Olly Mann: The beautiful game

I have a favourite footballer. His name is Chris Bush and he’s a defender for the National League team Boreham Wood in Hertfordshire. He’s 31, and he plays in the number 5 shirt, and…well, I can’t tell you that much more about him, really, because, in general, I struggle to focus when it comes to football.

My crippling disinterest in "The Beautiful Game" has been lifelong. At primary school, my classmates spent lunchbreak playing keepie-uppie and trading Tottenham Top Trumps, while I was in the library getting kicks from books and computers. In Games lessons, like all fat kids, I was put "in defence"—which involved chatting to my mates and occasionally pretending to be bothered about where the ball was. I became expert in imitating the body language of the boys who cared: cheering when a goal was scored; channelling their indignation when there was a near-miss; approximating their joy at a free kick, although I didn’t understand the rules.

As I got older, I stopped trying to fake it. Instead, I wore my aversion to football as a badge of honour; a fundamental part of my identity. “It’s only a game!" I’d tell Dad, as he urged me to watch England flunk yet another penalty shoot-out. I’d separate the Sports section from The Times and chuck it straight into the bin, as if it contaminated the rest of the paper. When a big game was on, I’d go shopping, and post performative photos of me doing so on social media, smugly demonstrating how much more free time I had than the mindless majority around me, endlessly absorbed in their silly competition that pointlessly resets itself every 12 months. And, genuinely, I credited some intellectual advantage to the space in my brain I’d cultivated for non-sports trivia.

But, occasionally—typically, in the backseat of a cab, or when meeting a friend’s father—I’d find myself confronted with a well-intentioned opener like, “Cor, terrible season we’re having, eh?”, or simply, “Who do you support?”, and feel my heart sink, knowing my reply would inevitably disappoint. Sometimes, such fellows would field me a friendly follow-up: “Oh, right, are you a rugby man, then? Cricket?”—an equally unhelpful line of enquiry, given my total indifference to any sport aside from the Olympics (and there’s only one fortnight every four years when anyone wants to chat about the Olympics).

This attitude of mine, I could see, had closed off hours of conversation, evenings out, even entire friendships with people (well, men, mainly) that I might otherwise have enjoyed. I couldn’t change the fact that I found football boring, but was coming to regret my outsider status as much as I celebrated it.

And then I became a dad, and I didn’t want my two boys to lack this desirable social lubricant. So, I brought a football to the playground. I got them a mini foosball table. And, because I couldn’t bear to sit through Match of the Day, I bought them tickets to watch our local team, Boreham Wood. 

The atmosphere at Meadow Park stadium immediately disarmed me: I’d been expecting a compact replica of the confrontational, macho, wallet-draining experience of larger clubs, but this felt friendly, low-key, inclusive—and good value (free parking on the street, £2.50 for a bag of chips). 

We sat close to the action (mind you, all seats at Meadow Park are close to the action—it’s like fringe theatre), surrounded by families who clearly had a real connection to the players on the pitch: some because they were life-long supporters, others because they were literally related to them. And, because my kids kept asking me what was going on, I stayed relatively alert to the game (I’ll admit, I occasionally found myself drifting and studying the advertising hoardings, but perhaps for only ten per cent of the match). 

Almost without noticing, my yelps of support when "The Wood" scored a goal were actually authentic, as were my groans when "we" missed a penalty kick. Still, some things felt alien to me: the ripple of wolf-whistles when a female referee stepped up; some boys banging out the England chant on a drum (what’s the point when the other team are English too?). 

My younger son, Toby, unfortunately wriggled and kicked through most of the game (perhaps footballphobia is genetic…?), but the older one, Harvey, was enthralled, and we’ve since returned to Meadow Park five times—in sunlight, in rain, under floodlights, in the cold—each time following the action more closely, and feeling a stronger connection with the team's supporter community.

That’s how Chris Bush comes into the story. Minutes after The Wood’s win against Halifax in August (2-0, about as good as it gets), we were heading out of the stadium—Harvey bedecked in his Boreham Wood FC scarf and hat—when we strolled past Chris, cooling down by the goalposts. 

Not only did he high-five Harvey, he posed for a photo, too, grinning with delight. Not something you’d get in the Premier League, I suspect. And, finally, giving me a genuine answer to “Who do you support”?.