1979. My first visit to England, tagging along with my dad, his wife and their young daughter as I was taking a break from University following a depressing first year experience. Christmas in London is not much different from Christmas in Ohio. Same lousy weather. Same lousy Christmas decorations.
However, two highlights. A purchase of "London Calling" by the Clash, and my first taste of British football, Tottenham versus Aston Villa (or Aston Villa versus Tottenham). Maybe someone could tell me where the match was played, I honestly don't recall, and who the players of note were that cold evening, but they could never overestimate the intensity of the experience on my teenage mind.
First, the man behind the counter at the train station asking who we were going to watch and jokingly referring to Aston Villa as Aston "Vanilla", the team everyone liked to lick. Worth a chuckle perhaps, if only because we were possibly the only ones in London never to hear that reference before. Then the crowd, seemingly everyone dressed in dark winter coats, standing, packed in like sardines. At the half a visit to the vendor selling drinks, including some serious alcohol, then back to the match and more chants and songs and general mayhem. I couldn't tell you who won, time robbing me of such unimportant details, but I do know that at some point I purchased a Tottenham shirt. Yellow, long sleeved with blue cuffs, two blue stripes running vertically down from either side of a blue collar and the "Cock", on the chest. Admiral was the supplier then, their logo on display, and they would be the ones to blame for the disgusting synthetic material.
Viewing it today brings two questions to mind that leave me perplexed.
First, is it even physically possible for me to have been thin enough at 19 years of age to wear my souvenir? Honestly it looks to be about the right size for a healthy 10 year old. Fashionably tight some might say, especially for 1979, but this thing is ridiculously tiny.
My second question is more puzzling, and contrary to suggestion not about fashion or being fashionable. Why not Spurs? Why, after such an invigorating and impressionable experience did I not attach myself to this football club? I still enjoy listening to London Calling, the chilly weather and dreary sky haven't put me off the occasional UK visit. My first taste should have lead to a lifelong appetite, so why not Spurs? Or better yet, why Arsenal?
This is where the doubters pounce. That gap in the story line which fuels their accusations, questioning the reason or reasons I chose to support Arsenal. Their claim is the choice was based on recent history which at the time included medals and glory, an undefeated season and just a bit of perceived arrogance. "Jumping on the bandwagon" they surmise, because "everyone loves a winner".
If this were a Hollywood story I would indeed be a Spurs fan. My dramatic introduction to English football an integral part of a memorable trip overseas, reconnecting with a father distanced by divorce, and even the tiny jersey stored away in a box reemerging after so many years providing the requisite link to a precious memory.
But the truth is far too simple for such emotive drama. Fast forward nearly 25 years and my journey places me in the Golden Triangle of Kuala Lumpur. Life priorities have conspired to relegate football well down on my list. The avid Asian interest in British football is just enough to allow me glimpses of the sport, but my head is elsewhere.
I wish I could recall the date of the match being played on my television that fateful evening. Up late, working at my computer, with no satellite or cable service, my choices for background noise were limited to just three local channels. With station sign-off usually occurring around midnight, my guess is that the football match may have been my only option. It wasn't that I no longer enjoyed watching football, but when faced with deadlines and poor reception, fuzzy green grass and unrecognizable players names usually conspired to keep my eyes on the Mac.
But this night was different. Perhaps taking a break, or genuinely finished with my computer efforts, I turned to the television. The team in red were lively. Their play easy and fluid. Having played the game myself, I could recognize the skill on display. Not just bursts but a continuous flow of excellent passing and teamwork. This, THIS, was football. Beautiful football.
That was the moment.
Everything else came after that. The name of the team, Arsenal. The manager, Wenger. The players names, the stadium, the history, all would invade me over the following weeks and months. My fascination turning to adoration, then to dedication.
I didn't "inherit" my Arsenal support from a father or an uncle. There is no geographical link nor school mate pressure on a playground to dictate my chosen team. The history of the club more foreign to me than the origins of the universe, my Arsenal experience, my Arsenal journey, began that evening in my one bedroom apartment half way around the world from Highbury.
When the doubters pose their question, my answer is simple and pure.
My choice is Arsenal, because they play THE BEAUTIFUL GAME.
Victoria Concordia Crescit
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