Black and White (or, what I learned about solidarity from football).

It’s the 6^th October, 1992, under the lights at Blundell Park. Premier League Queen’s Park Rangers are the visitors, leading 2-1 from the first leg of this League Cup tie. Watching from the Main Stand with my Dad, I see Grimsby Town Football Club go in front when flying winger Tommy Watson forces an own goal from QPR defender Andy Sinton. QPR levelled on the night but a towering header from striker Neil Woods left the match at 2-1 at the final whistle.

With the aggregate score at 3-3 across the two matches, the tie moved into a penalty shoot-out. There is only one of the penalty kicks that sticks in my mind. Here’s what I remember; Neil Woods walking from the centre-circle to take his penalty. Putting the ball down on the penalty spot. Stepping back. Jogging forwards. Striking the ball to the goalkeeper’s right. The goalkeeper reading it, diving right, getting a strong hand to the ball, turning it away. No goal.
     

Then, as Woods started the long walk back to the centre-circle, something unexpected happened – the crowd started singing his name. No jeering, no blame. He’d gotten us to the shoot-out, he’d had the nerve to step up to take a penalty. He was one of us and we took care of our own.
     

Later in life I would recognise in this moment an example of the kind of solidarity that exists in working class communities – whether on dockers’ picket lines, parents giving up their time to support children read in primary schools, or just neighbours helping each other out in hard times. Values of fairness and recognising your obligations to others around you. When football fans criticise players for cheating or feigning injury, I hear the echo of that chanting.
     

The French writer Albert Camus once remarked “All I know most surely about morality and obligations I owe to football.” Me too, Albert. Me too.