Field Of Broken Dreams
My nephew is a lifelong Manchester United Football Club supporter despite never having lived anywhere near Manchester or any family ties with the city. He treats a day out at Old Trafford with the same playful, boo-hiss mentality he would attending a pantomime or West End musical. Like many of his pampered generation, Premier League supporters have become accustomed to comfortable seats, unrestricted views, gourmet food, audible public announcement systems, reduced crowd trouble and stadiums that protect you from the rain.
In 2015, the football team I support was promoted to the Premier League for the first time in their 125-year history. I was pleased. Three seasons later they are still in the Premier League. I am less pleased. I miss the lower leagues. I miss a freezing winter's night on the terrace at Morecambe F.C. I miss being delayed en route to Southend due to roadworks on the A127, being intimidated by Portsmouth fans in the dense alleyways surrounding their stadium, Fratton Park. I miss hiding in the park from hateful Exeter City fans with their never-forget grudge.
Looking through the 60 plus photographs in John Bolloten’s book, Field of Broken Dreams, I am comforted and uncomfortable. It’s more Maxim Gorky than Mary Poppins. The black and white images transfer the viewer to the lower depths of Bradford’s three lowest football leagues: West Riding, Spen Valley and the Bradford Sunday League. There is no Premier League polish. The sponsors are Gutterwise, PNP Packaging and Champion Motor Spares. The toilets are pitch side railings and cold metal cabins. The players are their own groundsmen, erecting goal nets and shovelling the night’s deluge from the penalty spot. The games are gladiatorial, the supporters are sparse but passionate, the pot bellied number nine will be their 90 minute champion. Fans drink from cans of various strength brews, players smoke half-time cigarettes and pass around full-time spliffs. Tattoos are more Belmarsh than Beckham. It’s the kind of forensic examination of human struggle that Gorky would understand.
Peter Dench
In 2015, the football team I support was promoted to the Premier League for the first time in their 125-year history. I was pleased. Three seasons later they are still in the Premier League. I am less pleased. I miss the lower leagues. I miss a freezing winter's night on the terrace at Morecambe F.C. I miss being delayed en route to Southend due to roadworks on the A127, being intimidated by Portsmouth fans in the dense alleyways surrounding their stadium, Fratton Park. I miss hiding in the park from hateful Exeter City fans with their never-forget grudge.
Looking through the 60 plus photographs in John Bolloten’s book, Field of Broken Dreams, I am comforted and uncomfortable. It’s more Maxim Gorky than Mary Poppins. The black and white images transfer the viewer to the lower depths of Bradford’s three lowest football leagues: West Riding, Spen Valley and the Bradford Sunday League. There is no Premier League polish. The sponsors are Gutterwise, PNP Packaging and Champion Motor Spares. The toilets are pitch side railings and cold metal cabins. The players are their own groundsmen, erecting goal nets and shovelling the night’s deluge from the penalty spot. The games are gladiatorial, the supporters are sparse but passionate, the pot bellied number nine will be their 90 minute champion. Fans drink from cans of various strength brews, players smoke half-time cigarettes and pass around full-time spliffs. Tattoos are more Belmarsh than Beckham. It’s the kind of forensic examination of human struggle that Gorky would understand.
Peter Dench
