Falling In Love Again

‘Coke and steak pie for the gentleman, please… Coke, or Diet, son?’

She’d misheard me, rather than any concern about my waistline, although she could easily have been my ‘auntie’, not a real one, the old family friend kind, and have been asking about if I’d been eating properly. ‘Diet, please, luv’ I confirm.

I’m at Dunterlie Park in Barrhead, it’s the final days of a glorious season for Arthurlie, as they close in on an undefeated West of Scotland League Conference campaign. I arrive at the ground with plenty of time for a walk around, and take in the happy, relaxed and celebratory mood on this end-of-season Spring evening. Ripples of laughter burst up intermittently as first players and officials, and then families and fans roll in for the fixture against Belshill Athletic. In the early evening sunshine, the white and sky blue livery decorating the park is aglow. Everything has come up roses for The ‘Lie this season, and for tonight at least, I’m glad I’ve turned up and can delight in the reflected warmth and joy of a community that’s come together to enjoy its football club.

My team, the one that you can’t let go of, is Everton, passed on through the family, you wouldn’t choose them would you? One of the grand old dames of English football, and from Dan Doyle as the first league-winning captain, to Alex Young’s ‘Golden Vision’, to Sharp and Gray leading the charge to their only European trophy to date, there’s a Saltire-Blue thread running through Everton if you were to slice it open. 

Latterly, while under the guidance of Walter Smith and then David Moyes, Everton hit a glass ceiling and hard floor for the sin of having a mere multi-millionaire in charge in a billionaires’ cattle market. During this period, the Everton in the Community club charity became a source of great pride for ‘The People’s Club’, but once they joined the rat race becoming the arms-length asset of Alisher Usmanov, via Farhad Moshiri, even EitC became a hollow pride. All the while reams of ‘content’ on the ‘EPL’ spill out to be lapped up by an increasingly online fandom looking for a fight. 

As my ties to Everton loosened, so too did my connection to football in general. VAR confirmed what we already knew about a product that was increasingly staged for the benefit of people who pay for the privilege of having the game beamed into their home. I was in need of some football therapy. 

I live in Manchester and was in Glasgow for work, on one of those days that pop up every April or May when bright sunshine dances on the Clyde, coffees and pieces are taken outside, jumpers and cardigans no longer needed are wrapped around waists, the city slows down and, breathing deeply, hopes that this year maybe the summer will stick around. I’d had a look to see if there was any football going on within a long punt. Twenty years earlier I’d been a student in the West End, and taken in matches from Parkhead to Broadwood, most regularly at Firhill, without ever dipping my toes in Junior waters, luckily I’m just in time to catch the tail end of their season.

The train from Glasgow Central sets off towards Barrhead, with COVID restrictions still in place, in theory at least, even at rush hour the train is conspicuously empty, windows are open and distances are being observed by the handful of passengers. The train has tapped into the early summer reverie, drifting into East Renfrewshire, wondering if anyone would notice if it snuck off to Saltcoats for a bit of evening sun. And then we’re here. I’m not sure what it is about a football pitch clearly viewed from a train that makes it so special, extra value if there happens to be a match going on at the time that you can watch from your rolling executive box, regardless of the level being played. The Glasgow/Kilmarnock line approaches Barrhead station, tempting any football lover to step out with Dunterlie Park hoving into view.

Follow the road from the station as it bends round past a short row of houses and the next door down is the entrance to the ground, marked by a heritage trail blue plaque, noting that the club is nearing its 150th anniversary, the ground itself having just passed its 100th. I’m here before anyone has taken sentry at the gate, so continue around. Tracking the perimeter wall, I’m worried about the children’s nursery across the road, wondering if the parked cars and windows are safe from a wildly sliced clearance, but as the game develops I can see there’s nothing to worry about.

‘Evening pal, that’s not a local accent’, I  hand over a few quid to the man on the turnstile and stop for a quick chat. In other places, that gentle enquiry from the door is ominous, as I explain to him why I’m here, where I’d come from, and ascertaining that ‘this is a proper team in blue and white, better than Manchester City’, I go in. While some people would tell you Dunterlie Park has seen better days, its blemishes and scars, and crumbling taped-off masonry tells of 100 years of Arthurlie’s and Barrhead Boys’ ups and downs. For those not familiar, once inside you pass the facilities and food stall into a small raised apron, which splits down either side of the park, a narrow side running down the road, while the other side’s terracing spreads out from a covered area behind the dugouts. It’s on these terraces that a bit of keepy-ups and an improvised game of kerby breaks out among the kids arriving early, who will one day be on the pitch that was invitingly lush for the time of year. 

One of the biggest losses to the rarefied end of modern football is the distance between players and spectators, separated by security and media. Here, friends and families stand either side of the touchline swapping jokes, checking in to see how your folks are, asking after mutual acquaintances, and making arrangements for the summer weeks to come. Arthurlie FC, its players and followers, can relax and enjoy a job well done. 

By the time the teams come out for kick off there must be approaching 200 people in attendance, all ages, families, and folk who have been coming for longer than they’d care to admit. I’m not entirely sure they’re all there to watch the match, but coming out of the two years preceding and into such a season, Barrhead has a place to come and catch up with friends and neighbours in the stands and on the pitch. Tonight’s opponents, Belshill are game, but Arthurlie a cut above, and before the shadows have had a chance to lengthen into the pitch they’re 2-0 up, scoring their 100th league goal of the season in the process. Another two by half-time, and a few chances in the ‘easier to score’ category. 

At the interval clusters of spectators are gravitating into the shafts of sunlight and out of the shadows. I move round to behind the goal at the Railway End, where a band of spectators have had the foresight to bring out their seats to enjoy the final half of the home season. They purr their appreciation for the young boy on the left-wing who has the Belshill full-back dizzy and grateful for the substitution early in the second-half, 

‘some player that boy…’

‘Aye, looks like a player, y’know.’

‘Healy… is he from the…’

‘From Paisley, aye’

It’s a conversation that has happened countless times at countless grounds about countless matches, an invaluable connection between old friends where there’s as much not said as has been said. Arthurlie rack up a couple more, and I decide to leave early - because old habits die hard. I jump on the train and sit next to the window on the nearside, watching the match end 6-0 from my rolling executive box as it heads back towards Glasgow.

And the steak pie? Never stood a chance, the old dear really was asking about if I’m eating right when I went back for another.

A version of this article appears in Issue 28 of Nutmeg Magazine - the first and best word in Scottish football culture.