As I write this my old man is 78 tomorrow. He still goes to City just like he has since he was a little boy with his brothers. He went when we were good, and also quite frequently when we were ten types of shambolic. Anyway… as he’s probably reading this. Happy birthday you old goat, lets hope the boys get a good result on your birthday to cheer you up. True story in the 2008-9 Premier League season the old man went to every single game bar one, Swansea away in the league cup. Not bad work.
Anyway, I’m not here to tell you that. I’m here to tell you another story related to my Father, one that I think all of you can tell in some shape or form… how he got me to be a Hull City fan. For some of you it’s a Dad, for some older brothers or sisters, grandparents or family friends, but it all starts with someone who took us. And that’s the reason why.. for better or worse, we’ve all got the sickness and have gone ever since.
My path into City-dom wasn’t so simple. Despite pretty much every living relative I have of any significance being from Hull, I was born further in the north east, because of Dad’s work, and so a very very young version of me had never really watched Hull City. Add to the fact that the whole of my family were geographically removed from the area, I didn’t really share an early love of the team. Most of my friends supported Sunderland, or the big names of the era like Liverpool. I just loved football and my Dad supported this. With kits of every kind, boots and endless copies of “Match” “Shoot” and “Roy of the Rovers”. I went to Roker Park and he didn’t moan, or make it a big deal. But the crafty old fox had another move up his sleeve.
When I was just eight, we moved nearer. Living in Grimsby (yes, you don’t have to tell me, it’s not the best) now we were only 30 minutes away and weekends would often be spent in Hull at my Uncle and Aunties brilliant house. At the start of 1982 we were emerging from the ashes of the Christopher Needler years and a horse riding, all in wrestling showman and lunatic was about to announce us to be the first team to play on the moon.
Slowly, slowly, I was wooed, with the odd can of tiger cola, and the sights and sounds of the glorious and utterly mesmerising Boothferry Park. I think the first game I remember going to in this era was a 3-2 win vs Bury in April of 1982. Although it doesn’t all come back to me as easily as the next two to three years would, Mutrie, Marwood and Norman were all on show and it was very easy to appreciate the team quickly. We had several stars, probably we were too good to have ever been in the bottom league and to watch them was quite something. By the next season when we’d get promoted to Division 3 under Colin Appleton, my links to previous clubs were gone and my Dad and I and often my cousin Paul would watch City regularly, with this then stretching into away games too.
Football in that era was just utterly captivating. From the sights and sounds of the standing areas, with the billows of smoke travelling up the into the air in the Kempton, and the noise amplified infinitely by the low roof above us. We’d been tuned into the Radio before and after, making the walk up to the ground from a car park that was I think a school playground (historians please confirm?) A different era then with no internet or modern devices to distract us, after the same trudge back to the car, we’d listen to James Alexander Gordon with the scores and then we’d get back to my Uncle and Aunties house and my cousin and I would wait excitedly for the Sports Mail to drop through the door, with it’s pail green magnificence and endless sources of data.
I learned to map read at an incredibly young age, I helped get us to Burnley in the winter of early 1984, only to get there and find out on the radio that the Hull Coach hadn’t and the game was off. Nissan Cherry 1-City Coach 0, apparently. It’s just the best way to grow up and spend your weekends, the kits, the chants, the scarves and the Bovril, floodlit games on a Tuesday at BP, watching Billy Whitehurst terrorise a young Mark Wright for Southampton, and listening to the radio when we couldn’t go. I still remember my Dad jumping around like a lunatic when we’d turned around a 4-1 deficit away at Orient to win 5-4 and my late Grandad Hanson pogo-ing without a care in the world after we’d beaten Derby 3-2 in the Spring of 85 at BP in what would be a deciding factor in our second promotion of the era.
My old man always believed, even in the times when we were dwarfed by the relative success of the Rugby clubs and we couldn’t so much as pay our tax bills. He’d say to me as a kid, if we get the ground sorted, and put a winning team out there, they’ll all come back and we’ll go to the Premier League. That last bit sounded like the rantings of a madman back in the day, but he never ever gave up the faith and damn it he was right, he was right three times over and four Wembley appearances over and European football over. He was right and all the tv watching, big club chasing, smug faced cretins were wrong. 1-0 Geoff.
So, in essence, can I ask you to reminisce about who first took you? If they are still around, can you thank them? If not, say a good word for them, because the Mums, Dads, Aunties, Uncles, Neighbours, Brothers, Friends and mates are the reason we all got to see some sights we never dreamed of. From Deano’s perfect strike at Wembley, to Diame’s diamond finish, from the double overhead kick to beat the League Champions to Abel rushing the away end in the play offs to give us a military salute. Thank you Pops, and thank you to all of the folks that took us to the match. UTT.
Dedicated to John Uzzell and his Dad Roy, who sadly passed away in the last few days after a brave battle with cancer. Rest in peace Roy and we all love you Uzzell. CTID.