England: Gamenight in Manchester (cont.)
Hooligans come to the games for one reason, and one reason alone. They may try to convince you of their love of the game, their tireless support for their team, their love of healthy competition and good athleticism. However, behind all this rhetoric is a love of the game simply because it gives these perpetual hooligans a chance to fight. They wear the reds like the colors of an East Compton gang, ready at a moments notice to prove their loyalty to their color. While some of their opponent’s counterparts are better known (take for example Chelsea's Headhunters), don't underestimate the power of a contraband beer bottle in the hands of one of these testosterone-driven male at the sight of an enemy's colors.
Whether fifteen or fifty, these bunches of raucous individuals relish the moment their team wins so they can run out of the stadium to hurl rocks at the loser's supporters or smash their windshields. At the top of their lungs they scream out cheers and songs, mostly too obscene to be printed but often just downright juvenile: "You are a Scouser/An ugly Scouser/You're only happy/On Giro day/Your mum's out thieving/Your dad's drug-dealing/So please don't take my hubcaps away." They live for the moment when a Liverpool fan, heated from the incessant insults screamed in Old Trafford's walls, jumps at their necks and gives the soldiers a chance to flex their Manchester muscles.
Behind the thugs, hovering as the guardians of the game, are the Red Die-hards. They wear the jerseys of old, proven players like Eric Cantona and Bobby Charlton, even if those players preceded their time. For the young bucks, the belligerent Wayne Rooney and sharp Alan Smith included, a tenure with the team is necessary before their names will grace a die-hard's back. Most have worn these shirts for a year or more without washing: God forbid a change in routine bring a change in the luck of the Pride of the North.
Many of these men (and they mostly are men) have seen every game for the past ten years from the same seat wearing the same filthy jersey. While they adore the past greats whose shadows haunt the locker rooms and passages of Old Trafford, the new players on the pitch must prove their worth; thus the die-hards feel no qualms for shouting obscenity and venomous hate-laden speech at every little mistake and stumble. The mere idea of a takeover by an outsider, namely American Malcolm Glazer on his campaign to revolutionize and capitalize the team, is met with the standard abuse in chant form: "He's gonna die/he's gonna die/Malcolm Glazer's gonna die."
The casual observer may notice the hate they display for the outsiders, but nothing beats the vengeance they feel for those who have betrayed the Manchester cause. But all this serves to only prove their undying, unwavering allegiance. The most intense catastrophe would not shake their allegiance, for they are what every good Manchester fan should be: harder than the coach and more judgmental than the media, yet more loyal than could ever be imagined.
From my neighbor, and the other forty thousand fans, came the lifeblood of the game. Venom, spewing forth for those bloody Czechs and their easily-penetrated defense. Excitement, hanging on the hair in the haze of fog that seeped into the arena. Passion, in human form as the crowd rose in one massive, quivering, red mass to watch another goal. The Manchester tribe –and, indeed, the English tribe that foamed at the mouth when pitted against some dirty Continental foes– became one that night, unified for the ultimate cause of glory, both for the player and the individual person. Then, after what seemed like four breathless hours, the clock stopped and the dance ended; and I became one of many in a crowd slowly advancing down Warwick Road toward the Metrolink station, exhilaration fueling my steps. The tram was packed to the doors with bodies chattering and heaving with the excitement of the win, as it made the way back to Piccadilly. I squeezed through the tram doors and crossed Piccadilly Plaza to Portland Street, surrounding by pods of United supporters who were laughing and singing and making crude gestures at the Sparta fans with their despondent looks and droopy burgundy scarves. I joined the club that night, the exclusive English club of crazed football supporters, and have never since been the same, inflected with the poison of football in my veins.
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