Live football has given me some of my most cherished experiences.
I remember my first-ever football match in 1999 – Crystal Palace vs Grimsby on a chilly autumn afternoon at Selhurst Park. Aged eight, I only knew some of the Palace players at the time and, honestly, I don’t even remember the score. What I remember more strikingly is being in absolute awe of my surroundings. As my dad and I climbed the concrete steps to our seats midway up the Main Stand, one of my first observations was one of pure innocence.
“Why is there no commentary?”
To my dismay, I was told I had to watch the match closely, observe what was happening, and keep track of the score. I was also informed there was a big screen to our left. But it was just out of view so I tried to focus on the game as much as my eight-year-old attention span would allow.
As the game progressed, I became less interested in the footballing quality on display. Instead, I was engrossed by the sensory overload, which I had never experienced when watching a game on TV. The rousing hums of expectation when Palace went on the attack that pulled the tens of thousands of red and blue clad home supporters to their feet, the rumbles of discontent with a loose pass, the booming chants reverberating around a rundown Selhurst Park, the faint aroma of mud and grass kicked up from an uneven pitch, and, of course, the smell of half-time burgers luring cold fans to the kiosks. Ultimately, the experience was so strong that I can still vividly imagine the scene to this day.