I had to climb so high I was in need of oxygen
Looking out over the grey roofs of Burnley, I could scarcely observe the football, but I was so high I could see the Statue of Liberty
Seated stands, modern roofs, security guys like well-fed oxes: none existed back in those days. Chaos and disorder reined in the stadiums, just like it did on the streets outside.
I told you, there were no seats on the stands. You had to bring something to put under your ass; anything you could lay your hands on. Real sofa cushions from your house, make-shift cushions out of styrofoam, old magazines, newspapers, whatever you could find outside the stadium…
There were no tight security controls at the entrance either. Even if there had been, we used to know all the officers on duty and it was no big deal to go inside with items such as a corkscrew, a deck of cards, a portable beach chair or - in our case - with yoghurt, lots of fruits, feta cheese, special mountain spring water, a big bottle of raki and our slim-waisted tea glasses.
Only those people who were at the VIP box - or the “bigheads stand” as we called it - had a roof over their dreadfully big heads. It was a wild ride, especially on those sunny spring days when the real bighead up above decided to sprinkle us with a sudden rush of rain. Anyway, coming to that notorious match day, the day I’m here to tell you about. It is excruciatingly cold that day, but not cold enough for us to forgo our bi-monthly booze session on the stands. We are there as usual an hour before the game, provisions pre-arranged thanks to Kadir the German’s industrious approach.
We take our place on the street stand, which was close to the main exit and remote enough from the boisterous youngsters due to arrive in half an hour. As we start to sip our rakis, one of the ball boys yells, “Boss, why don’t you pour one for me also?” German answers him: “I don’t even give that to your dad in the pub, you fucking cheesemonger.” The ball boy must have been Ziya’s son, who sold cheese in the marketplace. He doesn’t even dare to throw a second glance at us.
Upton Park, 1972
Our opponents that day were a mid-table team who had nothing to play for. We had beaten them away and everybody thought that the game was in the bag already. Imagine: the number five, Fiko, is the business partner of one of the guys in our crew. He is more of a businessman than a football player, but God had given him a bear’s strength and the bulk of an elephant. He’s the libero, but don’t bother imagining a Turkish Beckenbauer - better reckon a hefty figure, who intimidates the opponent and doesn’t shy away from the occasional leg-breaking challenge. He joins us briefly before the game; he devours his pre-match dose of raki and updates us with the latest team news. He says the morale is high but they were not pleased with the weather. After swallowing his last sip, he says, “Don’t worry mates, we are gonna eat them alive,” and leaves us.
The game commences. Alas, you should have seen those plucky guys with white jerseys, whom we had taken for granted. They blow like a hurricane. After a few half-hearted attempts, they realize that our guys are relaxed like they are having a summer picnic and go for it with full power and dedication. Thank God we have a decent goalkeeper, who keeps saving their ever-more-dashing attempts, but his talent also runs out towards the end of the first half. They have this annoying number seven, a blond, agile winger; he comes down from the right wing, leaves our defenders empty-handed in his trail and hangs the ball up in the ceiling like a ripe pear. Sabri the Grocer’s apples become lumps in our throats. As we try to surpass the shock of it, their ladder-like number nine rises in the air and lobs a long ball in the far right corner. 0-2 says the scoreboard at the end of the first half.
- excerpts from We Drink, They Rig by Deniz Arslan
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Half asleep but in a dream of WAC
Seated stands, modern roofs, security guys like well-fed oxes: none existed back in those days. Chaos and disorder reined in the stadiums, just like it did on the streets outside.
I told you, there were no seats on the stands. You had to bring something to put under your ass; anything you could lay your hands on. Real sofa cushions from your house, make-shift cushions out of styrofoam, old magazines, newspapers, whatever you could find outside the stadium…
There were no tight security controls at the entrance either. Even if there had been, we used to know all the officers on duty and it was no big deal to go inside with items such as a corkscrew, a deck of cards, a portable beach chair or - in our case - with yoghurt, lots of fruits, feta cheese, special mountain spring water, a big bottle of raki and our slim-waisted tea glasses.
Only those people who were at the VIP box - or the “bigheads stand” as we called it - had a roof over their dreadfully big heads. It was a wild ride, especially on those sunny spring days when the real bighead up above decided to sprinkle us with a sudden rush of rain. Anyway, coming to that notorious match day, the day I’m here to tell you about. It is excruciatingly cold that day, but not cold enough for us to forgo our bi-monthly booze session on the stands. We are there as usual an hour before the game, provisions pre-arranged thanks to Kadir the German’s industrious approach.
We take our place on the street stand, which was close to the main exit and remote enough from the boisterous youngsters due to arrive in half an hour. As we start to sip our rakis, one of the ball boys yells, “Boss, why don’t you pour one for me also?” German answers him: “I don’t even give that to your dad in the pub, you fucking cheesemonger.” The ball boy must have been Ziya’s son, who sold cheese in the marketplace. He doesn’t even dare to throw a second glance at us.
Upton Park, 1972
Our opponents that day were a mid-table team who had nothing to play for. We had beaten them away and everybody thought that the game was in the bag already. Imagine: the number five, Fiko, is the business partner of one of the guys in our crew. He is more of a businessman than a football player, but God had given him a bear’s strength and the bulk of an elephant. He’s the libero, but don’t bother imagining a Turkish Beckenbauer - better reckon a hefty figure, who intimidates the opponent and doesn’t shy away from the occasional leg-breaking challenge. He joins us briefly before the game; he devours his pre-match dose of raki and updates us with the latest team news. He says the morale is high but they were not pleased with the weather. After swallowing his last sip, he says, “Don’t worry mates, we are gonna eat them alive,” and leaves us.
The game commences. Alas, you should have seen those plucky guys with white jerseys, whom we had taken for granted. They blow like a hurricane. After a few half-hearted attempts, they realize that our guys are relaxed like they are having a summer picnic and go for it with full power and dedication. Thank God we have a decent goalkeeper, who keeps saving their ever-more-dashing attempts, but his talent also runs out towards the end of the first half. They have this annoying number seven, a blond, agile winger; he comes down from the right wing, leaves our defenders empty-handed in his trail and hangs the ball up in the ceiling like a ripe pear. Sabri the Grocer’s apples become lumps in our throats. As we try to surpass the shock of it, their ladder-like number nine rises in the air and lobs a long ball in the far right corner. 0-2 says the scoreboard at the end of the first half.
- excerpts from We Drink, They Rig by Deniz Arslan
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Half asleep but in a dream of WAC