Cod Almighty | Article
by Ron Counte
22 August 2022
Over half a century ago, Nottingham Forest were present at the start of a magical journey
For me, Town v Nottingham Forest is more than an attractive League Cup tie against our nearest top-flight club. It is a fixture with a profound significance for it is the first I can clearly remember.
My dad took me to my first match, but it left impressions rather than memories: being hoisted to sit on a concrete stanchion in the open corner between the Barrett and the Osmond, enveloped in a mass of male humanity breathing out tobacco smoke and alcohol fumes, peering between dark overcoats for occasional glimpses of figures moving on the grass, some of them in red. I have no idea who we were playing.
Then in 1968, when I was nine years old, my cousin John took me to a pre-season friendly against Nottingham Forest.
John was my hero. He was 10 years older than me and a pretty neat footballer himself. He taught me how to kick a ball properly, and he introduced me to the joys of Subbuteo. I looked upon him as the older brother I never had. It was incredibly moving for me when, decades later we met for the first time in over 30 years at my mother’s funeral and he told me that he had always looked on me as the younger brother he never had.
It was a magical experience. The roar of the crowd, moaning or celebrating as one in response to events on the pitch. I was hooked. I went home and made a paper replica of the ground, colouring the stands with my junior paint kit
He triggered something that day in 1968. We stood in the Barrett Stand. I was pressed right up against the fence so that I could see what was going on. John Macey was in goal and the team featured several of the players that would become demi-gods under Lawrie McMenemy. It was a magical experience. The roar of the crowd, moaning or celebrating as one in response to events on the pitch. I was hooked.
I went home and made a paper replica of the ground, colouring the stands with my junior paint kit: blue for the Pontoon, brown for the Barrett’s and grey for the Main and Osmond. Soon my bedroom wall boasted a picture of Dave Worthington, his thunderous thighs stretching his miniscule shorts to the limit.
Since that day my life, like everyone else's, has been characterised by constant change. Friends, lovers, jobs, hobbies, houses have all come and gone. But one thing has remained constant: my love affair with Town. Yes there have been many low points, but I wouldn't change a thing because the high points, when they come, are sublime.
I look around me at the kids who have jumped on the bandwagon of whichever team happens to be dominating the top division. But when you follow a team who are already at the top of the tree there is really only one direction it can go. I am pretty sure that many Manchester City fans feel disappointed last season, even though they won the Premier League yet again, because they didn't win the Champions League. I pity them because they will never know the unimaginable depth of ecstasy that we Town fans feel when we achieve something remarkable.
Those moments of unbridled joy can be traced all the way back to a journey that began for me in 1968 with that game against Nottingham Forest.
I won't be there on Tuesday evening, or I'll be there in spirit only. Perhaps someone will take along a nine-year-old for a first taste of the magic of Blundell Park. I am well into my sixties and there is more road visible in the rear view mirror than being laid out before me, but maybe in 50 years someone given their baptism this week will be leaping up somewhere to cheer a Town goal.
They won't be alone. They will be joined by thousands of voices: those present and the ghosts of those departed. The torch has been passed.
Up the Mariners. For ever.