The Northolme Calls

“What’s the score mate?” I enquire gruffly.
“One up kid,” is the response.
“Oh. Good...” is all I can mutter back.

Instantly the back of my mind rages. “GOOD?! Don’t you mean “bloody hell, I’ve just raced to north Lincolnshire from Doncaster in twenty minutes flat to see sixth tier football, missed the opener and got soaked when running to the turnstile from a nearby sidestreet after hastily abandoning my trusty Skoda?!”

I’m the last one to enter the ground and thankfully keep my thoughts to myself as I round the sorry looking programme seller who’s looking for one last customer.

Having passed one of the finest footballing eateries known to man – where mushy peas are served by the cupful – I position myself halfway down the terrace.

I step back under the corrugated iron roof to avoid the persistent rain, but can’t avoid the stares and the glares, the looks of the regulars.

These looks range from the mild and placid, such as, “Who’s this new kid on his own, not seen him before,” to the downright furious, which may go something along the lines of: “Who the f*** is this prat turning up ten minutes in? What’s he doing here and why’s he missed our goal? That’ll teach him.”

He’s right, it will. And I regret it too.

Not a lot happens for the remainder of the opening period. I’m still adjusting to a 35 minute half of football and remain pleasantly surprised that there is a game to speak of, even if I did miss a goal. This is the only game of football at this level taking place in the whole country, and here I am when many more established football grounds have succumbed to the nationwide downpour.

As such, one can only expect a certain degree of reward for risking life and limb to attend such a fixture. It’s not going to happen on the pitch and while the sides are kitted out looking like Chelsea and Real Madrid respectively, that’s where the similarities end. Unsurprisingly.

“There I was, taking my jeans off in the kitchen so she says. Can you believe it?!” one chap guffaws.

It’s certainly a comment that makes your ears prick up in alarm. Here is a complete stranger no more than ten yards away and he’s merrily sharing the antics of the previous night’s ‘Mad-Friday’ drinking session with the old and young, all and sundry of those accommodated on this terrace. Mad indeed.

Here lies the beauty of the occasion though; this conversation is commonplace and links his, and many other gentlemen’s, two prime social activities together in one fell swoop, no matter how simplistic it may appear.

I miss the sound. The embellishment of a story encouraged by the laughter of a captive audience – for the moment, his audience.

My feet hurt. I haven’t stood on concrete steps at football for a sustained period of time for many a year. Where’s one of those primary coloured plastic seats to park my backside on? You know, the ones that adorn the interiors of many of England’s stadiums and arenas?

The opposition and their twenty-seven fans fervently celebrate the two second-half goals they poach to snatch a win, but I care little, for the magic of the afternoon has already occurred.

Half time had come and gone; smartphones had been drawn in the process for people to access the internet and declare the latest scores from around the grounds. “West Brom are losing,” someone bemoans.

No one bats an eyelid. Hazy recollections of a Midlands-based outfit that plied its trade in the old First Division, with Regis and Batson occupying the midfield are probably formed, but still relative indifference.

“They’re ruining my betting slip,” the voice furthers, in an attempt to draw a response.

It works. Cue extensive cajoling and general ‘mick-taking’.

Once the heat dies down, the silence is only pierced at the next break in play. An unassuming sort of voice pipes up after he has momentarily dwelt on his quip to the latest events from The Hawthorns. “Why have you backed them?” he asks in a sarcastic tone.

“Even we could beat that bloody lot!”

The Northolme calls.