We’re playing England away. What?

Written by Kris Mole Saturday, 26 September 2009 02:12

England World Cup Blog

Saturday 5th September 2009 was a day of firsts for me. My first England game. My first visit to the new Wembley (my only visit to the old Wembley was part of a school trip). And most significantly of all, the first time I’d ever given my support to a team playing against England.
Yep, you read that correctly. I didn’t want my home country to win. I know, I find it strange to read that too.

Now, before I get labelled a traitor and have to chuck a few meagre belongings – a couple of bananas, a toothbrush, a tent and my Spurs shirt – into a duffle bag and flee before MI5 comes knocking on my door in their most exciting day out since the British Aerospace security guard got caught trying to flog secrets to the Ruskies, I feel I should explain the reasons behind my lack of patriotism on that day.

I’m 26 years old and a proper football fan. That means that I’ve watched and cried with England in 4 World Cup Finals’ tournaments, 1990, 1998, 2002 and 2006, as well as in 4 European Championships tournaments, 1992, 1996, 2000, 2004. Yea, cried. Not out-loud balling like a baby, but silent tears running down cheeks as I search for inner peace at the bottom of a pint glass, trying to process the information that says all the pre-tournament hope and expectation, the sleepless nights leading up to the kick-off, the tv specials mixing nostalgic scenes with previews and predictions, the wall-charts that I’ve filled in after every match (Come on, we all do it!)... all of that... all of that... has come to nothing. It’s over. The next two years will be spent completely uninterested in the qualifiers and the meaningless friendlies, all time and devotion shifted back on to your club – in my case, the pride of North London – until once again all hopes and dreams are dashed with a sudden-death penalty smashed over the bar.

For me, the last two of these occasions, Euro 2004 and World Cup 2006 were spent sitting next to the Ljubljanica River that runs through Ljubljana, Slovenia, drinking copious amounts of beer and enjoying the games on large, outdoor screens, enjoying the company of fellow English ex-pats, bitter Scottish ex-pats supporting whoever happens to be playing against England, and native Slovenes cheering for any team that isn’t in the red and white of Croatia. Most of them actually put their support behind England, which added to the atmosphere of match nights.
The biggest celebration came when we beat the Croats 4-2 in 2004 as every Englishman, Slovene and member of the large Serbian community in Ljubljana partied like it was 1999.
It was short-lived, though, as a week later it went down to penalties again and Portugal sent us home with watery eyes. Ah well, it’s not like we didn’t see it coming, is it? Yes, it is exactly like we didn’t see it coming! At least, it is for me. You see, when it comes to the national team and big competitions, I’m the eternal optimist. You think I would’ve learnt my lesson a long time ago, but no, when it comes to this I’m completely retarded. I just won’t learn.
Two years later and it was Portugal again in a shoot-out. This time I did my crying in a packed pub inside Stansted Airport as I’d landed 5 minutes before kick-off. The reason I was visiting England; Because I was sure we were gonna go all the way in the tournament and I wanted to experience the atmosphere of matchdays surrounded by my delirious compatriots. I should’ve just stayed where I was.
I was with my then-girlfriend that day, a Slovene, and do you think she eased my pain at all? Bollocks did she. In fact, after half an hour of suicidal thoughts, heavy drinking and more tears, she could take no more and told me to MAN THE FUCK UP!
To this day I don’t know where she learnt that phrase but my response was one that she certainly had heard before; SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Anyway, I digress.
Why was I supporting the away team at Wembley on the 5th of September 2009?
Because the away team was one that I’d travelled far and wide to watch and support throughout the years 2003 – 2006. It was a team that I held close to my heart. Slovenia.

The first time I’d watched them was on Saturday the 15th of November 2003. I’d arrived in Slovenia a few days before and had become immediately caught up in the excitement surrounding the upcoming Euro 2004 qualification play-off against their most bitter of rivals, Croatia. Think England vs Scotland, then throw in some still unresolved border disputes since the two countries declared independence from Yugoslavia back in 1991, and even occasional punch-ups between their respective politicians. To put it simply, these two neighbours don’t send each other any christmas cards.

At the time I had no idea what it was all about. I’d spent hardly any time at all in the region and had never been to Croatia. That was about to change.
I bought myself a train ticket from Ljubljana to Zagreb for the day before the match, got into Croatia’s capital, booked myself into a dirty little youth hostel, then bought a map and navigated my way across the city to the stadium that would be hosting the match the next day.
I did a complete circle around the outside of the ground until I spotted someone that looked like a tout. He was exactly what I was looking for.
I got my ticket and went back to the hostel, getting no sleep at all as strange criminal-looking guys came in and out of the room throughout the night speaking in a language that at that time I understood nothing of. I just held my bag tightly to my chest under the flea-ridden blanket.

I got up bright and early the next morning and headed out to have a look around the city. What I found surprised me; the whole city had gone football crazy. Every square was taken over by red and white checkered shirts and flags as large men and beautiful women sang boisterously into their drinks. It was intimidating.

In the central park, Nike had set up a football fun day. There were challenges like kicking the ball through a hoop, heading a ball into a convertable car, dribbling the ball at speed around cones, and keepy-uppy competitions.  The prizes were Croatia home shirts and tickets to the game. I didn’t want to win a ticket, I already had one, but I did want to have a little kickaround, so I got myself involved. I even won a Croatia shirt for keeping the ball off the ground longer than the 12-year old kid I was up against. I gave him the shirt. I didn’t want it. For the day, I was an honorary Slovene. I was supporting the underdog, the small country of just 2 million, the country of the girl that I was quickly falling in love with.

I made my way to the stadium and found my seat. What a view. It was perfect. The crowd was mental, there were flairs thrown on to the pitch, vile abuse thrown at the Slovene end, and non-stop jumping which intensified after just 5 minutes when Dado Pršo put the Croats in front.
17 minutes later, though, Slovenia equalised and I literally jumped up with joy as everyone around me hung their heads. Then I realised.... Every single eye was on me. “Is he a fucking Slovene? We might have to kill him.” Was what they were saying. I’m sure of it.
I was in trouble. I spent the rest of the match fearing for my life as large men with swastikas on their jackets – yea, the Croatian national team has a large fascist following – stared at me with murderous eyes. I didn’t make a single sound through the rest of the match, and just hoped the referee would blow the final whistle and I’d make it out alive.

The game finished 1-1 and I ran from the stadium and jumped on the first tram I came to. I just got away from there. Slovenia had picked up a point away from home and now just needed to win at home 4 days later to qualify for the Euros. They definitely would’ve taken a draw in Zagreb if you’d offered it to them before the match.

The next day I travelled back by train and immediately set about sorting out a ticket for the 2nd leg. I got lucky, but unfortunately for me, Slovenia didn’t. They went down 0-1 and Croatia went on to Euro 2004 to be thrashed by England and a young Wayne Rooney.
It didn’t matter. I was now hooked.

From then on I went to almost every Slovenia home game, no matter where in the country they were playing and I felt as disappointed when my adopted country lost as I did when my real one did. Unfortunately, it happened a lot more often. But that’s what made it more special, something to be proud of. I was supporting a team that was the constant underdog. A team that represented the people that had welcomed me into their country and given me a life. I loved being a Slovenia fan. Well, apart from the time that they lost at home to Scotland 5-1. That was just humiliating.

Since I left Slovenia in December 2006 I hadn’t managed to see the national team play. I felt like I’d lost a small part of my life. That was until I saw that they had a friendly arranged against England at Wembley. I immediately got on to one of my good Slovenian friends who I knew would be making the trip over and I told him to sort me out a ticket in the away end.

So, the day of the match came and I made my way up to London early in the afternoon. Brighton to Victoria, Victoria to Embankment, Embankment to Wembley. My tube train was full of Slovenes, all in good spirits, and for the first time in a long time I was hearing the language that I loved and missed. Of course, there were also the English louts on the train who treated our guests to a rendition of ‘there were 10 German bombers in the air, but the RAF from England shot them down.’
Hmmm, I failed to see the relevance, but that’s England fans. After the last of the bombers had been shot down and there were no more up in the air, we were given a nice and welcoming ‘No surrender to the IRA.’ Again, relevance? Whatever.

I met my mates in a pub close to the ground and we made our way into the ground. It was great. There’s just something so different about being at an away match, especially when it’s in a foreign country. The jumping, the drinking, the humour.
The funniest part coming whenever the stewards would come along and tell everyone to sit down. Slowly, the Slovenes would take their seats, only to rise again less than a minute later to the chorus of “Kdor ne skace, ni Slovenc, Hej Hej Hej!” Meaning 'Whoever's not jumping around isn't a Slovene, Hey Hey Hey!'
You can't argue with that. You have to stand up and jump. You just have to. It's a quality way of giving two fingers up to the authorities without having to say or do anything offensive. Just the same as in the Park Lane end at Spurs when we're all made to sit down, only for someone to start a chorus of 'Stand up if you hate Arsenal.' What can you do other than stand up?

The first half was awful. There were boos, there was shouting, there were whistles. After Rooney's dive was rewarded with a penalty that Fat Frank slotted home, the game was as good as over.  We didn't even return to our seats from our half-time beer until about the 55th minute. Drinking and having a laugh was now more important than the game itself.
As a Spurs fan I was happy to see Defoe grab a second for England, but was even happier, almost euphoric when Slovenia scored a consolation right in front of us and sent those around me into raptures.

England had won and I was dissapointed with the result and the way the match had played out. I felt bad for the Slovenes who had travelled all that way and spent all that money only to have it ruined by a refereeing decision.
I drank heavily into the night down in Picadilly in a pub that had been completely taken over by the travelling Slovenes, and I missed the last train home. As I made my way back to Brighton early the next morning, I was confused. How could I feel so disappointed with an England win? Had I lost my passion for my country? Was I a traitor? Would I ever be able to watch England again and still care about the outcome?

My questions were answered a few nights later when the qualifier against the Croats was played at Wembley. I was English again. Full of shouting, cheering, and swearing. It mattered again.
Had England met Slovenia in a World Cup or European Championships match, surely I wouldn't have been able to feel anything but a strong desire, a need even, for an English victory.
The fact that it was a friendly and played at Wembley in front of almost certainly the biggest crowd any of those Slovene lads had ever played in front of, I was able to look at the bigger picture and enjoy the day and the atmosphere for what it was. It was a match that England could afford to lose and one that would make the day of every Slovene in attendance if the away team had managed to sneak a win.

In 9 months time, when England take to the field in South Africa, my St. Georges flag will be wrapped around my back, my England shirt will be on, and the tears streaming down my cheeks after we go out on penalties will be real.

As the song goes; I'm English til I die, I'm English til I die, I know I am, I'm sure I am, I'm English til I die.
 

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