Back when I was a kid, plastic seats were for the rich. Too small to see the pitch from the Gallowgate End, I had to be lifted onto a concrete crash barrier halfway between the goalnet and the Pac-Man scoreboard. It was a precarious way to watch the game: the surge of bodies that followed every goal meant I was always just one shove away from smashing my teeth on a cigarette-strewn step. Sometimes I'd end up hoping that nobody else would score - one of the few wishes that Newcastle ever managed to fulfill.
Matches would start at three on a Saturday afternoon or half seven on a Wednesday night, lit by prison camp floodlights that towered high above the ground. Climbing the zigzag steps before kick off, my stomach churning with excitement, we'd hurry past the open air toilets where you pissed against brick while holding your nose, the stench of urine mixed with beer breath, watery onions and hop clouds from the brewery. We bought oblong shaped programmes for 50p, jammed into the portacabin club shop, then stood outside corrugated iron stands with autograph books waiting for the players' cars to arrive. I never saw the end of a game until I was old enough to go by myself: my dad always dragged us out a few minutes early to beat the crowds back to the car. As soon as we got home we'd be straight back out with a battered caser, mimicking the Roeder Shuffle, Chris Waddle's shoulder feints and Peter Beardsley's drag-backs, scoring goals against garden gates and garage doors.
It's never easy to leave your first love behind, but sometimes it's the only thing to do. There's a fine line between sentimental loyalty and stupidity, between supporting your club through thick and thin and conniving with the destruction of what once made it special.
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