The Day I Signed Up For Life

A very old football gag goes: ’In the beginning was the Word and the Word was Forest.’ (Substitute teams are available!) Without wishing to steal the thunder of the Bible, there is something profound about becoming a football supporter. Whenever you declare your kinship with a team, it’s likely to stay with you for life. Some of us are born into that kinship. We don’t sign-up for life but inherit the club from birth! And so it was with me and Forest. We all have our stories of ‘how it all began’, a bit like creation myths. Here’s mine.

I’m sat in the living room waiting for our television to warm-up! A very small screen with some very large valves and electrical stuff behind it and it needs time to kick into action. Mum’s in the kitchen baking pastries and tarts, a Saturday ritual for her and a treat for me and my dad but today is different – a special afternoon – and her mind is on other things. ‘I hope they got there alright and remembered their sandwiches and didn’t leave them on the train.’ She stands by the television. ‘Here we go.’

The screen flickers into action but this is no guarantee any image will stay. Since it appeared in our house, the television’s been a source of mild cursing and a lot of frustration. ‘Fickle’, Dad calls it, as if it spites him on purpose. Nice and clear now and black and white and then waves and fuzz and skipping lines. ‘Well at least we know it’s Wembley, Steve. Did you see it?’ Mum smacks the side of the television. Nothing to see at all now. Tactic two – if a sharp hit doesn’t work – is to click the dial back and forth. Suddenly, up comes the stadium that I recognise from photos but now there’s a smell of burning from the kitchen. ‘Find your dad and granddad,’ she says as she heads off to rescue her trays from the oven.

The camera takes in the crowd, a sea of smiling faces and lots of flat caps and fags and missing teeth. There are white summer hats waving for Luton Town – the Hatters – and then Forest supporters come into view because I hear the word ‘Nottingham’. My eyes gorge on the festive faces but I’m overwhelmed. I’ll never find Dad and he told me to look out for them. I stare and strain to see, out of a sense of duty, but it’s hopeless. When Mum comes back into the room I’m in tears so she sits on the settee, puts her arm around me and we watch the game together.

There will be television-set tantrums throughout the afternoon as its picture lurches left and right and sometimes vanishes completely. At times we can hear the commentary but see nothing. Comfort comes in sharing hot jam tarts and watching Mum enter the spirit of the occasion. When we do get to see some of the match and I work out which side I’m supporting, she cheers on the Reds out loud. That becomes even louder when she lifts me up and plants a kiss on my cheek! Roy Dwight has scored for Forest and they’ll soon get another when centre-forward Tom Wilson slots one in the back of the net.

I’m not sure how much I register those goals on screen but I take my cue from Mum and cheer and wave my arms and call ‘come on Forest!’ The living room feels like it’s really come alive. Then a mood change. When Roy Dwight is carried off with a broken leg after half an hour, I pick up how tense Mum is. She wonders, out loud, what Dad and Granddad will be feeling and groans when Luton pull a goal back.

The fairy-tale ending is secure in the collective memory of Forest history now though. They managed to hang on to their lead with ten men (a feat never to be repeated by another team) for an hour and they brought the FA Cup back to Nottingham. It was 1959 and their only other previous success in the competition had been a victory over Derby County at Crystal Palace in 1898! Dad brought back his match-day programme from ‘Empire Stadium, Wembley’ (price one shilling). It helped me understand that epic day more clearly and helped me learn to read! Time after time, from that Cup Final day as a five year-old, I’d ask Dad to let me look at it with him. It sits by my side (still in pretty good condition) as I write this.

What next? Christmas came with an only-slightly-too-big short-sleeved Forest shirt and a 16-frame film-strip of the Final with a little plastic view-finder so I could relive what I’d missed on the television screen. That sealed my support for Forest. A match-day trip to the City Ground would soon follow to complete my initiation. An extended family and a place – which if not exactly sacred, was to become a special part of my life as a fan – were bequeathed to me for better or worse. Great times, not so great times: both will come in bucketful’s!