You know it absolutely baffles me how some people have
the audacity to pretend they actually like sport; especially as the only live
events they ever get themselves to are Newcastle United home games. Even worse
it appears that for the overwhelming
majority of such individuals, their additional consumption of televised sport
consists almost exclusively of the Premier League on Sky and BT’s European
coverage, either from the comfort of their sofa or perched a bar stool in the
local. Such sorts are doubtless the kind of cretinous muscleheads who fondly
imagine Formula 1, horse racing, snooker and darts may also be classified as
sports. Pah!
My sporting affections are not up for difficult to
discern; I adore NEPL cricket and Northern League football, as well as having a
deep affection for hurling, with my beloved Tynemouth, Benfield and Cork the
masts to which I nail my colours. However, I came to the conclusion years ago
that I needed to visit other sporting events to experience what they had to
offer the casual, interested but inexperienced visitor, if I wanted to describe
myself as a true sport lover. For
instance, motor sport; my late Uncle Joe was a driving instructor, who once
took me to Croft Aerodrome in Darlington to see saloon car racing when I was
about 8. Stood on a grass hillock, I recall being bored to tears in a biting
wind, waiting for the occasional vehicle to whizz past. Never again, though I do recall loving the
stock car racing at Brough Park when taken to that at around the same age,
where several old wrecks drove slowly but determinedly into each other without
regard for the inevitable damage that would occur, rather like American
football on wheels. I really can’t see myself attending speedway there, not
with the audience it attracts and as an aside, American football is my idea of
hell.
Horse racing; no thanks! As someone who has never
understood the appeal of gambling, I find the whole thing preposterous and
morally indefensible, especially the drunken brawling and yobbishness associated
with Ladies Day and the Plate Meeting at Gosforth Park, not that I’ve been. I
went to Hexham in May 1987; didn’t have a bet and spent most of the day in the
bar talking to John Bailey, who was currently playing for Newcastle. My other
experience of racing was the Slovak Derby at Petrzalka Racecourse in 2001,
where my mate Brendan put the bets on for me. I staked on the Irish horses in
each race and won SKK 200, which was about £3 or 8 pints at the time. The
interesting thing about horse nationality is that it wasn’t determined where
the beast was born, but by the country of provenance for the frozen equine jizz
exported to impregnate the mare. Best of all was after each race they played
the alleged national anthem of the winning animal; it was stirring to hear Amhrán na bhFiann blasting out towards
Austria and Hungary. Even better was when a British horse won and the DJ played
Deutschlandlied, possibly by mistake.
As far as rugby goes, yes I support the Falcons and
Ireland in union, but I’ve only been once to see it at Kingston Park. They lost
75-3 to Exeter after taking the lead, but I wouldn’t rule out going back. Same
with league; while the quality of play at Magic Weekend at SJP was impressive,
three games in a day, when surrounded by comatose drunks from Calderdale, is a
bit much. Having seen home wins over Whitehaven and Barrow in the past, I’d
happily go back to see the Thunder and felt genuinely sad they lost in the
promotion play-offs by the small matter of 60-0 to Barrow. Still, there’s always
next year. Incidentally, I once went to basketball when Ben had some free
tickets from school; it was a Friday night in the Arena with only about 100
people present and I was bored to tears, despite the fact the Eagles won at a
canter. The sheer repetition of endless baskets is overwhelming and indeed
monotonous; at least in football the sheer rarity of goals makes them worth
celebrating. This was just dull.
And so to ice hockey; a team sport with a proud
history and strong base in the north east. Despite the best efforts of meddling
Thatcherite megalomaniac Wynyard Hall to destroy the infrastructure and fan
network as part of the wrongheaded Newcastle Sporting Club fiasco, the Whitley
Warriors still exist and it seems an astonishing oversight on my part that I’ve
never been to see them. Indeed, my only previous experience of the game was
seeing Slovan Bratislava overcome Spisska Nova Ves 3-1 in the Slovak Superliga
in March 2000. My abiding memories of that day were of how jolly and animated
the crowd was, with particular delight being reserved for near misses; the puck
hit the frame of the goal and the whole place erupted. Odd.
Anyway, Warriors manager David Longstaff, over the
course of one of the very many enjoyable afternoons in the sun at Preston
Avenue in the summer just gone, offered me the opportunity of a free pass to
see Whitley at home and I was delighted to accept. The only question was; when?
With Newcastle United seemingly a permanent fixture on Sky at 4pm on Sundays,
Warriors home games at 5pm were out of the question until the international
break intervened. Lithuania v England or Whitley Warriors against Telford
Tigers? No contest.
On reflection, my presence at the ice rink could be
seen as unique for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I don’t think anyone else in
the crowd had travelled by bike to Hillheads Road and secondly I’m certain I
was the only daft sod who rocked up in shorts. Bad move; if I go again two
things I’ll make sure I’ve got about my person are long strides and a pair of
ear plugs, as the overall experience could best be categorised as cold and loud
in equal parts. The only previous times I’ve been to the ice rink have been for
freelance work when I’ve been asked to review gigs; May 1989 Kylie Minogue,
November 1990 Happy Mondays and in March 1992 The Jesus & Mary Chain with
My Bloody Valentine and Dinosaur Jr. Certainly on the last occasion, things
were very loud indeed, but I still wasn’t prepared for the sensory assault that
accompanied each break in play at the ice hockey.
Having given my name at the door, bought a programme
and negotiated a way through the fast food stalls, where I purchased a coffee, I
then entered the arena to find a seat. Immediately Guns n Roses at maximum
volume assailed my ears, as I chose an empty aisle seat, level with the goal,
though sadly at the end where Whitley were twice defending as it transpired.
The crowd was 950, which would be a brilliant turn
out at the adjacent Whitley Bay FC. While there were several examples of
unpleasant facial hair and garish outdoor wear on display among those gathered,
giving hints of either a survivalist or Canuckophilic vibe, the vast majority
of people were attired either in voluminous replica kits or dressed for walking
the dog on a chilly afternoon. There were several faces I recognised from
non-league football and a large percentage of families and young couples. All
in all, it was a respectable, enthusiastic crowd who generously applauded both
teams as they skated into the fray. Then, with one exception, they were
upstanding for the preludial national anthem. Listen, I’ve never stood for it
in my life and I’m not starting now.
The game started and, at close quarters, the grace and
fluency of the players moving across the ice was almost beautiful to watch and
in sharp contrast to the juddering body checks that stayed their progress;
immediately I was put in mind of Rollerball
without motor cycles. Knowing nothing of the tactics or rules of the game
(though the programme helpfully included a glossary of what the various signals
the 3 referees made actually stood for), I sensed the Warriors were playing
really well. They took the lead in less than 2 minutes, resulting in Tom Hark at a volume that was in danger
of shaking the ceiling tiles loose. Soon after, Telford had a player sent to
the naughty step, which was a situation that continued at regular intervals all
game. The referees made the signal and the announcer named the offence, but
frankly I need to do some swotting up to actually understand what the fouls
actually consist of. As I mused on this,
Telford were returned to their full complement, only to instantly go 2-0 down.
Everything’s looking rosy until Telford quickly equalise with a pair of strikes
from distance right on the buzzer that result in the home side exchanging their
net minder. Harsh, but perhaps he was culpable.
The players leave the ice for 20 minutes, allowing for
remedial work on the surface and the replenishing of pints and piles of food in
the crowd. I took a brief walk outside, where the early autumnal gloaming was
considerably warmer than the indoor microclimate, retaking my seat just in time
for the start of the second period. Whitley took the lead 3-2 with a genuinely
exciting exchange of passes and I found myself in accord with most of the crowd
when punching the air in delight. The Warriors look totally in control, but
seconds from the end of period 2, the Tigers tie it up at 3-3 and it’s a
nervous second intermission for us all.
Recently I’ve been suffering quite badly with reflux,
but some Gaviscon tablets seem to
have sorted the problem out. Perhaps with this in mind, I threw dietary caution
to the wind and risked a frankly awful mince pie. Within 5 minutes my oesophagus
was burning and not with stress either. Unfortunately, my digestive discomfort
is mirrored by the away team’s clinical finishing that came to the fore,
enabling them to win the game in the final third; while it’s more heartbreak
than heartburn for Warriors, the final score of 3-6 (including a final goal
into an empty net, once a desperate Warriors have gone for all-out attack) is
both deeply unfair and very respectable against a top of the table side. They’d given their all, but were dead on
their feet by the end. The crowd recognised this, by staying behind to give a
generous round of applause to both sides.
Outside it’s dark, but still warmer than indoors. I
rationalise that there’s no such thing as bad weather, just incorrect clothing.
I’ll remember that for next time. Thanks a million to David for sorting this
out for me. I am looking forward to going back.
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