Read Online Nearly Reach the Sky by Brian Williams - Free Book Online

desperately trying to protect his purchase from the irresistible tide of humanity that had just spewed out of the train and was carrying him back down the sloping tunnel at Arsenal station. I am sad to report he was right to be fearful; it seems that not all West Ham supporters’ love of beauty extends to art, and more than one felt the need to stick their fingers through the brown paper while questioning the poor man’s sexuality. Expressionism is all very well, boys, but I do think that some of you could express yourselves rather more politely on occasions. Remember, you are an ambassador for the club at away fixtures.
    So, where were we? Oh yes, Highbury with my mate’s wife. Claire was from South Africa, and had never been to a football match. There was no way my friend was going to take her, so she asked me. Then she asked again. And again. And yet again. And … finally I gave in.
    On reflection, a London derby – not to mention a quarter-final of the FA Cup – may not have been the best choice as a debut game for someone unfamiliar with the strangely violent culture that surrounded football in the mid-1970s but, hey, I was young and foolish. (Which I now realise beats being old and foolish.)
    You didn’t need a ticket to get in back then. Honestly! You could simply turn up and grab a spot just about anywhere that took your fancy. Segregation was a word you only ever heard in conversations about Claire’s homeland – it didn’t apply to football supporters.
    Now I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but some West Ham fans often seemed to prefer the bit the rough boys from the other side liked. We weren’t always made terribly welcome, but after a free and frank exchange of views (often described as mindless savagery by the popular press) the home supporters would sometimes let ushave their favoured part of the ground. Tottenham, for example, always seemed prepared to give us the Park Lane End. Their north London neighbours were generous hosts too but, even so, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by quite so many displaced Gooners, who had been turfed out of their North Bank and now were congregated at the Clock End considering their next move.
    It’s fair to say they weren’t in the best of moods. The Clock End, unlike the North Bank, was uncovered and there was every chance we were all about to get soaked in another heavy downpour. Their humour wasn’t improved by an enthusiastic South African screaming ‘Come on West Ham’ while jumping up and down as she frantically waved a claret and blue scarf. And all this with half an hour until kickoff – and not a sniff of a player on the pitch.
    I like to think I’ve lent my voice to the cause over the years, but there are times when it’s better to keep your mouth shut. I tried to explain this to Claire, but she was having none of it. In fact, the more I urged her to button it, the louder she got. It’s true that she was an extremely good-looking woman, but I don’t think that was why we were being stared at by an increasing number of grumpy Gooners. I remember one, in particular, who was clearly tortured by the idea that he was forbidden by his personal credo from battering a woman, and was obviously considering battering me instead.
    On the plus side, Claire was also attracting the attention of other small groups of West Ham fans who, like me, had wrongly expected to find themselves in the majority at that end of the ground. Gradually these small islands of support began to drift our way – drawn by a beacon in the same way that millions have answered the call of the Statue of Liberty. ‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free … send these, the homeless,tempest-tost to me’. The weather-beaten West Ham masses were certainly queuing up to huddle around Claire.
    This was the second time I had been to Highbury that season. The previous October I had gone with a bunch of Arsenal-supporting mates from the