The delights of being a Torre fan

We struggle up the steps every other Sunday, full of anticipation and excitement. Beating our way through Zimmer frames and walking sticks, my two little dogs and I proudly take our seats in the season ticket holders’ stand. Maybe this will be the match when our boys show us their mettle?

Before the match starts, dozens of children use the pitch as their playground, delightedly churning up great clods from the turf with their welly boots or sandals, depending on the time of year. One even brought a metal spade and proceeded to dig to Australia. The hole was ten centimetres deep before anyone stopped him. At half time the restart is always delayed by a couple of minutes while the announcer pleads with parents to remove their children from the pitch.

After fifteen minutes of sky football (which is a strain to watch if you have a poorly neck), our enthusiasm and optimism begin to wane, and we turn to other distractions to entertain us. I enjoy the guessing game: will the ball land on top of the stand again, reverberating as it bounces across the roof into the street behind us? I counted 8 lost balls last time. Or will it come hurtling into someone’s lap or, as once happened, into the side of my arm, leaving me with a bruise lasting two weeks?

The local fans show their support by banging on huge drums. This is just a wee bit too noisy for us pensioners – drowning out any conversation. (Any thought, actually – but we’re used to that). I guess that’s no bad thing when you consider the level of banter that goes on in the stand. For example, behind me, a female fan shouts ‘Ya puddin’! God love us!’ Seriously threatening stuff.

Just two rows away the valiant Spanish fans are yelling vile and gross obscenities about defecating and semen and calling the players sons of whores. No, wait, that’s the manager encouraging his team….We steadfast MAGS (mothers and grannies) do not stoop so low, although I once dared to call out ‘silly boy’, which I admit did draw horrified glances from other supporters.

Looking around, the season ticket holders’ stand is - it has to be said - populated by ex-pat retirees, while the rows exposed to the elements contain the younger fans. Needless to say it is we ‘oldies’ who are the most vociferous. Every one of us a manager or commentator. The linesmen should all have gone to Specsavers and skinny, blind referees trot around, whistle in mouth, clutching a stack of cards in one hand and the other waving limply in the air. As the team gets younger and younger and shorter and shorter, the expert ex-pats get greyer and greyer.

My dogs bark every time the crowd cheers; the lady behind me adds ‘bonehead’ to her repertoire of insults, and I have to take deep breaths to ward off a heart attack as the ball very nearly goes between the opposing side’s posts – a rare occurrence. Passing the ball is a matter of chance. Very occasionally, we get a glimpse of what the game is supposed to look like. The ball is passed from the foot of one player to the foot of another. Sadly, it doesn’t often happen that the other is on the same side as the one.

Injury time is always a mystery. It is not unknown for 3 minutes to be awarded, which extends into ten; or for 5 minutes to be given when no one can remember any stoppages at all. It all depends on which side the ref supports, apparently, and whether they are up or down at full time.

The ref frequently sends at least one manager off – presumably for foul language or making death threats such as ‘my cousin’s uncle will beat you to pieces, you son of a dog!’ – which means the offending manager has to leap over the low fence to join us in the stands – always a source of amusement. One ref even sent off the tea lady doing her rounds at the edge of the pitch – presumably for distracting the players or inventing a worse insult than ‘ya puddin’’.

Fights occasionally break out, the combatants egged on with glee by the crowd. “He owes one of the wingers 20 euros,” I once overheard, “and promised to bring the money today, but hasn’t, so the goalie’s giving him what for.” “Why the goalie? What’s it got to do with him?” “He’s the winger’s best friend. It’s a matter of honour.” “Ah, right, I see. Cheers. Get in, laddie! Give him a good belting!”

Every week there is new entertainment: squabbles, team protests or walk outs (that’s by our own team, not to mention the visiting side), but the best of all was when the ref stopped the match for ten minutes so he could
go off for a poo. ‘Indisposed’ was the official version, but word soon got round that the poor guy was suffering from a bout of diarrhoea. Since he was one of the many refs who decide against Torre at every turn we all laughed and applauded when he came back on, his load duly lightened.

Oh yes, it’s ninety minutes of merry making and misery in equal doses. I wouldn’t spend Sunday afternoon any other way.