My Life as an Arsenal Fan

 “To Charlie George, oh he can hit them”. That is probably my earliest Arsenal memory. It was said by the immortal Brian Moore in the dying embers of the 1971 Cup Final. I was six at the time and I know I was supporting Arsenal that day. Not sure when it began but it was probably in the playground of my primary school. Even though I grew up in Ireland, we had access to British TV and newspapers, and this meant that we could watch the Big Match on Sunday afternoons.  It was the only football on TV back then, apart from Match of the Day which started at an hour when six year olds were in the land of nod.

My parents reckoned I could read football results even before I started school. Apparently, as a three year old, I would grab the newspaper as soon as it was pushed through our front door and loudly call out the results to my Dad. Given that this contained some high scoring scrabble words like Yeovil and Exeter, I still knew all ninety two teams in the four English leagues before I was presented with my first Ladybird book at school.

Everyone in my primary school affiliated themselves to an English football team. Even the ones who refused to take part in our twenty a side games with a tennis ball each break time. Some were under parental or older sibling influence. Some were glory hunters and just picked the best team of the day (looking at you, Liverpool fans) and some, like me, just wanted to be different. Although, given that Arsenal won the double in 1971, my roots may also lie in picking the most recent winner.

I think the truth is that the Big Match was made by Thames TV and they focussed on London teams, of which Arsenal were the biggest and best. They also seemed to have more Irish players than other teams and my nationalist fervour was present even back then.

As a six year old though, I never imagined I’d have to wait another eighteen years before Arsenal would win the league again. I was working in London by then had made regular visits to Highbury. But I wouldn’t say I was a dyed in the wool fan. I had wavered a few times over the proceeding years, as one dreary season bled into another.

That night in 1989 when the drought was finally quelched has been documented by better writers than me. Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch is probably the Gold standard. I had an Irish colleague at work who was a Liverpool fan and live football on TV was becoming a new fangled offering. The game was on a Friday and the odds were stocked in Liverpool’s favour which is probably why my mate invited me to a pub to watch it. The rest, as they say, is history. Michael Thomas scored one of the most famous goals in Arsenal’s history and I remember spilling a lot of beer as I danced around the pub.

That probably sparked my interest for a few years, but life sometimes gets in the way. By 1993, I was living in Luxembourg and had travelled to Amsterdam to play a game of football. In the pub afterwards, somebody mentioned that the FA Cup final was on a TV down the back and that Arsenal were playing. I thought about going down to watch it but then somebody told a joke and I completely forget about the game.

I got back to Ireland in 1996 and the Premier League with it’s associated hype was in full swing. Sky TV showed several live games each week and football had become hip and cool. Arsenal also hired a quixotic French manager that year, who led the club to uncharted heights over the following ten years.

I bought into the whole football experience and lorded it over my friends when we won and accepted their banter when we didn’t. I was also single for most of that time and well paid. So, a Sky Sports subscription kept me company through the cold winters.

Then I moved to Australia and time zones and distractions tested my loyalties. I developed a fondness for AFL and also met the woman I would go on to marry. I watched less and less football and but would read about it and listen to podcasts. 

Living in New Zealand makes it even more difficult to watch English football. I could watch some games in the morning, but I realise now that my sport watching is closely associated with my alcohol consumption. I like beer, but I’m not going to start drinking it in my pyjamas at 8am. 

My lack of interest may also be down to the fact that Arsenal haven’t down anything of significance (aside from the occasional FA Cup) since I left Ireland in 2007.

That all changed last week when they won the league for the first time in twenty-two years. It triggered a spark I haven’t felt in many years. Brought back memories of the 1979 FA Cup when Arsenal threw away a 2-0 lead, just to snatch victory in the last minute, or 2004 when they went through the year unbeaten.

I realise now that one of the greatest costs I paid when I moved to the Southern Hemisphere  was the lack of easy access to Football and the camaraderie and social life it brings with it.

You can’t have everything I guess, I still wouldn’t swap the life I have now for it. Although it would be nice if I could teleport myself back to Europe next Saturday night when Arsenal take on PSG in the Champions League final. That’s a competition they have never won. If they succeed, there is every chance I’ll bounce around the living room with the same enthusiasm as that six year old back in 1971. Sport is a cruel mistress but sometimes she comes home.