19.03.2011
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As I write these words Charlton Athletic are 0-2 down at Dagenham & Redbridge in League One.
Ten years ago – almost to the day – we played Dagenham & Redbridge in the third round of the FA Cup. It was the season I was writing my book Many Miles: A Season In The Life of Charlton Athletic. We were in the top half of the Premiership, beating the likes of Chelsea and Arsenal. Dagenham & Redbridge were way down the divisions in the Conference; a semi-professional league. Playing us in the cup was arguably the biggest day in their history and they should have beaten us, truth be told. It took an equaliser – a deflected shot by John Salako at that – in the sixth minute of injury time to earn us a draw that we didn’t really deserve. It was almost the classic fairytale football story of David slaying Goliath but football can be cruelly parsimonious when it comes to fairytales.
Ours certainly came to an end, although it did last for the best part of a decade. Even so nobody, not even the most gloating Palace or Millwall fan, expected that fairytale to implode in quite the way it has since we lost our Premiship place in 2007.
Today over there in east London we are the diddy team. Dagenham have come up steadily through the divisions as we’ve lurched haplessly down them. By the sound of things, we should be a lot more than two goals behind and today’s defeat, for defeat is inevitable, puts us nearer relegation to the fourth division than the play-off places.
This is certainly the worst Charlton team of my thirty-plus years as a fan and I’ve seen some rotten teams in my time. It’s conceivably the worst Charlton team ever to take the field.
It’s grim being a Charlton supporter these days, really, really grim. There’s anger and fury among the supporters, most of it entirely justified and certainly understandable. The hope of club legend Chris Powell’s appointment as manager has been extinguished, certainly as far as this season goes. There are players out there today who aren’t good enough to wear the shirt and care even less.
Charlton have always been pretty good at dashing hopes, but lately they really have surpassed themselves. I don’t feel angry though. I feel empty, almost nauseous and desperately sad.
But somehow it just makes me love that club even more.
As an expat these last three years or so I’ve missed a few things about living in England, but most of all I’ve missed Charlton Athletic. That club is woven more into my emotional history than anything else. Catching the 75 to the top of Charlton Church Lane for a midweek game as a kid and seeing the glow of the floodlights in the sky before walking down the hill to the ground breathless with excitement and utterly lost in the magic of it all even though we were only playing, say, Cambridge United.
Going to the ‘last’ game at the Valley in 1985 with my uncle. The celebrations of winning the First Division fifteen years later being marred by the news that that same uncle had died that afternoon. My programme from that match being in his hand in his coffin and my Charlton scarf being on top of it as it was lowered into his grave.
The day I spent my whole week’s student allowance travelling down to London on the train to see a midweek game against Tranmere Rovers when we called Upton Park ‘home’ because it looked like we might make the play-offs only to see a hope-crushing 0-1 defeat. Doing the same for the first game back at The Valley in December 1992 but not having a ticket and watching the half of the pitch visible from the garages at Charlton Heights overlooking the ground.
And best of all, that incredible afternoon at Wembley in 1998 when after a 4-4 draw we overcame Sunderland 7-6 on penalties to win promotion to the Premiership. I’ll never forget standing on my seat as the players celebrated and being totally unable to take in the enormity of what that team had achieved, the enormity of what lay ahead. Not only that, for once, that day, just once, Charlton Athletic didn’t shatter my hopes and destroy my dreams. For once they even exceeded them.
As I write this sentence I learn that we’ve lost 1-2 at Dagenham, our seventh defeat in eight games. We’re nine points away from the relegation zone to the fourth division and I’m sad, nauseous and empty. It’s the same feeling I had in 1984 when Newsroom South-East announced that the club had gone into liquidation and the same feeling as when I turned to look at The Valley for what appeared to be the last time after the Stoke game in 1985. We bounced back from both those calamitous events and we’ll bounce back from this.
How high we’ll bounce, who knows. But I know one thing: I love Charlton Athletic to a ridiculous extent. The Covered End behind the north goal at The Valley has been the only constant place in my life. Even though I live in another country now, even though we left The Valley for seven long years, even though it’s officially the North Stand and unrecognisable from when I first started going, there was and is the Covered End. I’ve moved houses, even countries; friends and girlfriends have come and gone, yet Charlton Athletic has always been there, The Valley has always been there and the Covered End has always been there.
I love my football team, even though they’ve always let me down and even though the current team is absolute shit. I’ve too much emotional investment, historic and current, in that club for it ever to be any other way.
Now, for crying out loud, come on you reds.