The Loneliness of the Long Distance Bluenose

Last season was the first season since the late 1990s that I didn’t have a season ticket in any capacity at Birmingham City Football Club. This was mostly down to my knowledge that I’d be going abroad, and I didn’t back myself to go ‘cold turkey’ in America. Therefore, safe in the knowledge that we were about to enter our darkest patch since I began supporting Blues, I relinquished my grip on Blues, if not emotionally, then tangibly, and I picked and I chose matches, attending around a dozen games, in an attempt to wean myself off football before the Big Move. 

When I think about it, actually going to our home games would probably have been more of a repellent. Anyway, did my coping strategy work? As this blog details, did it b*gger…

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Just because I feel like the first bloke in the world wouldn't make me bawl. No, it's sometimes when I stand there feeling like the last man in the world that I don't feel so good. I feel like the last man in the world because I think that all those three hundred sleepers behind me are dead.
Alan Sillitoe, "The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner"

It's an odd phenomenon, being an expatriated fan of a team with little or no foreign fanbase, and very little TV coverage in the UK, let alone Canada. You’re forced to rely on social media, tiny snippets of highlights, and everyone else’s opinions. My view of the Blues this season has been a little bit like the horse designed by committee, which is to say, it resembles a camel: misshapen, bumpy, and full of piss.

Despite social media, you still feel like you’re the last one to find things out, especially on a match day. You wake up with a stinking hangover on a Saturday morning and the team has often already been announced. Sounds like nothing, but with our turnover of players this season, you try and work out who these kids are and what position they play. 

You feel like you’re the last man in the world. Everyone else knows what's happened, everyone else has been through the emotions and the coping mechanisms, and now it’s your turn. Far from a pioneer, just the last man in the world. 

Very rarely my emotions over football stretch into the next day. They used to, but once we reached the panacea of the Carling Cup final, it felt like to complain and kick your heels for the entirety of Sunday as well as Saturday would be churlish. Even so, when you’re in England, by 5pm, win or lose, you know you’ve only got around 6 or 7 hours before you can go to bed and forget the whole business. When we lose, my day has only just begun, and I’m left moaning my way into the Canadian evening, whilst everyone else is fast asleep. No, it’s then I feel like the last man in the world, and I don't feel so good.

Time zones are, in conclusion, a terrible thing. Tomorrow is our biggest match for two or three years, and I’ll be in a lecture, owing to us being four hours behind the UK, and the University of Toronto not particularly likely to stop for Millwall vs Blues. I already know that I won’t be able to concentrate one iota of my energy into discussing whatever book is supposed to have been read for tomorrow, and instead, I’ll be dedicating it to trying to stop my face from twisting into various horrendous contortions when the videprinter brings the news.

When in England, I can always pick up the phone and use my Great Uncle Mick as a sounding-board for sorrows or joys. Therapy. Any football fan will identify with that, it’s why phone-ins exist. Now? Who are you supposed to talk to? Support structures are obviously in place for International Students, but I don't think 'Lee Clark's team selections' have their own specialists. So, I talk, expletive-laden, to myself, most often. Or I just make weird whinnying noises, frustrated and fed-up in the knowledge that words about Birmingham City to your average Canadian make probably less sense than impersonating a horse. Which means I might be able to get away with said whinnying in tomorrow’s lecture. Probably.

 

Spreading the gospel, via the medium of a scarf

It’s why when somebody takes an interest, everything comes spilling out. Before class today, everyone was talking about the World Cup. My Mexican Spanish teacher made the fatal mistake of asking which was my domestic team. Roughly three and a half months of information that I’d stored up came flowing out, about Carson Yeung, fears of relegation, the cup, Clark, anything. Just a stream of consciousness, not unlike this blog. I wanted engagement.

Even more extreme is what happens when you see some form of English football merchandise. I’m not talking Arsenal or Man Utd, cos they could be of any nationality, but when you see an old fella walking round Toronto with a Grimsby Town tracksuit top, or a Sheffield United hat, you just can’t stop yourself from talking to them.

Yeah, what they said.

Which brings me to what happened when I encountered a bloke down by the harbour-front wearing a Blues shirt. I’ve already recounted this tale on this very blog, but it warrants repetition:

"I've really missed going down the Blues this year. Yes, we're terrible, but it's always been a struggle supporting us, so that wouldn't really affect my attendance. It's been the little things, like sitting down next to someone you barely know and saying 'Oryte mate, down't fancy us much today, do ya?'

So imagine my surprise, at the start of September, walking round the affluent docks of Toronto, when I spotted a flash of Royal Blue and White. It couldn't, could it? Could this be the solution to my footballing homesickness? Someone to discuss Lee Novak with?

First, I had to make absolutely sure. No-one wants to be accused of being a Birmingham City fan, falsely or otherwise, especially in front of a crowd of people, probably on holiday. So I broke from my friends, and did a fast walk, went past the Bluenose, and checked back with a quick jerk of the neck. It confirmed what I already knew. 

Make no mistake, I'm a sad bastard, and I know a shirt from 2004-05 when I see one. I could, obviously, have ignored him, and carried on with my life. But to recognise your tea's shirt, in a foreign land, and ignore it? Not in my name.

'Oy mate, you a Blues fan?'

'What? Me? Who? Where? Excuse me?'- Shit, he had a Scandinavian accent. This hasn't been the best start.
'You! Blues fan! Your shirt! Are you a Blues fan? Do you ever go? Strange, you don't expect to find many Blues fans out here, what do you reckon to Clark, think he'll turn it around? Where do you normall-'

'The shirt? Err, I... No... I've never been to Birmingham. I've never been to a game, I'm Norwegian. I just have the shirt. Sorry'. 

And with that, he hurried off".

The lonely desperation that I felt when I was slapped down by this imposter in a royal blue jersey was severe. And that's as close as I've got to another Blues fan since being in Canada.

Our fate will be sealed, one way or another, whilst I’m on holiday in New York. I think the last round of games is an early kick-off, so once more, I'll wake up feeling like ol' Smith, the creation of Sillitoe, like the last man in the world. Will we hurtle towards the third division for the first time in my conscious Blues-supporting lifetime? If we do stay up, and you listen carefully, you may be able to hear the faint echoes of a horse whinny resonating across North America…