BLOG # 8

It’s raining. Warm but wet. The kind of wet that seeps into your skin without apparently affecting your clothing. The crowd are oblivious to the mizzle, a typically English reaction I expect. I’m sitting here. To my right Rich, Son in Law. To my left Max, Grandson. Directly in front, the grand vision of New Lawn, not a creation of a gardening impresario like Capability Brown, but rather the home of Forest Green Rovers.

Forest Green Rovers is a football team, brought to life by The Very Reverent E.J.H Peach in 1899. In its 124 year history it has been up and down a plethora of English and Welsh football leagues more times than a loser at snakes and ladders. Mid Gloucestershire League, Dursley and District League, Stroud and District League, Gloucester North Senior League, Stroud Premiership League, Hellenic League, Southern Division and now relegated from the Second Conference League.

In 2010 Forest Green Rovers was taken over by the Ecotricity founder Dale Vince. With his glowing Eco warrior credentials Vince turned the club into an Eco-friendly sustainable powerhouse. His new vision required that players eat no red meat, the caterers required to cease selling meat hamburgers and sausage rolls and the groundsmen required to use organic fertiliser on the much revered pitch. Forest Green Rovers was the first club in the world to be certified Carbon Neutral by the UN Committee on Climate Change.

Dean Vince has made his mark. His ground clearly punches well above its weight. The stands stand proud in gleaming green, the seating comfortable and the eating is Eco. Turn a corner and another information panel encourages us to get greener and enthuses on the Eco credentials of the ground’s infrastructure.

Yes, it’s raining and yes, Mr Vince has provided. Step inside the marquee to find heater, seating, face painting, and music. Four classic rock musicians fit for any period from the mid 1970s until now. The guitarist, a bobble hat drawn down over eyes and ears, hair and beard cascading in every possible direction. Studious, fingers dancing up and down the frets. The bass player, a trimmed but spiky beard, a velvet waistcoat. He is never still, bouncing to the beat, his gyrations contrast strongly with the imperious guitarist. The drummer, the rhythm man, quietly confident, the rest of the band moulded by his beats. The singer belts out an AC/DC song, antithetical to her demeanour.

She had the face of an angel, smiling with sin.

Dressed like a boy and performing a sensuous dance.

Siting. Waiting. Beyond us, more like the surface of a snooker table than grass, the pitch stretches out before us. The players are in pre-kick off training mode, trapping, passing, leaping for headers, where concussion comes to mind. A grand theatre of soccer gymnastics. The technical skills are sublime. Confidence rules.

Waiting, the crowd quiet and patient. The Forest Green Rovers team, splendid in Fluorescent Green, run out. The crowd erupts, applause and cheering. The players prance, knees high, arms swinging, kicking. A form of warm up maybe, but for me, a form of dance, choreographed for the spectators alone.

Whistle. Forest Green Rovers continue their awe inspiring technical skills, such accurate possession, gentle nudges of the ball, man to man, perfect possession football with an eye to the creative space. The lessons of the Barcelona style seem ingrained, instinctive.

And then, out of nowhere, all change. For reasons unknown the style is now chaos, anarchy. Gone is the cool precision passing, creating space and vision. The ball is now booted with abandon many meters to the soaring heads of a multitude of players, for and against. No view of a tactic, no view of their intended teammates, no view of range or scope. The intention appears to be a need for greater safety. Get that menacing ball as far up the pitch as possible and far away from me. Boot as far away as possible, the only stratagem.

Where have our technical skills gone ? During the warm-up between team members, the atmosphere was non-threatening. The trapping, the passing, executed with aplomb. Now gone. Gone is imagination, vision and confidence. The reality, the actual dynamics of the game squeezes out these vital, emblematic skills. The heat of the moment has extinguished the cool.

Forest Green Rovers are one goal up despite the mayhem, quiet for a while and then the referee’s whistle gasps. And, as if in vertical take-off, the crowd erupt, bodies obscure the view. The cheering is sonorous. The upstanding bodies relax, was it a goal? No a penalty, anything to interrupt the incessant end to end kick tennis. The apprehensive forward readies, he skips back and then. A goal. The crowd now reach greater heights in exaltation, the place explodes. 2 : 0 to Forest Green Rovers A comfortable lead?

Half Time.

Rich, Max and myself head down the steps and through the enclosed walkway, concrete, cavernous. A queue with two objectives, the toilet or the Vegan sausage rolls. The information boards lecturer on sustainable consumption but still fully sugared Coca-Cola and full fat mayonnaise are available. With our vegan sausage rolls and hot chocolate we negotiate the crowd back to our seats.

3 elderly fellas are prodding the grass with straight handled, two pronged forks. So gently and so intently. Serious, but ultimately rather sad and perhaps unnecessary. Enthusiastically they prod away, a ritual even. They are reminiscent of the potmen who used to be seen collecting glasses in the pub in return for a surreptitious pint left at the end of the bar.

Second half. Play resumes.

The activity of our prodders, so calm and considered, a devotion to the organic pitch, fades into history. The pitch is now mutilated by great earthy trenches left by the studs of an oncoming home player, bearing down on a Grimsby Town defender.They gouge the surface, tearing up great lumps of the precious pitch, creating a grand ballet of ball, boots and legs. The referee whistles, a foul. The opposing player is, inevitably, sprawled face down in the much loved grass. The perfect moment. . .

Don’t worry the grass is organic

It’s the grandstands favourite poetic wit , so well aware of the sustainability agenda.

Two seats down from us is the inevitable ‘know it all’, strident but somehow hollow fan, appears to be directing the players with his allegedly worldly and extensive knowledge of the glorious game . . .

Watch the wind it’s changing

He cries. Not bad for our resident windbag.

I look up for the wind, I notice a flag, blowing in the westerly. It’s a Palestine flag, the only flag, no other. Mr Vince clearly has a determining influence here.

Not long before the inevitable beckons. A melee in the goalmouth, players reaching for the sky, a sole head makes contact. A goal. 2:0 nudges to 2 :1. The Forest Green Rovers players screech in the lingering hope of a handball and a penalty. The referee waves them away disdainfully. The poet wit has his moment again. . .

The referee is a carnivore

At least Dale Vince will be happy that the spectators have taken on his vegan policy so happily.

Our seating overlooks Grimsby Town’s substitutes and managers bench. A pitch side manager with a sense of calmness, level headed ? Quite the opposite. He’s shrieking at his players, chiding, berating incessantly. His tirades reach a crescendo, his voice suddenly going up an octave or two, screeching in a high register.

jamie jamie jamie

The crowd senses a moment. . . .

Has your voice broken ?

Suddenly followed by . . .

Have they just dropped ?

Our poet-wit is on song.

A sudden surge by Grimsby Town, a fumble by the Forest Green Rovers ill-fated goalkeeper. 2 : 2.

Play continues. Forest Green Rovers sulking, lashing out. Grimsby Town theatrical in their diving and clamouring for free kicks. The home spectators quietened, morose as the minutes and chances click by.

Full Time.

Grimsby Town overjoyed. Forest Green Rovers dispirited. Defeat snatched from the hands of victory.

We join the departing home crowd, solemn but cheerful. Something to do with a sense of place, with a sense of ownership. Our Team. Our Eco-friendly team.
Max has a new favourite football team. Rich takes pride in his sons passion.
For me a crazy mix of enthusiasm, joy and frustration .
Still I look forward to the next match
As we drive away Oasis play on Spotify,
Rich, Max and I sing along.

These could be the best days of our lives