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Ipswich Town ground at Portman Road

I’d only been to the football once before, and that was for England v Portugal in Euro 2004. We lost, Lisbon went crazy, and as a result we had one of the best nights out of our lives. The city erupted, there was partying on every street, and we joined the locals singing and cheering until early next morning. Well, some of us did: it was a press trip and the real football fans went to bed early with depression.

Anyhow, yesterday Rich and I headed down to the Ipswich Town ground at Portman Road to see the ‘Tractor Boys’ take on Blackpool, the ‘Seasiders’. With 21,059 bums on seats it wasn’t quite a capacity crowd, but it was more people than I’ve seen gathered together in Ipswich before, and the ratio of home to away supporters, which I would have put at about 50:1, must have been enough to make the orange-clad visitors feel like a tiny minority. We’d almost unwittingly joined them. Neither of us knew what colour Blackpool played in, and Rich had initially put on his bright orange coat, the exact same colour as the Blackpool shirts, but changed at the very last minute.

As with all of these things, the time flew by. Football in person is nothing like football on the box, and the crowds around us were making a half-time dash for the dodgy food stalls before we even knew it (no chips inside the ground, bizarrely, although loads of caravans doing a brisk trade in them outside).

It had been a goal-less first half, but things really picked up after the break (no ice cream lady or organ appearing out of the centre of the pitch, either). Ipswich Town scored twice in the next 20 minutes and the crowd went suitably bonkers. The Blackpool supporters sat quietly in their little sectioned-off terrace surrounded by police.

Five minutes before the end, when it seemed impossible that Blackpool should be able to claw their way back, the more complacent Ipswich supporters started filing out, and two minutes later missed an extraordinary goal from the visiting team. One of them broke free from the pack and ran up the edge of the pitch, kicking the ball before him. Everyone else - in blue and orange alike - hung back as he ploughed on. The home team goalie came out to meet him half way, but seeing that there was no way he could score without being deemed offside, didn’t even try to stop him. Even the player himself seemed to think it was a lost cause, and booted it into the net as a joke, as much as anything else.

The Seasiders went loopy, and the home crowd booed. The referee stopped the game for a minute and went to consult the sideline flag wavers. Nobody could really believe that the goal would be allowed, but a minute later he made some kind of gesture and the scoreboard-cum-advertising hoarding (’Bang one in with Fireworks Emporium‘, ‘There’s no substitute for Express Signs‘ etc etc) clocked up a point for the away team. Right around the ground, the supporters were caught up in the emotion, most booing, and a smaller northern contingent cheering as though their lives depended on it. Their expensive train tickets had been money well spent.

What a climax. That was the end of the game, and both teams left the field with some goals under their belts. The supporters left, too, after an exciting close to what had earlier looked like it might be a rather ordinary, hum-drum kick around.

We went to the docks for coffee and watched the sun go down between the boats masts, and agreed that it had been - all in all - an excellent afternoon.

Technorati Tags:
ipswich+town, football, blackpool, seasiders, tractor+boys

This entry was posted on Saturday, February 16th, 2008 at 6:57 pm and is filed under Journal. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.