Goodbye, Boleyn

Tonight, when West Ham United bid farewell to Upton Park after 112 years, it'll be almost 40 years to the day since I took my first tentative steps inside the Boleyn Ground.

I was just six years old when my father, the latest in a long line of fans stretching back generations of our family, took me to my first game for a Division One (now known as the Premier League) clash between West Ham United and Derby County in February 1976. I still recall elements of that day vividly.

I remember being astounded by the sheer immensity of the vast auditorium that appeared before me as we exited the concourse and made our way to our East Stand seats - and later, the deafening noise that greeted Trevor Brooking's late goal which almost knocked me off my feet.

There was also a first taste of the eternal disappointment that was to become a mainstay of supporting West Ham United in the years to follow when Brooking's goal proved to be a mere consolation; Johnny Lyall's team lost 2-1, with Charlie George and Bruce Rioch netting for the Rams!


With my grandfather in my first West Ham kit, 1973


My next taste of the Boleyn Ground was a pre-birthday treat a few weeks later; we drew 2-2 with Aston Villa, Deehan and Hunt scoring for the visitors and Keith Robson plus Brooking rescuing a point for the Irons in the 90th minute. By then, my parents had moved the family from Dagenham via Barking along the A13 corridor to South East Essex.

Having made the journey into town by car on the old A13 that used to pass the Circus Tavern and the East India Docks, my father was keen to beat the crowds before the local roads became gridlocked. As we turned away from Green Street, West Ham trailed 2-1; moments later, we heard the roar for Brooking's equaliser.

As far as I can recall, I've not left a game before the final whistle since.

By this point, I was hooked - just like my mother and father had been before me and how my grandparents had been before them. My grandfather, a season ticket holder throughout the 1950s and '60s was in the crowd to witness the 1964, 1965 and 1966 Wembley finals that were graced by Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters (plus an extremely-gifted supporting cast).

In 1963, my mother - a teenager at the time - was one of the 25,000 who crammed into the Boleyn to see four-goal hero Martin Britt almost single-handedly win the FA Youth Cup Final for the Hammers after one of the greatest - and probably least known - comebacks of them all, against Liverpool, in a 6-5 aggregate win.

My father, as well as acting as my occasional chaperone witnessed all the great nights of the 1970s including the 1975 FA Cup Final win against Bobby Moore's Fulham and the epic 1976 Cup Winners Cup semi final, second leg against Eintracht Frankfurt at the Boleyn. (Sadly he couldn't make the Final against Anderlecht, which we lost 4-2, so my granddad flew the family flag that night.)

For the last 25 years or so, it's been my duty to continue the family tradition, so it was a proud and emotional moment when I took my son Harry to his first live match; he's as fanatical about the game as I was at his (tender) age so job done there, I think.



Our only major trophy since 1975: with the FA Cup, 1980.


My story is not unique, of course. Indeed, it's typical of the vast majority of West Ham supporters who continue to flock to E13 on a regular basis in order to uphold their own long-established family traditions. And we'd probably continue to make the same journey until the day we drop, had West Ham's Board not opted to move the club to Stratford's Olympic Stadium this summer.

Although I've never lived there, I continue to feel an special affinity with the East End. It's where my earliest memories lie, after all. Recalling the old place evokes memories of playing on the Greenway (which we used to call the sewers) and kicking white dog shit - a reasonable temporary football, as it maintained its (calcium-laden) shape for a while! - up and down Fabian Street, East Ham.

This was where my grandparents lived - a tiny two up, two down, complete with outside toilet and tin bath. since demolished and replaced by a park - and where I spent many a happy Saturday afternoon, waiting for my dad to return from the football with pie and mash for the entire family in hand.

We'd eat at my grandparent's table, too small for us all to fit round comfortably, whilst watching the latest episode of Jon Pertwee's (then later, Tom Baker's) Dr Who. It was at one such meal that I relentlessly pestered my father to take my to East Ham Town Hall the following morning to watch West Ham's victory procession, following the 1975 FA Cup win against Fulham.

The mists of time may have clouded some memories but I vividly recall sitting aloft his shoulders as Alan Taylor et al proudly paraded the trophy from the balcony in front of many thousands of West Ham fans. It was the beginning of a lifelong journey and the start of a passionate love affair.

Like many fans with a similar tale to tell, once West Ham United leave Upton Park I will have no reason to return to East Ham, or the surrounding area. Although Stratford is less than three miles away, as the crow flies, the emotional attachment I feel for East Ham and Green Street is not transferable. The sense of loss is palpable and real.

Though as Frank Sinatra once duly noted when recalling his memory of a lost love, "they can't take that away from me". Our treasured memories will remain with us forever.

Making the regular pilgrimage to E6 felt a bit like 'going home', like returning to my cultural epicentre, to retrace steps trodden by fathers, grandfathers and great-grandfathers. And it's that, more than anything else, that I'll miss most about the old place. Tonight we'll "smell the years and hear the ghosts" (thanks to Max Bretos for that one) one more time before moving lock, stock and barrel to E20 - but there'll always be a part of me that remains in East Ham.



With my son Harry in his first West Ham kit, 2015


When the team runs out to the sound of 'Bubbles' for the final time tonight I'll glance across the ground to the East Stand where I took in my very first game, against Derby County, with my Dad all those years ago. I'll almost certainly shed a tear or two for he passed away six years ago; to cancer, too young, like Bobby Moore who he and thousands of others once roared on from the terraces.

I suspect many of us will be thinking of absent friends tonight. But tomorrow there'll be a new dawn which heralds the next chapter in the life of this wonderful football club. So to Stratford we go, to form new memories and friendships - and who knows - maybe we'll even win a trophy or two along the way.

Until then it's goodbye, Boleyn Ground. You will be missed.

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