All good things come to an end

Sunday August 23 should have been a very strange day for me. It was the first West Ham home match since March 1986 that I hadn’t even considered attending.

I missed most Saturday matches between my first game, on Easter Monday 1986, and August 1988 because I was still at school (I went to a public school and had lessons on a Saturday). But I always thought about going. I bought my first a season ticket in 1989-90 – the year I went to university (I even chose my university, Southampton, because of its proximity to London). During my three years away, I missed only two home matches – the first weekend I was down there (a 3-2 victory over West Brom) and an evening Zenith Data Systems Cup tie (a 5-2 victory over Plymouth). Bearing in mind that West Ham were a very strong cup side at the time (we reached a semi-final in each of my three years at university) and were playing many extra matches, my record was impressive (I also went to 60% of our away games).

In the subsequent 16 seasons, I probably missed 12 home matches. On every occasion I was out of the country, with the exception of one match when I had the flu (a 4-3 win over Sheffield Wednesday, which was on TV) and a couple of games on Boxing Day (my mum frowned upon football taking priority over a family Christmas). Things changed slightly last season, when I missed two of our final five home matches – once to watch the Grand National on TV and the other time because a friend had invited me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Ascot.

My passion for West Ham (and football in general) has waned considerably over the past few seasons, for a variety of reasons: the lack of atmosphere at the stadium; the obscene amount of money in the game; cheating, money-grabbing players who move on as soon as they get a better offer; ridiculous ticket prices; and the offensive thugs who populate the Boleyn Ground (see 9/12/08).

It was a combination of these factors, plus the luxury of being able to do what I want on a Saturday, rather than turning down the chance of a weekend away because ‘we’re playing Bolton at home’, that ultimately led to my decision not to renew my season ticket. I must admit that on my way to Heathrow airport on June 20, I wrote to the stadium manager asking for a free season ticket (see 19/06), to make up for the stress caused by my row with the foul-mouthed racist sitting behind me. But he never replied.

So on August 21, I took the opportunity afforded by my new-found freedom to join my family for the final few days of their caravan holiday in Norfolk. The extent of my indifference was summed up by the fact that although the game – one of the highlights of our season, against Spurs – was being shown on TV, rather than find a pub in which to watch it, I spent the afternoon in a Great Yarmouth amusement arcade and taking my nephew and niece swimming. I clearly wasn’t the only one who has had enough, as the game didn't attract a capacity crowd; our first match of the season and against one of our biggest rivals would usually have sold out weeks in advance.

The next day, the message boards were dominated by posts about sections of West Ham fans (and large sections, from what I gather) singing ‘you should have died with your brother’ to ex-West Ham player Jermain Defoe, whose half-brother died in April after being assaulted in the street. As I pictured the West Ham fans, their faces contorted with rage, and I thought about the enjoyment of my niece and nephew as they splashed around the swimming pool, I knew that I had made the right decision to move on.