29 years ago TODAY! Gordon ‘Ivor-the-Engine’ Davis made his glorious, triumphant, historic, epic return to Fulham FootballClub! 29. Freaking-years! To. Day! No way!
Okay, this is probably only mind-blowing to a handful of
people on this planet, but I am one of them.
This day marks the occasion of my very first “footie” game: Craven
Cottage. Fulham. Hard to believe—for me anyway—but it all seems so meaningful, especially
knowing what a non-sports person I am, and then to understand what a larger-than-life
role the game would come to play in my life. And this is where it all started!
And oooh, I remember everything about it—standing (yes, standing, no seats, in those cold, somewhat empty
stands), a Styrofoam cup of tea warming my hands (the only sustenance on sale), Cyndi Lauper piped in singing “True Colors” before the game began. The other
team was from the North of England where the miner’s strike was in full swing
in Thatcher’s Britain and things were grim to say the least. And I remember
being stunned (and scared, really scared)
when our side pulled “fivers” from their pockets and began waving their money around,
chanting “We’ve got a job, we’ve got a
job and you’ve not. You’ve not!” If British hooliganism was ever a mystery
to you… mystery solved.
There was no violence this day, but that was basically
cause there just weren’t enough of us. This was back in the day when Fulham was
bottom of the bottom division (where I believe they’re currently headed, but
that’s another blog-post). But even if they’d been up there in the heady
premiere league, going to a footie game wouldn’t’ve been top of my top 20
bucket list of things to do—again, really not a sports-gal. But being Chris’s
girlfriend (and soon-to-be wife) apparently meant my presence was required. And so was the presence of his best friend,
John “Mahai” Mullins (my soon-to-be-bestie as well) despite the fact John
supported Chelsea (his presence there that day, I see in retrospect, the very definition
of ‘best friend’).
So there we three were, Craven Cottage. And as it happens this was a ‘big one’…the
return of Ivor-the-Engine, aka Gordon Davies. ‘Ivar’ (and why he was called
Ivar I have no idea) was an older athlete; he’d started his career at Fulham,
then was snagged up to play for Man City for a few years, and now, in the
twilight of his career, he was coming back
to his roots at Fulham.
“But,” I said, trying to work out why this was cause for celebration,
“but, if Ivor has been at Man City all this time, which is like, what you said,
really good—”
“The Premiere League” Chris corrected me, barely contained
impatience.
“Right,” I said, looking around at the scraggly, down-market crowd. “The Premiere. What I’m saying is, it’s kinda like, well, coming back here, it’s like Ivor’s been demoted back down to playing for Fulham… I mean, I bet he’s feeling kind of…depressed right now, don’t you think? To be here…?”
“Right,” I said, looking around at the scraggly, down-market crowd. “The Premiere. What I’m saying is, it’s kinda like, well, coming back here, it’s like Ivor’s been demoted back down to playing for Fulham… I mean, I bet he’s feeling kind of…depressed right now, don’t you think? To be here…?”
Too late, I saw John shaking his head: No, no, save yourself, don’t go there!
But then Chris was whirling on me, appalled, no doubt
questioning our whole future, no trace of humor: “No! NO! This is a proud, proud day, and Ivor’s thrilled to be back at
Fulham. Thrilled!”
I caught John’s eye. The
rest of the day was spent desperately reining in the repressed laughter.
Look, non-sports-person aside, Footie is not part of my
culture or background—not even in a white noise way, like say, baseball, where
you end up knowing more than you think you know (three strikes you’re out!
See?). About Footie, I knew nothing. But Chris was jumping out of his skin
with nerves-- in no state to explain anything to me. So it was left to John, who, with the
patience of a martyred Saint, walked me through the basics and back again, from
offside, to throw-ins, to hand-balls and penalties. And, when Ivor-the-Engine took that
game-changing penalty kick in the 92nd minute of play, and a hush
fell over the crowd, and into that expectant silence I said in my most
un-hushed American voice: “Oh come on, pul-eeze. He can’t
miss from there!” it was John who body shielded me from the angry mob, and got
me out of harms way.
John made his transition last year—and God, we miss him so
much. Miss not being about to talk to him about things; ask him things—I loved
his perspective. Send him things—I loved his viewpoint and his humor. And I especially
miss him at times like this. I can’t send him this picture and link to the
article about Gordon ‘Ivor-the-Engine’ Davies. Nor can I ask him why they even called
him Ivor in the first place; I’m sure John would’ve known.
Then again, I can’t ask Chris either. The defeat that
day. It’s just…too soon.
