As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a Nottingham Forest fan.
But life can be complicated. Harmonious equilibriums are regularly disrupted. Temptation and geography can muddy the waters and circumstances beyond our control derail our destinies as football fans. Sometimes, life simply gets in the way of football.
Claiming to support two teams is like demanding ketchup with your chips and brown sauce too. In theory, you could alternate the dunking of chips between the two, but that way madness lies. Or does it?
The thing is, I am the very thing that all good football fans despise. I am the taboo of the modern football age. I am the monster that flirts and teases. I have two sauces. I support Nottingham Forest. But I kind of support Rotherham United too.
Stay with me. Hear me out.
Born and raised in Rotherham, I became aware of football in the early 80s. Watching my local team was a laugh with my prepubescent mates: it was kicking a discarded can of Lilt around the terraces. It was leaving the safety of the wall at the front of the terrace under the watchful eyes of your mam and dad and slinking off to the back of the Tivoli Stand to be near those older lads who sang, farted, belched and swore. It was slapping each other around the face to see who could leave the most visible palm print on the side of your mate’s cheek. It was eating too many crisps and drinking too much fizzy pop. It was fun. The actual football and the result wasn’t life or death for me though. At some point, the thought must have occurred to my parents that it’d be nice to catch a glimpse of the game at the top level. Conveniently, some guy called Brian Clough was coaxing some lovely football from a lovely bunch of lads who didn’t talk back to referees just a hop, skip and a jump down the M1.
While the Millers were slumming it at the foot of the scruffy 3rd division, Forest were on the biggest comedown since Simon Yates cut a rope somewhere on the West Face of Siula Grande. The European Cup winning team was in the process of being dismantled. It mattered not a jot though – I was smitten. There was no defining moment of epiphany. No lightning bolt to the head. No large finger looming in the sky beckoning me in my parka towards the City Ground. This state of being wasn’t up for debate or discussion – it simply was. This was crying your eyes out when Tottenham Hotspur scored a last minute winner in ITV’s first televised game in 1983. This was spending far too much time than is healthy on the extortionate Club Call line to find out pretty much next to nothing interesting or useful. Rotherham United gave me my childhood knee jerks; Forest provided my teenage kicks.
This obsession came about utterly and completely – not because the standard was light years away from that at Millmoor, or that the City Ground had actual urinals to piss into rather than a shallow concrete ditch. It was because Forest grabbed my heart and simply wouldn’t let go. Compared to Millmoor, the low-slung shed of the old Trent End was opulent. Maybe it was because I just wanted to be different. Almost certainly Brian Clough played a part. Who can be so wise and rationalise the irrational lure of the football fan towards a club? It should have been my hometown but in truth, it wasn’t working out. We were compatible with each other and our bits and pieces came together so we slotted into each other’s quite nicely, thank you very much. But I was always thinking, nay, yearning for someone else.
A turncoat? A glory hunter? Sure. On occasions, an old pal will remind me of my treachery, clamber confidently atop the moral high ground and demand yet another explanation for the sin of eschewing my local club. It hurts. You always carry a candle for your first – it never quite goes away. The candle continues to flicker away for this very modern Rotherham United Football Club – a far cry from the club I used to know. So much has changed: from enjoying a relationship akin to Earth and Tatooine, my two clubs now revolve around the very same sun. Recent years have been…erm…awkward.
Of course I want Rotherham to do well…but please lord, please, just not against Forest. Indeed, when the two meet, I metamorphosise into a highly efficient Rotherham-hating T-850 cyborg for 90 minutes. I need vindication of my existence as a football fan. To lose would not be to re-evaluate but it would be to receive a hearty slap from an old friend which would hurt all the more since deep down, I know I did them wrong.
All of which proves that supporting two teams is of course, a ridiculous concept. Sure you should support your local team. Let’s be clear here: my early childhood consisted of standing on the away terraces watching the Millers at Crewe, Rochdale and Blackpool on colder, wetter and windier wintry evenings than could ever be experienced in the Potteries area. Dues have been paid and time has been served. Spit on me and denounce me for hometown treachery all you like but know this: you don’t choose your team; your team chooses you.
To channel the spirit of Sir Steven Geoffrey Redgrave, if you do catch me in a half and half scarf – which you won’t by the way – feel free to saw me in half with a blunt instrument to see what colour I bleed. It will be Forest red, not Rotherham red and I’ve made my peace with this.
You can follow David Marples on Twitter (@DavidMarples)
Is David wrong? Should he still be a Rotherham fan? Or does the heart want what the heart wants? Let us know what you think: [email protected]
