The Header » The First Time

I was just twelve years old when I started following Manchester United. My only access to them was the occasional mention in our local newspaper or on a flickering black and white television watching “Star Soccer” on a Sunday afternoon. I lived ninety miles or so from Old Trafford in the middle of Aston Villa, Birmingham City and West Bromwich Albion fans.

It was April 27th 1968, the day I would see the Red Devils in the flesh for the first time. My Dad and I set out for West Bromwich Albion’s stadium, the Hawthorns, if one could call their ground a stadium. It looked like a football field surrounded by large cowsheds. We parked our old Bedford van a mile or so from the Hawthorns. I had to run to keep up with him as we hurried towards the ground. I could hardly breathe. The anticipation made me shiver and my eyes widened in astonishment as I heard the fans singing and shouting “The Albion!” in broad Black Country accents. Blue and white Albion scarves hung around every neck. The crowd tightened like a noose around us, thicker, dangerous. I smelled beefburgers and fried onions as I vanished beneath the waves, feeling so small. I tightened my grip on my Dad’s hand for fear of being taken under.

He was a secret West Bromwich Albion fan, was my Dad. Oh yes, he feigned an interest in United but that was for my benefit, to make me feel somehow connected. Until his dying day, he would deny his secret love of Albion but I knew the better of it. I would often find him, secretly scouring the results pages in the newspaper to see how Albion had got on. Despite him not wearing a blue and white scarf on my first day at football, I knew where his allegiances lay.

The tickets were for the Albion end of the stadium. I wore a wristwatch emblazoned with United’s team crest. I still do. It’s the only clue to who I am. The sleeve of my shirt and sweater hid the watch hands from view for fear of Albion fans seeing it. For those were the days of rampant hooliganism in the English game with shaven headed yobs wearing Doc Martin “bovver boots,” scarves hanging from their wrists, yielding havoc and destruction wherever they ventured. The thought of my dad and I being beaten by hooligans scared me to death. United fans, particularly those outside of Manchester, were seen as legitimate targets.

This fear schooled me in the art of keeping my reactions to a minimum when surrounded by fans that hated your team. I settled for a twitch and wry smile when United scored. I pulled my sleeve down over my wristwatch. But things were not so wonderful on my first day with the Red Devils. United were 5-1 down after twenty minutes. I caught my Dad smiling broadly in between feigning disappointment. He knew my watch was red.

We lost 6-3. I’ve hated Albion ever since. Someone recently told me to get over it. It’s over 40 years ago. No chance. I hate the Black Country gits.

LRoy James began his love affair with Manchester United at the tender age of twelve after watching the silky skills of Best, Law and Charlton, on a flickering black and white television set. His mistress has, in equal measure, frustrated, pleasured and enraged him ever since.