LEAVING BEFORE THE END OF A GAME...

Why Do People Leave Before the End?

A typical granddad sort of a chap, even down to the Ray Graydon flat-cap, also bespectacled and slightly hunched, would attend home games in the Doug Ellis Stand at Villa Park with his son, who was probably in his thirties, although he was already receding at the hairline. They sat a few rows in front of my daughter, my son and me and were seemingly very decent people, greeting the supporters around them with cheerful grins, handshakes and animated idle chatter, some twenty minutes before kick-off. They would then be involved handing out pieces of ripped up hand-tissues from the Gents’ loo, pulled apart by one of the cronies, a Design/Technology teacher ironically, possibly specialising in origami, to throw upwards when Aston Villa’s team appeared from the tunnel. Depending on the direction of the wind, a number of spectators would regularly become shrouded by torn shreds of bog paper, like they had just come from a church wedding, confetti covered. This irritated me. If anyone needed the toilet at the interval, there was never a tissue remaining to dry one’s hands upon…

During the games, these people changed character totally, but also embarrassingly. In unison, they would stand up to bellow hate at Cockneys, Scousers, referees, Lee Hendrie, Doug Ellis and all visiting players who were ginger-haired, long-haired (“Where’s your caravan, where’s your caravan..?”) or had the faintest connection to Birmingham City in any manner or form. They would turn towards the Holte End in vicious poses too and chant, to the tune of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’: 

“You can’t afford these seats, you can’t afford these seats,

We’ve got loadsa money, we’ve got loadsa of money, we’ve got loadsa money,

you can’t afford these seats…” 

No, I didn’t understand that either. They seemed to relish the attention from the Holtenders, who probably thought they were complete tossers. Which probably they were… At 80 minutes however, the trance of anger, hatred and abuse would suddenly disappear from their mouths and faces, for as one, they would rise together, smile, announce their departure to their cronies and go home. It was incredible; schizophrenic behaviour at its best, surely.

Thing is, I hate leaving a football match before the end. My friend Colin does it at non-league games, but in fairness he exits early to get back home as quickly as possible to his ailing spouse Pat and I guess those few minutes afford him an easier getaway from often cramped roads, like Owen Street in Coalville. In these days of League Cup ties being settled on one evening, it seems amazing that interminable replays were once needed to decide early round matches. One such game took place in 1968 at Plainmoor, Torquay, between Plymouth Argyle and Exeter City; Argyle were joint second in the old Third Division and City were languishing in Division Four. The prize was a lucrative home tie against Sheffield Wednesday. Two draws had necessitated a third attempt at a neutral venue, hence Plainmoor and because I was staying with my family at a relative’s corner shop in Edith Street, St Budeaux, Plymouth for a holiday, I badgered the others to spend Monday August 26th in Torquay, with an eye on attending the evening game. It’s what you do…

We strolled around Torquay during the afternoon, then my mum and Alice from the shop went off to spend the evening in the town centre and my dad, Harold the shop owner and I caught a bus to the football ground to stand on the railway sleepers, or ‘terrace’ at one end of the ground. Exeter dominated early on, they should have been rewarded, but after the break Argyle began to display more authority and Richard Reynolds’ runs threatened but came to nought. As the match blundered on into extra-time, Pat Dunne made a fine diving save from Exeter’s Dermot Curtis but my dad was getting itchy about the time and despite my reasonable protests and the fact that there was barely a minute of overtime remaining, he insisted that we made for the exit, over the wooden beams, to catch a bus back to the town centre in case mum and Alice were getting anxious. I was really unhappy, dallied as much as possible but as I lost sight of the pitch, there was a tremendous roar, for John Kirkham had picked up a pass from Dermot Curtis and fired past Dunne for Exeter’s winning goal. And we had missed it…

After 119 minutes of parity, I had been forced from the ground just as the only goal was scored; I raced back onto the crude terracing and witnessed the ball lying in Argyle’s net; the Pilgrim players were standing deflated, the Grecians were celebrating but I was heartbroken. My dad reckoned I didn’t speak to him for three days. Well tough, father… 

No, I never leave before the end of even the most desperately boring of games, like I would never leave before the end of a cinema film, or a theatrical production either…