I didn’t have a team.
I didn’t support anyone.
My friends were borderline fanatical Man Utd, Liverpool, and Arsenal fans. When you are young, football is the first time you become fanatical about anything. For me, playground games at break and lunch, as well as playing in the BB team, were my only real football loves.
In my younger days, I owned that glorious silver Liverpool away shirt with the red Candy sponsor emblazoned across it. I looked at the shiny stickers in my Panini albums that we all had and nearly picked my team based on the cool badge. I was nearly a Coventry City fan because of that slapdash approach - no offence to any sky blue fans who may stumble across this!
My Dad never even enforced his love of Southampton upon me, thankfully. Although in saying that, I do still enjoy trips with him to watch his beloved Saints and get that quality time with him.
In August of 1994, Newcastle United visited Windsor Park to play as the opposition for a Billy Bingham testimonial game. I was 14, and my Dad took me along with him. We didn’t get a lot of high-profile teams visiting in the mid-90s because, well, you know, 90s Belfast was a troubled place. Dad told me this was a big occasion; little did he know the repercussions as this was the night I would finally decide on the team I would support for the rest of my days.
As a quick sidebar to highlight the glamour of this night, I also had the privilege of seeing the legendary George Best play. Granted older and worn down, but still a moment worth acknowledging. My Dad told me to watch him and watch how, while the body was reluctant, the footballing brain never left. Try as he might, George didn’t have the legs to do what the brain willed him to do. Still a treat to be able to say I’ve seen George Best play football!
While the Northern Ireland XI was made up of current and past heroes, Newcastle were largely made up of the current squad (although a hazy memory of Kevin Keegan taking to the pitch lives in the back of my mind but may be a complete fiction) Cole, Beardsley, Fox flew up and down the pitch and a small pocket of black and white clad cheered them on relentlessly, passionate as if it were a cup final and not the glorified friendly that it was. This combination of player and fandom lured me in, and that was that.
I came away from Windsor Park that night and would tell my friends I was now a Newcastle supporter.
Not a bad choice to make in the mid-90s.
They were contenders.
Keegan slumped over the Anfield advertising in despair and then lost it on TV as Fergie’s mind games took their toll.
Shearer arrived to much fanfare.
That night against Barcelona.
Two FA Cup finals towards the 90s end.
Sir Bobby Robson at the helm (my favourite Newcastle era). The team was never far from the news and sometimes almost touched glory, but sadly to no avail.
There have also been two relegations and, consequently, two promotions. There has been the Ashley era - have you ever walked into your club shop and been able to buy an Argentina shirt? I have, and it’s not what you want. The era of buying unknowns and selling on at a profit, or buying failing brands and selling them on when they’ve served their purpose. The stadium renaming debacle, which was never going to be tolerated.
And then the takeover.
Dancing in the streets, joy unconfined, a return to the big time.
The Champions League anthem was heard at St James Park once more, and a return to Wembley despite being unsuccessful.
My last visit to St James Park was in August 2019. Since the takeover, tickets have been next to impossible to come across without paying for membership or having the elusive season ticket, but that’s not financially practical for me, visiting once or maybe twice a year.
They call it the cathedral on the hill in some quarters, and it feels apt.
Fans flock to worship at 3 pm; it’s loud, rowdy, and a wonderful experience.
I’m thankful for the return of success and the return of hope because, at times, my visits felt like there was a lack of vitality around the place. Always behind the team, but there was no idea to follow, just a footballing existence. Taxi drivers and locals had a deflated tone to their voice that, while glad of your visit, felt like a little bit of the joy of Newcastle United had left them.
And yet I find myself uncomfortable.
Like so many, I’ve never seen Newcastle lift a trophy, and this is the 31st year I’ve called myself a supporter.
This Sunday offers another opportunity, another crack at the elusive glory that could elevate things much further for the team I’ve followed for so long.
But what is the price of success?
To be owned by a state monetary fund?
A state that has murdered journalists, has a terrible human rights record and continues to use sport as a method of washing its hands of its crimes because everyone is having a good time, right?
Of course, I want the team I love to be successful.
Of course, I will scream in jubilation if, at the end of Sunday’s game, there are black-and-white ribbons on that trophy and finally, after three decades, I see the team I love lift a cup.
Of course, some of you might read this and think of me as a hypocrite.
I’m not bothered by that.
I’m longing to see something wonderful on Sunday. I’m willing the streak of ‘almost’ to end.
I will continue supporting the team I love because I’ve been here a long time, and I’ll be here when this regime no longer sees us as a beneficial financial plaything.
I want to see my team lift a trophy.
I want something more.
I want it without the ownership asterisk attached.
I guess I want something pure.
In this era of modern football, I’m convinced I want the impossible.