The Header » American in Manchester

It was late-October, 1986, and I was finally headed to England for my very first visit, making good on a years-long desire to visit a friend and soak in the English culture. Equate that with beer and soccer. I’d had my share of experience with both, albeit watered down, bastardized American versions — Coors Light and the North American Soccer League.

With a buddy in tow, we were picked up and taken to Bolton, a town between Manchester and Liverpool. Bolton is a former mill town, notable only for a couple of things – being the home of Reebok, as well as a shaky football club, Bolton Wanderers.

Because the Wanderers were mired near the bottom of the old third division, and therefore not deemed worthy of anybody’s time or money, my English mates decided a proper game, a derby between Manchester City and Manchester United, would be a better introduction to English football than a trip to see the local losers.

I’d been to plenty of sporting events up to that point — baseball, football, and basketball games aplenty; soccer, too, when the California Surf of the aforementioned NASL played their home games in Anaheim Stadium in the late seventies. But nothing had prepared me for the buzz of excitement as we made our way through that Manchester neighborhood towards the stadium. The crowd was mostly men, many wearing jerseys and scarves of the home team’s sky blue. Cops on horseback trotted up and down the street. The crowd’s pace was no amble; there was an urgency, a nervous energy, a sense they had waited all week long just for these few hours.

I walked with my American friend, our English hosts lagging some yards back. We talked excitedly, taking in the sights and atmosphere of Moss Side, the neighborhood surrounding Maine Road, home of Manchester City since 1923. Scarves of red, white, and black, the colors of Manchester United, wrapped around our necks. It seemed like an okay idea in the pub parking lot, wearing a scarf to get into the spirit of things.

Out of nowhere, a skinhead, a thuggish looking young man in a blue soccer shirt, right off the assembly line of Hooligan’s Inc., appeared at my friend’s side. The thug wrapped an arm around his shoulder and fell into step with us.

“I’ll fooking have youse in a fight ‘round corner,” he said, his Mancunian accent thick and slurred by copious amounts of lager.

My friend and I looked at one other, then turned back to the hooligan and chorused a duet: “Huh?”

“I said, I’ll fooking have you.”

Seconds passed, the tension rose. An international ass kicking was not on my to-do list as far as vacation plans were concerned. But before the first punch could be thrown, one of my English friends appeared. He pulled the thug’s arm from my buddy’s shoulder and flagged down a policeman, who galloped up on horseback. More cops arrived. They handcuffed the hooligan and walked him down the street, out of sight.

“Take off those bloody scarves,” snarled the cop high atop a snorting horse.

We stuffed the United gear under our jackets, taking care that not a thread of the offending colors were exposed to anybody for the rest of the afternoon.

The game itself was a non-event; we sat on wooden benches in the Platt Lane stand, behind one of the goals, and the atmosphere was far more entertaining than what was going on down on the field. The crowd’s voice rising as one, singing a player’s praises; bloodthirsty shouts of “get stuck in!!” from a man two rows in front of me, whose day job probably didn’t allow him to express himself as vociferously; 30,000 people deriding the referee in unison, hanging the albatross of wanker around his neck. It felt reckless. It felt dangerous. Was this sport?

Maine Road hosted its final game in 2003. The structure was demolished a few months afterward. The team now plays its home games in the grandiose Etihad Stadium, named after the team’s kit sponsor, an airline based in the United Arab Emirates.

And it’s not just Maine Road that’s become a memory. Countrywide, the live match experience is a much different beast than it was twenty years ago. The chicken shack stadiums of old have been knocked down, replaced by sterilized monoliths. Intensity and drama sacrificed for the sake of comfort, convenience and corporate sponsorship. The working-class, male tribal quality diminished. Women and children attend. Security is heightened. Passion and fervor now forced to share the stage with family entertainment.

It is still sport, the action on the field still wildly competitive, but it is showbiz now. Americanized for your protection.

Michael Manson is a casual soccer fan and a baseball fanatic. He lives in San Francisco with his wife and two cats, writing diligently in the hope that it derails his career as a bartender.