Spurs was and is, of course, a “Jewish club”. The reasons for this have long been discussed – from unfriendly fanbases at other clubs to the fact that a tram ran direct from Stepney to the Spurs stadium at White Hart Lane. For both me and my son – and indeed, my two daughters – it was, at least subconsciously, a part of our heritage.
[Missing Credit]Young Harry with Chirpy the cockerel
So to August 6, 2003. My son, Harry, was six and had already been brainwashed with a succession of Spurs kits for his birthdays, constant reminders of “the good old days” and forewarned of the disappointments to follow. I’d even managed to blag his way into the Junior Spurs Christmas Party one year where he met club captain Ledley King and had his picture taken alongside a man dressed as Chirpy the Cockerel, the official Spurs’ mascot.
His mother, a Liverpool fan from a Catholic Irish-Scouse family, was worried that I was leading our son into a lifetime of footballing disappointment. I made the point that to experience the lows as well as the highs would be character forming and remind him of what it feels like to be at least half Jewish. Besides, after 2,000 years of suffering, what’s a few more seasons.
He could have supported Liverpool of course but how often could he go. Besides, my enthusiasm was greater than my wife’s, just as it had been with my parents. If I’d have chosen the club of my mother’s family I’d be a Stoke City fan and if you think Spurs have let me down a lot over the years, imagine what it would have been like as a Potter.
Though, by the time Harry came along, supporting Spurs could hardly be considered glory hunting. Arsenal, Chelsea and several other clubs were, by now, more successful. But support them we did and the chance to see a game together came with a pre-season friendly against former European Champions Porto, when the lad was six years old.
It wasn’t just the game or the team that would cement his attachment to North London’s finest. It was the journey there, walking along the High Road surrounded by others of a similar persuasion, a visit to the club shop, the walk up the steps to our seats, the hum of the crowd, the banter, chanting, seeing the players warm up and all the other traditions.
He was genuinely excited. When we got to our seats he wandered down to the front of the stand to get a view. It was a baking hot day and it was not the most enthralling of games but with a surprisingly large crowd of 36,000 or so, he got the full experience, including two late goals from Jermain Defoe.
I felt his excitement, it took me back to my first games and the thrill of it all and even though I’ve struggled to get him to like The Smiths, Carry On films or cricket, I’d got him hooked on this.
The win in a friendly may not have meant much in the grand scheme of things but it was the first thing he told his mum when he got home. She did ask if there was much swearing to which he replied, “only from dad”. I hope I’ve managed to teach him to swear creatively as a result.
For those who are not football fans, the whole father-child bonding thing may take various forms and through different ages – going fishing, the first time they legally go to a pub, teaching them to ride a bike, a shared hobby, the first gig together – but there is something inherently special about introducing them to such an intrinsic part of your own life that they embrace with the same enthusiasm.
Over the years, we have only occasionally gone to games together but he has gone on his own more often, using my season ticket when I couldn’t. And in true Spurs style, he has stuck with them through thin and thin. We have moaned together, rejoiced together, found common ground about some aspects of the game, disagreed on others, but discovered a thread that keeps us together throughout our lives.
I was lucky: my first few years going to Spurs went from seeing us win trophies to getting relegated to coming back up and winning more trophies. For his first 26 years, Spurs had only won two league cups and he was too young for the first one of those.
It had been the most barren period in the club’s history, but we stuck to the unofficial motto of the long-suffering Spurs fan: “It’s the hope that kills.”
But then came that night in Bilbao a few weeks ago when, finally, we won something and not just something but a European trophy. Joy that had been bottled up for so many years finally erupted like the cork bursting from a Champagne bottle.
While I was in Spain at the match, he was in the Tottenham Hotspur stadium with 40,000 or so others to watch the game live on big screens but the joy was shared across a continent. Texts and photos whizzed over to each other, happy emojis brought out of their hiding places accompanied by a Spurs match for the first time in a long time.
Yes we won, but so too did our belief in that unbroken bond. Sure, there’s more important things in life. It’s just we couldn’t think of any right then.
