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Have I Really Fallen Out of Love With Ipswich Or Have I Just Grown Up?
Written by classof81 on Sunday, 5th Nov 2017 19:43

Most parents use pets to teach children important life lessons. Children become acutely aware of the concepts of growing old and death as they bury their beloved hamster in the back garden.

My Dad opted for a different tactic. He used football, and, more specifically, Ipswich Town, to teach me all about lowering expectations, heartache and ultimately failure.

“Remember how we really wanted Ipswich to beat Wigan but they didn’t quite deliver? And remember what you wanted for Christmas? Well, don’t be surprised if Santa pulls an Ipswich and doesn’t quite deliver either.”

“Jim Magilton has been getting older. He can’t move as well as he used to. He’s not the player he once was. He’s going to retire. Your Granddad’s also been getting older. He can’t move as well as he used to. He’s going to retire… from life.”

“Darren Bent’s leaving… and so is your mum.”

And yet despite the many near misses, the multiple last-minute defeats and the frequent disappointments, I was captivated. My first season as a little five-year-old Ipswich fan was the 2003/04 season under Joe Royle, where we reached the play-off semi-finals against West Ham.

A Darren Bent header at Portman Road gave us a slender 1-0 lead going into the away leg. I wasn’t allowed to go to the match at Upton Park as it was a Tuesday night so I had school the next day, and I couldn’t afford to fall asleep during maths (we were learning how to divide). I couldn’t get away with phoning in sick either, as all the teachers were well aware that I was a massive Ipswich fan.

I went to a Christian primary school, and our headteacher was also a Tractor Boy, so assemblies often consisted of him nattering about Ipswich for 20 minutes before attempting to link in Jesus in the most frugal way possible.

One Friday night we were playing away at Sheffield United, and it was live on Sky. That morning during assembly, our head teacher asked all the boys in year six if they were going up to Sheffield to watch it. “And what about little Alice? What class is she in? Year two? Are you going?”. “Nah,” I replied, “I’m going to watch it in the pub.” My Christian teachers shook their heads disapprovingly, clasping their crucifixes, apologising hastily to God.

Anyway, not going up to West Ham wasn’t going to stop me supporting the Town, and I fell asleep listening to the Radio Suffolk commentary in my Powergen shirt. I woke up the next day not knowing the score. My Dad walked into my bedroom to deliver the bad news.

That is a tough life lesson for a six-year-old. Learning that your beloved team won’t be going to the Millennium Stadium, won’t be competing for a place in the Premier League, won’t be on Match of the Day next season because “Matt Richards is f*cking useless”.

The following season was the same; fantastic football, goals galore, entertainment every week. And what a team we had; Kuqi, Bent, Miller and the mid-season addition of the Division One’s David Beckham: Super Darren Currie.

But not even Darren Currie could prevent us losing to West Ham in the play-offs once again. Despite us finishing 13 points above them in the league, they’d still knocked us out over two legs. It was bitterly unfair. Our headteacher insisted that Bobby Zamora was not going to Heaven. I had just finished the big Harry Potter book, and I unashamedly declared that Alan Pardew was worse than Voldemort. I stand by that.

Despite having my heart shattered twice in two years, I was hooked. I was addicted. I had fallen in love (although my Dad was quick to remind me that love never lasts. “Remember Matt Holland? He said he loved Ipswich. He still left us for someone else though, didn’t he?”). This love remained unwavering for 10 years. 10 long, Roy Keane and Paul Jewell infested, years. We finally reached the play-offs again, but, needless to say, the outcome was the same. Would I ever see us achieve any success?

I was often jealous of my Dad’s generation; watching an Ipswich side competing in Europe, winning trophies, having a side overflowing with international players. But then I think of how little I have enjoyed watching Ipswich over the last three years and think how grateful I should be for the early days that I witnessed. And how rubbish it must be for the new generation of Ipswich fans.

Or do they actually realise how rubbish it is? One day, will they reminisce fondly about Dominic Iorfa? Will they idolise Cole Skuse the way I idolised Tommy Miller? Are they envious that I got to watch Tamas Priskin play? Will they yearn for the days of Jay Tabb?

I think of how much I’ve fallen out of love with watching Ipswich over the last few years (maybe my Dad had a point about love) and wonder if it’s just part of growing up. You realise there’s more to life than football, and your happiness isn’t dictated by whether we beat Burton or not.

Is it just coincidence that me growing up and enjoying watching Ipswich less has coincided with the decline in entertainment on offer at Portman Road? Or has the relatively dreary football driven away my adoration for Ipswich? And will we miss out on an entire generation of Ipswich Town fans because this team won’t capture their imagination in the same way that the glorious Joe Royle side captivated me?




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