I was born slap bang in the middle of 4 clubs. To the west there was Oxford United, while east lay Watford. South there was Wycombe Wanderers, and north east was Luton Town. The Boleyn Ground was a whole 41 miles away. West Ham was neither in my blood, or on the doorstep. Then again, growing up, football wasn't really in my blood either. My Dad wasn't around as I grew up, and had he been I'd likely have been following the claret and blue of Burnley these days. My grandfather should have been the one to inspire a love of football in me. He'd been on the books of Cardiff, Coventry and Plymouth Argyle (although research has suggested the last one was a bloody great fib) but was a rather intimidating and remote chap, and I never did pluck up the courage to ask him anything, about anything, ever. My uncle was the one who took it upon himself to sort me out. I think he took it as a matter of great concern that I'd managed to get to the age of 8 without the slightest indication that I liked any sport.
He was wrong. I liked rugby. Football was a bunch of men with curly hair, falling over a lot and then kissing each other when they bundled a ball into a net. I just thought association football was a bit girly, which is now somewhat rich coming from a man whose sole mission in life is the acquisition of shoes. I couldn't tell my uncle that I thought football was girly and just a bunch of curly haired men faffing around, as he had a tight curly perm and played football, and probably faffed around too.
One day he came to see me, clutching a tonne of posters. Nothing unusual in that, helicopters were my thing at age 8. He'd bring helicopter posters up from his work, and I'd stick them to my walls, in the same way I would with cars a couple of years later, and with Sarah Cracknell and Shirley Manson a lot of years later. Hidden among this particular batch though, were some football posters, and he "couldn't imagine how they'd got there", must have "picked them up by mistake" and I could "just throw them away if I wanted". That's how it began. As simply as that. Among the helicopter posters were folded, dog-eared posters of David Cross, Frank Lampard and Billy Bonds. I looked at them, awe inspired, and thought "these guys look as hard as nails, I bet they don't fall over much". Or something to that effect. Bearded, long haired, plastered in mud, snarling, socks around the ankles, these three chaps looked like they might belong to a sport I could like.
It was pure luck that the posters were of Hammers. My uncle was a Manchester United fan, and he'd clearly just picked these up from work without a second thought, but that's where my West Ham days started. I was the only one at school who supported them, in fact the only person anywhere it seemed like at age 8. Everybody thought I was mad, and that I should be thinking about Liverpool. Liverpool didn't have Cross, Lampard and Bonds. The more I learnt, the better it got, and soon Devonshire's name was a reason why I'd never consider supporting anyone else either. Then Brooking. Then Parkes. The list grew longer, and before I knew it, I even had foggy notions about where they played on the pitch. My granddad sealed the deal in one of the rare moments that he wasn't barking at somebody in a rage, when he told me "You'll be alright with yer actual West Ham. They play the game the right way."
So, that's how you end up an Iron, born the wrong side of London by a good distance, not even interested in football, and even then surrounded by perfectly good alternatives for clubs to support. There were times under Grant that I wondered whether perhaps Wycombe would've been the better choice, but I only ever wondered.
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