WHY DO PEOPLE LEAVE BEFORE THE END? (Two examples of this, from soccer games seen during my life...)

 Why Do People Leave Before the End?

He was an older chap, even down to the flat-cap, he was also bespectacled and slightly hunched, but he would attend home games in the Doug Ellis Stand at Villa Park with his son. The younger guy 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 in handing out pieces of ripped up hand-tissues and toilet rolls from the men’s loo, which had been pulled apart by one of their cronies, a Design/Technology teacher ironically, who likely specialised in origami. These streamers were then thrown upwards and outwards when Aston Villa’s team appeared from the tunnel. 

Depending on the direction of the wind, a vast number of spectators would regularly become shrouded by torn shreds of hand towels and bog paper, like they had just come from a cheap church wedding, substitute-confetti covered. This irritated me. If anyone needed the toilet at the interval, there were rarely any sheets of bum paper or dry hand tissues remaining…

During games these people changed character totally and embarrassingly. In unison, they would stand up to bellow hate at Cockneys, Scousers, referees, Villa midfielder and current TV pundit Lee Hendrie, the then Villa Chairman Doug Ellis and at all visiting players who were ginger-haired, long-haired, or had the faintest connection to Birmingham City in any manner or form. 

At long-haired players they would chant: “Where’s your caravan, where’s your caravan..?” 

They would then turn towards the Holte End in vicious, snarling poses, waving their wallets 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… 

It was schizophrenic behaviour at its best, surely.

Thing is, I still hate leaving a football match before the end. A friend, now sadly passed away, used to do it at non-league games but in fairness he exited early to get back home as quickly as possible to tend to his ailing spouse and I guess that those extra few minutes afforded 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 lying joint second in the old Third Division, City were languishing in Division Four and 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 at one end of the ground. Exeter dominated early on and they should have been rewarded, but after the break Argyle began to display more authority and Richard Reynolds’ runs threatened but they constantly came to nought. 

As the match blundered on into extra-time, Plymouth goalie 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 and catch a bus back to the town centre in case mum and Alice were getting anxious. 

I was really unhappy and 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. Argyle’s players were standing deflated, the Grecians were celebrating but I was heartbroken… 

My dad reckoned I didn’t speak to him for three days. 

It was such a ridiculous thing to do after being at the game all evening and then to leave in the dying seconds… 

I never leave before the end of even the most desperately boring of games, just like I would never leave before the end of a cinema film, or a theatrical production… 

It’s not what you do…

PETE RAY...