Those were the days

It’s a funny thing you know, but I have something in common with Geoffrey Boycott. We both fell in love at a very early age and have remained faithful ever since. Unlike Boyks though, I didn’t fall in love with myself. No, my first true love was Wolverhampton Wanderers and I love the old girl more with every passing year. (I realise now that, what I thought was love for Susan Legg, when I was seven years old, was just pure unadulterated lust!)

Something that made my feelings even stronger was the fact that my club was always so tantalisingly far away. Any visit would always involve a three hundred mile round trip. That was my dad’s fault, as he moved from his home town of Wolverhampton to Southampton a few years before I was born. What he did do, though, was pass on his love for the club to his youngest son (but not to my three older brothers, by the way, who never showed any interest) and although there hasn’t been much success enjoyed over the years, I wouldn’t swop my old girl for any of these young floosies around today. No, you can keep your Chelseas and your Man Citys with more money than sense and your Man Uniteds with endless success. Real love is for better, for worse. You don’t really know love until you’ve shared failure and disappointment – and we’ve certainly shared a bit of that over the years.

Let’s face it, I didn’t choose a great time to start following the Wolves back in 1961. I had just missed the glory, glory years of the fifties and I was not to know, then, that the future was to hold so many disappointments.

My first exciting memory of Wolves, though, was reading on the notice board at junior school that our next match was away to Wolverhampton! I couldn’t sleep for a week. Imagine my disappointment then, when the school bus stopped a few miles down the road at some village called Woolhampton (stupid name). Reading was never my strong point.

I was football mad and I was Wolves mad, but the only chance I could get to see them was on the odd family visits, which were few and far between particularly as we didn’t have a car then. It meant that when I did go it was awesome. I remember walking in the first time and staring up in wonderment at the massive human mountain behind the goal to the right. I loved the curved roof of the stand opposite with the clock. I thought it was wonderful and, I realise now, that was the day I fell in love. I don’t remember much about the game, except wonderful Waggy Wagstaffe tormenting them down the left wing and, I think, Terry Wharton on the right, thundering shots in on goal. I was in love and I had my first Wolves heroes.

My faithfulness was tested on a couple of occasions and, I’m ashamed to say, I had a couple of flings with local hussies. When I was without transport as a kid, I used to catch the football bus to watch my nearest team, Reading. Then, when I moved to Bournemouth, I watched them under Harry Redknapp, when they knocked Man U out of the cup and got promoted to what is now the championship, for their first and only time.

At the time, Wolves were plummeting under the Bhatti boys and finally the day came when they played Bournemouth in the old 3rd division. Who would I support? They were both my teams. I wanted them both to win. That was until I neared the ground and heard the deafening chants of the Wolves fans and those two wonderful words‘ The Wolves!’, ‘The Wolves!’ Despite the state of the club and the team at the time, the away supporters took over large sections of the ground with banners demanding ‘Bhattis out!’ My chest filled with pride and, much to the disgust of my mates, I went next to the away support and cheered them to the final whistle. Well, of course I had to, didn’t I, they were my first true love. That was the first time I realised how much emotion was invested in this football team, from a place where I had never lived. There was no logic to it. Logically, I should have supported my local team, who were going places and I could watch every week. But, you see, I just liked them, I didn’t love them.

I’m not ashamed to admit that, occasionally, Wolves can make me cry – and it’s not when they lose and I’m sad. It’s when they make me proud. I remember when Football Focus did a piece on the opening of the new Molineux. The Terminator was playing and the camera closed in on a girl as she chanted ‘The Wolves!’ My wife walked in as tears rolled down my cheeks and, when she asked why I was crying, I had to admit I didn’t really know.

I guess that’s just love for you. There’s no rhyme nor reason really. Although this love affair’s had its bad times, it’s also left some wonderful memories. Of my absolute favourite players: John Richards, Frank Munro, Mike Bailey, Kenny Hibbitt and, of course, Bully. Of being there when we got to the UEFA cup final and the two league cup wins and, of course, our steady revival under the present regime. In fact I’d say my old girl’s looking a lot better than she has for a long time. I reckon I got a goodun there don’t you.

When did you fall in love?