There’s No Place Like Home
A short love-letter to Bootham Crescent, former home of York City Football Club.
My father provided the first experience of Bootham Crescent for my sister and I in the Spring of 1991, a Tuesday evening duel with neighbours Scarbrough. Looking on from the Popular Stand I still romantically recall the fascination at the colour of the spectacle under the old four-legged floodlights, and my bemusement at the lack of commentary over the PA system; an assumed feature after previously enjoying the luxury whilst watching football on TV.
Unbeknown to me, that 2-0 triumph over the old adversary would prove the catalyst for a lifetime of passion, belonging, elation, and, as the years passed, routine misery. Bootham Crescent would provide the setting for all of the above; the stage for an enduring drama that no far-fetched Broadway production could ever do justice.
The Popular Stand may have being home for that first date, but any prospect of monogamy was short lived as the now-extinct Enclosure became home throughout my adolescent years. Despite having explored vantage points from literally every possible area of the ground since, that small, shallow stretch of concrete below the Main Stand remains dear to my heart. The close-knit community of regulars around us, the aroma of deep-heat from the players tunnel behind, and the close proximity to our heroes provided an enticing, nurturing mix that kept us there for many a year.
The glories we were fortunate to witness from those steps are the memories that keep us still coming back today. My affection and enchantment for our surroundings only grew greater on the two occasions I led our team out, from the red-brick underpass beneath the main stand onto the sacred soil as a child mascot. Seeing ‘behind the scenes’ for that first time held the same mystique as stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Only one venture backstage has since provided as much enthrallment; my third honour as City’s mascot at the old Wembley stadium, our first and only visit, in the May of 1993.
Many games have lit up our beloved home, but none so for me more than the 1993 play-off semi-final, second leg, triumph over Bury. The very game that booked our slot at the historic twin towers. That post-season evening which began in Spring sunlight, the first outing of our unique ‘YC shoulder’ strip, and ended under the floodlights with a Gary Swann bullet header sending the packed rafters into delirium; Tina Turner providing the cliched soundtrack as the masses descended onto the pitch at the final whistle.
Yet my fondest, and perhaps most vivid, memories of Bootham Crescent aren’t necessarily those centered around a Saturday afternoon. In an age when players were relatable; proper blokes and genuine heros, I absolutely adored attending Junior Red Club Nights in the Social Club, providing a platform to meet these idols at close quarters. Playing darts and pool with the likes of Paul Barnes and Jon McCarthy, titans yet gentlemen, in the peculiarly-alluring environment of stale fags and bitter embedded in the threadbare carpet is one such example. Saturday morning ‘training’ sessions in the gym on Grosvenor Road, the mere existence of which is probably lost on younger City fans, was another ritual undertaken with great anticipation. Despite leaving the facility sporting a glaze of dust and dirt, we eagerly tucked into our pack-ups afterwards before the afternoon’s offering on the pitch. All for £2 too.
They say however, that it’s not the bricks and mortar, but the people that make a place. A belief, I believe, to which our football club is no exception. Thousands have come and gone, but there's those who remain regardless. Many are familiar faces, those with whom you have shared years, decades of mutual tribulations, yet have never known by name, nor exchanged more than the occasional nod should your eyes meet. Some names you are aware of, often exchanging expletives to summarise our most recent abhorrent display. Then there’s those special few. City may have facilitated the initial introduction, but you have gone on to become lifelong friends. The ones you choose to spend time with outside of that primary environment, the real reason that keeps you going back.
My wife and I were married in the Summer of 2016, following City’s confinement to a second term in the Football Conference. Sat looking around at those present, we were fortunate to be surrounded by our parents and close family. But it was in many of our assembled friends, that a common theme dominated: Friendships born on the terraces.
The few shorts words that summarise my affection for Bootham Crescent , and I imagine many others, are not mine, nor are they original. Nethertheless the sentiment rings true...
There’s no place like home.
