There was a bloke who used to sit behind us. He had these slightly out-of-place glasses on an otherwise unremarkable face. I remember them as being red but they might have just been a bit too round or large for the late 90s. Anyway we called him Mallett, like Timmy. You might know him. It might even be you, mate.
Anyway, Mallett didn’t say much for much of the game, but when
he did it was always the same three words: “GET OFF, SPRIIIING”.
They destroyed the light hubbub of the Lawrence-era Main Stand with the deft subtlety of a Stuart Douglas first touch. It was the type of sound that went in directly through the back of your head and then out again through your ears, pulling the edges of your brain with them towards the fresh air.
Now Spring was, for many of these games, our best player. An expansive, intelligent and on at least one occasion in Hertfordshire, pandemonium-inducing talent.
Mallett fucking hated Matty Spring and not for the reasons we later came to. He just hated him. Hating Matty Spring was Mallett’s reason for living. Nothing stirred the loins of Mallett quite like it. Saturday afternoon, Kenilworth Road; the flip of the plastic seats, the groan of the wooden floor boards. Give the glasses a quick clean, then wait. Upright and lungs full. On the edge of his seat. Soon, soon a sensible sideways or god forbid backwards pass would occur and then it. was. fucking. on: “GET OFF, SPRIIIIIIIIING”.
It was comforting to be honest. Week after week. This is just what football was as far as I could make out and most of my early memories of Kenilworth Road had a similar tone.
When we were even younger I remember a row of moany old fellas with comb overs and those thick black Eric Morecambe specs that sat near us when we went to friendlies. They would slump, blankets on laps, and destroy every nearly-man, young protégé or fragile hamstringed first teamer with boos that would echo across the deserted Kenilworth Road. At actual friendlies.
For me this, more than Pleat’s passing or prevailing in the face of punitive points deductions, will always be the real Luton.
It’s not the romance, the Cup runs or the redemption that keep you coming back really. It can’t be. If every season was a fairy tale what would be the point? If you want the rainbow, they can’t all be Joe Payne, lads.
The Proustian rush of middle-aged blokes arguing over their shoulders (without ever turning around) while seats slam upright in disgust at a corner’s inability to beat the first man can never be replaced by a laudable net spend and a decent XG. And imagine if we ever ended up in that video refereeing tourist resort above. Nah, this is what it is. This.
The Capital and Regional skirmish is all but over - and while we’re patiently waiting for Power Court, who knows we might even end up staying up a while. But whether it’s in that league or this, be in no doubt, you thirsty, increasingly chubby few: disaster has been averted here. Peace time at an appropriate level of association football has broken out across Bedfordshire.
Welcome home to the promised bland.
Spot on, as usual.
ReplyDeleteI've never quite fathomed obsessive barracking. It's as if the perpetrators are desperate to 'convert' others to their opinion - and will jump with relish on every stray pass or minor error their pet hate commits. Can often last 90 minutes and be relentless. What a way to watch football!
Spring was a very decent player and he got it, so did Oakes late on in his Luton career, I think for being perceived as lazy, despite his earlier heroics. One or two near me have recently seized on Tunnicliffe. Now, of course, it looks like the great atmosphere generated at sell-out KR matches in recent times is in danger of being turned toxic by the 'Jones out' brigade in coming weeks. "Anger is an energy" as John Lydon once sang.
Woe betide those who choose not to moan loudly about some individual all game long, for they are mere 'happy clappers' who don't deserve a seat among the 10,000!
thanks
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