little favourite bits make no real sense at all: The ‘JVC and Arsenal: A Perfect Match’ signs on the side of the East and West stands. The precipitous walk up to the North Bank from Gillespie Road, manned turnstiles, complete with piles of match-day stubs; the programme seller’s cupboard under the stairs. If pushed, I would say my favourite thing about the Emirates is the view as you walk up to it on a dark weekday evening, lit up, buzzing, grand and magnificent.
I was weaned on Highbury for twenty-years, and the Emirates has only been with us for five, so it’s perhaps no great surprise that I look back at the old place more fondly than I do the new. My first visit, those seminal early years in any fan’s life, all took place at Highbury. Will the latest generation of fans – those who have been coming to the Arsenal only since 2006, or who have been watching Arsenal somewhere across the globe only since then – have similar rose-tinted specs in 15 years? My son, whose first game came last season, a 2-1 home defeat by Aston Villa, already wants to go back, and back again, to the Emirates. So inevitably, they will. It’s a wonderful stadium and it’s the only place they have ever known.
Me? Well I’m afraid I’ll be – if I’m not already – one of those old buggers who waxes on about the good old days at every opportunity. My love for Arsenal was forged at Highbury. The players I grew up on, whose careers I saw start and end, graced it; Seaman, Big Tone, Bouldy, Keown, Dicko, Nige, Paul Davis, Rocky, Steve Williams, The Merse, Michael Thomas, Alan Smith, Wrighty, Perry Groves, Petit, Vieira, Overmars, Henry, Le Bob, Dennis Bergkamp, Kaba Diawara and dozens besides. All those memories are Highbury memories.
I love the Emirates, and I doff my acrylic Kenny Sansom flat cap to its size, facilities and above all to its ambition, but in terms of memories it’s just not there yet. How can it be? These things take time.
It’s over to you, Emirates, to make up the deficit.
***
Jim Haryott started his blog, East Lower after Arsenal won the FA Cup in 2003 and has since enjoyed one glorious, unbeaten season, one jammy FA Cup, one oh-so-close European Cup final and, last but not least, six trophyless seasons. He’s supported Arsenal since 1980, and to this day holds a grudge against Graham Rix for missing that penalty and making him cry
6 – CONTINUED EVOLUTION - Tom Clark
It’s strange to me now, but being an Arsenal fan isn’t something that always came naturally. When I was a small boy, I played football at school in both classes, and in the playground, but I wasn’t that much of a fan of the game itself. I enjoyed it, sure, but I didn’t play it with the same enthusiasm that I did rugby, or cricket, and I didn’t really watch anything on the TV except the big games – FA Cup finals and the like – nor did I go to games. I didn’t come from a footballing family. My parents didn’t even have teams that they even nominally supported – and I can only remember one of my close friends specifically being a fan of a particular club: my best friend, in fact.
Robin, as we shall call him (for that was his name), did come from a footballing family. He had posters on his wall of his favourite players; both his father and his grandfather, who lived with them, were both season ticket holders. Robin and his older brother, Matt (also his name), went to games with their dad, and Matt played football in the school team. I even remember his mother wearing ribbons in her hair for a game. It may well even have been the 1987 cup final. In which Coventry City beat – yes, that’s right – Tottenham Hotspur. My best friend Robin came from a family of die hard Spurs fans. The posters on his bedroom wall were of Hoddle, Waddle, and Ardiles.
I’m not a psychologist, and, it’s been a quite a long while since I was a small boy, but I think it speaks volumes for the nature of small boy
I was weaned on Highbury for twenty-years, and the Emirates has only been with us for five, so it’s perhaps no great surprise that I look back at the old place more fondly than I do the new. My first visit, those seminal early years in any fan’s life, all took place at Highbury. Will the latest generation of fans – those who have been coming to the Arsenal only since 2006, or who have been watching Arsenal somewhere across the globe only since then – have similar rose-tinted specs in 15 years? My son, whose first game came last season, a 2-1 home defeat by Aston Villa, already wants to go back, and back again, to the Emirates. So inevitably, they will. It’s a wonderful stadium and it’s the only place they have ever known.
Me? Well I’m afraid I’ll be – if I’m not already – one of those old buggers who waxes on about the good old days at every opportunity. My love for Arsenal was forged at Highbury. The players I grew up on, whose careers I saw start and end, graced it; Seaman, Big Tone, Bouldy, Keown, Dicko, Nige, Paul Davis, Rocky, Steve Williams, The Merse, Michael Thomas, Alan Smith, Wrighty, Perry Groves, Petit, Vieira, Overmars, Henry, Le Bob, Dennis Bergkamp, Kaba Diawara and dozens besides. All those memories are Highbury memories.
I love the Emirates, and I doff my acrylic Kenny Sansom flat cap to its size, facilities and above all to its ambition, but in terms of memories it’s just not there yet. How can it be? These things take time.
It’s over to you, Emirates, to make up the deficit.
***
Jim Haryott started his blog, East Lower after Arsenal won the FA Cup in 2003 and has since enjoyed one glorious, unbeaten season, one jammy FA Cup, one oh-so-close European Cup final and, last but not least, six trophyless seasons. He’s supported Arsenal since 1980, and to this day holds a grudge against Graham Rix for missing that penalty and making him cry
6 – CONTINUED EVOLUTION - Tom Clark
It’s strange to me now, but being an Arsenal fan isn’t something that always came naturally. When I was a small boy, I played football at school in both classes, and in the playground, but I wasn’t that much of a fan of the game itself. I enjoyed it, sure, but I didn’t play it with the same enthusiasm that I did rugby, or cricket, and I didn’t really watch anything on the TV except the big games – FA Cup finals and the like – nor did I go to games. I didn’t come from a footballing family. My parents didn’t even have teams that they even nominally supported – and I can only remember one of my close friends specifically being a fan of a particular club: my best friend, in fact.
Robin, as we shall call him (for that was his name), did come from a footballing family. He had posters on his wall of his favourite players; both his father and his grandfather, who lived with them, were both season ticket holders. Robin and his older brother, Matt (also his name), went to games with their dad, and Matt played football in the school team. I even remember his mother wearing ribbons in her hair for a game. It may well even have been the 1987 cup final. In which Coventry City beat – yes, that’s right – Tottenham Hotspur. My best friend Robin came from a family of die hard Spurs fans. The posters on his bedroom wall were of Hoddle, Waddle, and Ardiles.
I’m not a psychologist, and, it’s been a quite a long while since I was a small boy, but I think it speaks volumes for the nature of small boy
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