“Football isn’t a game, nor a sport, it’s a religion.” Diego Maradonna (c.1986)

REM released four singles in 1991. The first of these, “Losing My Religion”, went on to become a huge worldwide hit and is now considered a rock classic. Heck, it was already a classic the moment it got its first play on radio. The evocative video, laden with religious imagery, that accompanied it only helped cement its place in rock history.

Despite being a song about obsession, desperation and yearning, “Losing My Religion” is, quite simply, a great pop track. It remains one of my favourites from a much favoured band. That mandolin riff at the beginning is simply fabulous; it pulls you into the song from the very first note and keeps you hooked throughout. Michael Stipe’s vocals are emotional, raw and powerful. I cannot resist the song when it comes on. It is 4 minutes and 28 seconds of pure genius and joy. And “Out Of Time”, the album it hails from, hosts a plethora of wonderful tracks. Take time to grab a copy and sit down to give it a listen. It won’t be time wasted.

Ostensibly raised in the Church of England, I’ve never been drawn to any particular faith. Although I do have more than a mild curiosity about many of the world’s religions and I rather enjoy the occasions when I chat with people of other faiths and learn more about their beliefs.

Since 1980, my religion had been Bradford City AFC (BCAFC). For decades my church was Valley Parade.

It was during the summer of 2017 that, as Stipe sings so heartbreakingly, I began losing my religion. 

After 36 years as a Bradford fan my faith in my club, in football – in the men’s game entirely – started to dwindle before eventually fading altogether. Continuing to follow City became a challenge to me. From eagerly anticipating my next visit to see my, once, beloved Bantams, or planning away trips, I now had to force myself to attend home matches.

I don’t know why this happened. I’m still perplexed to this day. The change was staggering. And, for me, very frightening.

I got so bad that, one Saturday, I was in my usual seat ahead of the game. The players were finishing their pre-match warms ups when, with ten minutes to kick-off, I simply couldn’t bear to be in the stadium. I got up, walked down the steps and made my way to the turnstiles. I had to make the steward open the gates for me to exit. He couldn’t understand why I was leaving when the match hadn’t even begun and after I had only entered the ground a short while earlier.

I didn’t say goodbye to #DaughterNo1, #SonInLawNo1 or the friends I was with. I just got up out of the seat I’d had for nearly thirty years as a season ticket holder and I left. As I walked away from Valley Parade – my church – my phone lit up. Those I’d left behind were calling me. I ignored each ring of the phone.

“City ’Til I Die”, is the roar that comes from our fans. I once lustily sang along with them, firstly from the Kop then, later, from the family section of the Midland Road stand. But now, with nearly four decades as a City fan under my belt, in some way, my love had died. I’d fallen out of love with my club. Over the following years my enjoyment for, desire for, and love of football, had simply ran “out of time”.

When COVID came and live sport, and the future of many sporting clubs was threatened, I cared little if City survived the pandemic. I am not proud of feeling that way about a team and an institution that had been an integral part of my life since I was about twelve-years old. But that’s how I felt; disillusioned, uncaring and unfeeling. Like the subject of that REM song, I was desperate, unhappy and uncertain.

So, instead of loving my club, I began to resent it. My passion for BCAFC turned a full 180 degrees and I started hating any reference or connection to the club. Today, writing those two previous sentences, on the fortieth anniversary of the fire that claimed fifty-six souls, at which my (now) wife and I were present, fills me with hatred for myself. Hate for feeling so removed and oblivious about a club that once meant so much to me. Hate. And shame at myself.

But, let’s briefly go back to last weekend. Saturday 3^rd May. The final day of the English Football League (EFL) season – forget about the Premier League nonsense that is still dragging on – the EFL is where the real passion lies. It’s a rare occasion when there is nothing for a number of clubs to play for on the final day of the season; promotion, relegation and play-off places are always fiercely contested come the last game.

Do you recall Young Dan from an earlier blog piece? Well, his dad, Steve, is a long-time friend of mine. Young Dan and Steve are both fans of Leyton Orient – don’t ask how Steve and I met and became “brothers”, despite living and supporting teams at opposite ends of the country, that’s for another blog article. Steve and I have been mates for a long time. We met well before #DaughterNo1 came along and she turned 30 last year.

Anyway, Orient were set to play their final game of the season away at Huddersfield Town. Orient needed to match or better the result achieved by Reading FC. If they did that, then The O’s were in the play-offs and in with a chance of getting into the Championship. Not bad going for a team that was relegated into the Non-League scene not that many years ago. As Town play their games quite close to where I live – their stadium is closer to my home than VP is – I asked Steve to get me a ticket. I wanted the chance to meet up with him and lend my voice to The O’s as they vied for that precious play-off place.

Now, despite turning my back on City, I had recently begun keeping an eye on their results. Since my “crisis of faith”, it mattered little to me if they won or lost. In the past, a defeat would have hurt, these days it was a case of “c’est la vie”. This season, though, as with Orient, City had something to play for on the final match. All City had to do was to match – ideally better – the results of Walsall and Notts County and they would retain their position of third in the League Two table. Third place means automatic promotion.

So, going to watch Orient at Huddersfield offered an excellent opportunity to catch up with a dear friend, take in my first men’s match in nearly three years and, possibly crucially, keep my mind off the City scoreline.

It was weird being at a men’s game after so long away. Especially being among a large contingent of happy, enthusiastic and optimistic Londoners. I had forgotten how different the vibe is to the women’s game. The tribalism, albeit with no real history of animosity or vitriol between Orient and Town, could be felt. I did witness two instances of concern – two fellow O’s fans clashing over seat allocation and a young Town and Orient fan calling each other “outside” to settle their difference of opinion – but it was largely a joyous occasion. 

The joy in the away end was ramped up after two minutes when Orient scored. Steve and Young Dan, and myself, went wild. I was delighted for Steve. Their dream was on!

That dream got a little closer when they scored a second just before the half-hour mark. While the O’s surrounding me went wild, I was checking my phone. The City and Walsall matches were still goalless, the point still enough for City but not for Walsall. By this time Notts County were trailing 0-2 to Doncaster (the eventual League Two Champions), so I could realistically discount them as a threat to City.

Huddersfield pulled a goal back just before the break and the O’s enthusiasm was dampened a tad. It was also 0-0 in both the games I was checking on my phone. Could City retain their hold on third place for another 45 minutes of League Two football? Was League One within their grasp?

Into the second half of Huddersfield versus Orient. The O’s grab an early third goal. The away end erupts. I see Super Mario and Colonel Sanders bouncing around, while a fat white man dressed as Ali G hurtles past me (fancy dress is commonplace on the final day for away fans). Moments later, a roar goes up and, instantly, Orient fans know that Reading are losing. A blow-up sex doll begins bouncing over our heads. A second roar comes minutes later. Reading are now two down to Barnsley. Orient have surely done it? The O’s fans start chanting “BARNSLEY WE LOVE YOU!”

I am so happy for Steve and Young Dan. But, on checking my phone for what seems the gazziolionth time, I let out my own roar. “FUCK!” Walsall have scored, they lead 1-0 and have overtaken City into third place. I’m now not really watching the game right in front of me; that’s a done deal, Orient are in the play-offs. Huddersfield are shambolic at the back and there is no chance of them coming back from 3-1 down. Another O’s goal; they now lead 4-1. The play-offs are nailed on for Steve and Young Dan.

But my focus is on the electronic apparatus in my hand. I am refreshing like crazy. Walsall still lead, City are only drawing. Both games have gone past 90 minutes. It’s an odd feeling, being part of a crowd of fans celebrating grabbing the last play-off place as if they had just won the World Cup while, elsewhere, your long-time team is slipping down into the play-offs from an automatic promotion spot. Both teams still have a chance of promotion through the play-offs but the emotion is vastly different.

The final whistle goes at Huddersfield. Steve and Young Dan are ecstatic but I am bereft. Walsall have won 1-0. They are in third. I refresh my phone. The City match is still playing. The match info tells me that City have blazed over the bar after 90+4 minutes. On 90+6 a shot from City goes just wide. All around me is celebration. I am delighted for my friends. But City have blown it.

I check again. We’re still playing. Live text….90+6 GOAL! Bradford City 1 Fleetwood Town 0.

I roar again. This time it’s not a cuss word. “YESSSSSSSSSSS!”

Steve looks at me. “What? They scored?”

“GET IN!” I shriek. I glance at my phone, for a moment it shows the score as still 0-0. Panic and confusion sets in.

I check the table. It still shows Walsall in third. Panic hits harder. “Have we really scored?” I hit refresh. Walsall third. Refresh. Walsall. Third. Refresh again. Walsall in third. I refresh yet again. It doesn’t refresh for what seems an eternity. I stab the screen. My heart is pounding. I am so stressed. I’d forgotten what this felt like.

I look at my phone. The League Two table finally refreshes. Walsall….fourth.

City have done it. Forty years after the fire. On the final day of the season. Automatic promotion. City are going up!

I hug Steve. All around me O’s fans congratulate me. They lean forward from their seats and shake my hand. Smiles all round. Football bringing people together.

We make our way out of the ground and I take off the Orient shirt Steve brought for me to wear. We embrace, I wish them well in the play-offs and then we take our leave.

I head to B&Q where my wife will shortly pick me up. I look at the natural wood worktops (the reason for my visit to the store) to check if they are suitable for my next project at #DaughterNo1 and #SonInLawNo1’s house. I am excited – not by the worktops, this time – but by the City result. I head to the garden department and pick up some plants for my garden; a few ferns and some hostas. (Side note: I love hostas. So easy to grow and so rewarding with their lush foliage and flowers.)

Sarah arrives and I get in her car. She has the radio tuned into Radio Leeds. It is now some time after the final whistle and they are still reporting live from Valley Parade. The Scouse tones of Gary Jones fill the car. He is a City legend, despite only playing for the club for two seasons over a decade ago. He epitomises everything good and honest about the sport. He is a favourite of mine.

As we drive and Gary talks, emotion evident in his voice, I say. “I fucking love Gary Jones.” It’s a phrase that I cannot help but repeat often as Sarah drives us home.

Fast forward to the Tuesday (6^th May) after the match. The City of Bradford host a parade and celebration for Bradford City. It sets off from VP and heads to City Park in the centre of town. Fans are invited to attend. #DaughterNo1 and #SonInLawNo1 want to go. Do I want to go, they ask? I ponder it for a while before agreeing.

I take an old City shirt – from the Gary Jones era – from the wardrobe and pull it on. It feels odd to be wearing the colours again. Yet these colours were once intrinsic to me. They are literally inked into my skin.

Off we set. Me, the missus, #DaughterNo1 and #SonInLawNo1. Crucially, little Emilia, #GrandDaughterNo1, comes with us. We decide not to leave her “home alone”; after all, at just 16 months old, she’s still a few weeks shy of being left to fend for herself on an evening.

It’s a wild scene in City Park. I have never seen so many smoke flares – in what passes as the closest smoke flare colours to claret and amber – in my life. The air is thick with them. The whole place is celebrating. The Bradford City choir, “The Bantam of the Opera” perform. They are marvellous. Smiles are on every face.

It’s also wonderful to see Emilia, resplendent in her little replica kit. Shirt, shorts and socks. The little dynamo is really rocking the FKW* look as she toddles about and dances – even at her young age, she’s got better moves than her GrumpPa – among our little group. I hoist her onto my shoulders and hold her tight and safe. I relish the feel of her up there as she peers above the crowd. Heck knows what she thinks of all this malarkey. As her mum said a few days ago, “Don’t get used to this, MiMi. We’re City. This doesn’t happen often.”

I remember going to the matches with my grandfather. Then bringing Bethany, #DaughterNo1, to her first games alongside my father, her grandfather. I feel a desire to pass that tradition on to my own granddaughter. To have that connection, that bond between us that transcends our familial ties. A connection to something, if not bigger, then, certainly, more widespread than one’s own family. To share a link to a place and a community, a connection to a feeling and a sense of belonging; something I belonged to for so many years until recently.

I see several people- friends – I have not seen since my “crisis”. It’s good to see them again and to see, and feel, their passion. But despite this, and despite my love for Gary Jones and my joy at City getting promoted, I feel a fraud. I don’t deserve to be a part of this. For I had turned my back on the club for so many years. What does that make me now? That knowledge gnaws at me for the rest of the week.

That REM song came to mind again.

“Consider this the slip

That brought me to my knees, failed

What if all these fantasies come

Flailing around

Now I’ve said too much.”

Then, yesterday, I made my first journey to Valley Parade in what must be nearly three years. It felt like home but….different somehow.

Despite that, I returned home with the new 3^rd choice shirt that was only released the day before. It is a lovely pink, quite bold and daring. Just right for a plucky bantam.

Oh, and I also came home with a receipt for a season ticket.

(* FKW – full kit wanker)