Around the 92  in the 1980s A tour of the lost world of Football League stadiums.

“We’re on the wrong road, dad.
We need to turn around if we want
to get to Oakwell.”

Dad slowed down, stopped
and reversed the car.

Crunch…

“Oh no!”, he exclaimed.

“What the heck was that?”

We were stuck; his BMW was motionless. We came out to see that he had reversed over a sharply fallen curb, leaving the back of the car dangling over the edge. Not quite in the ‘Italian Job’ style, but we certainly weren’t moving fast. It was 1988. There were no cell phones, applications to contact a rescue service, or satellite navigation to inform us where we were. Oakwell, the home of Barnsley Football Club, felt far away now. We were stopped outside of a town neither of us knew, attempting to reach another of England and Wales’ 92 Football League stadiums. My father and I had planned a trip to quench my passion for anything football-related. I had been obsessed with the sport since I could remember. Panini sticker albums were my pride and joy. I would write down all the season’s transfers in my Rothmans Football Yearbook. I would re-enact the previous weekend’s goals in the garden on my own, taking the scant details from Match magazine – all the way down to Bury v Reading in the Fourth Division. As well as Paul Mariner or Ian Rush, I wanted to be Craig Madden or Trevor Senior.

Football motivated this vacation, and football got it back on track. Two Barnsley fans pitched in to help. Despite the pouring rain, we managed to flag them down and tell them about our journey. They may have been perplexed, but they understood how frantic we were to reach the ground. With superhuman power, they lifted the car from its resting place and returned it to the road. My thankful father threw over £10 to buy them both a couple of beers, and we were back on our way to Oakwell and beyond.

Thank you, David Price. When I was seven and a half years old, I attended my first match. My father was not a natural football fan, and I doubt he had ever seen a game before I began bugging him about my interest in the sport. However, through a friend who knew Arsenal player David Price, he was able to acquire two tickets to Arsenal’s game against Ipswich Town at Highbury. The date was December 27, 1980. The outcome was 1-1. The encounter set me on a road that I continue to follow to this day. Dad’s interest increased. In 1981-82, we spent a season following Watford’s ascent to the First Division under Graham Taylor.I loved seeing him becoming more engaged in the weekly drama and sometimes joining in with the old lady who sat next to us, as she needled the opposition manager. I was desperate to get my birthday mentioned in lights on the huge scoreboard.

It was my time with him. We would occasionally wander off to other fields, such as Filbert Street in Leicester and The Dell in Southampton. By 1988, we were spending less time together, so he recommended we go to all 92 league grounds. A new football experience saved this uncomfortable 15-year-old. Our only guide was Simon Inglis’ book The Football Grounds of Great Britain, and we drove up the M6 from our Buckinghamshire home to Carlisle to begin our tour in England’s far north. Our plan was simple: seek for the floodlights and travel in that direction.

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