went to see Manchester United, the reigning champions. They were quite a big club too. It was especially exciting because their manager, Matt Busby had developed a very youthful side, and they were known as the 'Busby Babes'. This game was going to be quite special, as the 'Babes' were quite famous, and babes made me think of little ones. We got to the Arsenal, found our way behind the goal at the Clock End, and as I awaited a glimpse of Jack Kelsey's knees, got into some friendly banter with some nearby children supporting Manchester United. Were these the babes? Well the game got underway and we found ourselves 0-3 down; a cricket score loomed. The little Mancunians went potty during half-time. I assured them that we would recover, and we did! I believe we found three goals in our locker, lying there unattended, so we used them to draw level. Phew! Then, as if we had offended them, they ran into a 3-5 lead. All that hard work for nothing! Then a hero of the day, dear old Derek Tapscott, who seemed to wear the most magnificent of smiles, as he played the game, got us back in it. Sadly, the game ended 4-5, despite us pushing the limits for that elusive equaliser, which never came. How unlucky we were, how lucky they were, or so it seemed then, that weekend. Luck drifts upon, and around us, like smoke, never fully settling, yet we know of it, and of its absence. A few days later, Arsenal were the lucky ones, the 'Babes' were not.
My Dad worked 'nights', and my Mum was an office cleaner in the City. A 'crack of dawn' job. They sort of handed over the baton. One came home to guard my younger brother and me, while we slept, as the other left to earn a crust. I remember coming downstairs to see my Dad sitting at the kitchen table. He looked sombre. My Dad never looked sombre; he always greeted us with a smile. Something was wrong. Still looking at me he said 'There's no more Manchester United, lad.' I was perplexed. Then I sat with him, and slowly he explained. Munich, snow, ice on the wings, plane crash, dead footballers. It was an extremely moving moment. There at the table with the Daddy's sauce bottle, and porridge bowls, I sat and listened, trying desperately to take in every word, as I watched his lips. I was somehow involved in all this, yet I wasn't quite sure how. I felt alright, I wasn't injured, or suffering, but something had happened to me, as well as all those poor young fellows. I tried to reason and rationalise during the rest of that day, but the feelings were mixed up in a strange way, and nothing really made sense. I knew I was irredeemably linked with a group of dead footballers. That persuasion still has a haunting effect to this day.
The next evening, coming back to our flat, my Dad and I were stopped by someone who knew him. They engaged in a short conversation. I stood around, with hands stuffed deep into pockets. It was a chilly, draughty, dark February evening. There was a nearby swirl of rubbish. A few scraps of litter, and a sheet of newspaper. Idly, I wandered towards it, as little boys are often drawn to rubbish and grubby things. It was lit by the overhead gaslight, which threw a gloomy aspect. The newspaper was a centre-page spread. I think it was the Daily Sketch, or Herald, but it could have been any of the newspapers of the day, as they all sported the same centre pages. I trapped the crumpled piece with the toecap of my baseball boots, which many kiddies wore in those days. Holding it down I manoeuvred the opposite side with the other toecap, then spreading it out, I held it firmly. There was a blow up of the Manchester United team. Beneath were their names. In brackets following them was their status.
As I read, it chilled me, as the cold night air never could. It said Pegg (dead), Charlton (alive), Violett (alive), Taylor (dead), Byrne (dead)...and their fates continued to be listed. It really affected me. The poignancy was profound. Still, to this day do I see that little confused boy, standing in the dark, peering down at that newspaper, experiencing his first brush with mortality. There was also a sense of desecration. These men had died. Now, the newspaper carrying the story was vandalized, discarded, a piece of unimportant rubbish. It seemed to reduce the importance of the event. Years later, I would understand the term, 'yesterday's news', in a very sharp, and focused way. There were more than sixty thousand people present that day, who watched the game. How perverse to be writing of the deaths of a handful of footballers, when probably fifty thousand of those at the ground that day have shuffled off this mortal coil. Once more I am aware of being in an exclusive, ever-shrinking group, who can tell a tale, and pass on something to younger ones.
This is my story of a day in the life (apologies, Beatles); of a day I went to the Arsenal, to watch my team. How could I have imagined that such an innocuous game would leave an indelible imprint. An impression so vivid it lingers still, in my mind. Ah, this Arsenal, this football, this life.
