David Cash

Why Blue?

Forever Blue… or City ‘Til I Sigh

I don’t remember all that much about that time now. I was six weeks short of my seventh birthday but even then I knew something momentous was happening. I was sat in the dark as we always did at grandma’s, watching Match of the Day on her old black and white TV. Black and white didn’t matter all that much, except that you couldn’t tell that the grey strip of the celebrating team was really sky blue. Looking back in the records now I know that the score was 4-3 and that Manchester City had just beaten the mighty Newcastle United at St James’ Park but back then I didn’t really care. All I saw was Francis Lee, arms raised, saluting the army of fans that had made the trip to Newcastle to watch Joe Mercer’s Manchester City take the old Division One championship and pip the local opposition against all the odds. At that moment I became a Blue!

My mum had recently bought me my first football strip. Because I liked the colour it turned out to be United’s. We were not well off in those days and a suitably righteous mother didn’t care whether I had switched allegiance or not, that kit was too expensive to just throw away and I’d damned well wear it out. I wore that stinking rag as I now think of it for the next two years! Even to this day, as my mum gets older, she still thinks that I’m a Red despite thousands of reminders to the contrary.

I grew up in the Longsight district of Manchester, and with a big Irish immigrant population, nearly all my mates were Reds. During the glory days of the late sixties and early seventies though that didn’t much matter as the two local rivals competed on a more or less even footing. League glory was followed by F.A. then League Cup success (in consecutive seasons) was followed by European silverware. No Rag could call us back then. I suppose I had an easy ride of it as in those formative years it is so easy for a young head to be turned by success. My allegiance was never put to the test during the early growth of those tender shoots of loyalty and so when the leaner times came I was hooked. Too late to go back, not that I ever wanted to.

My grandmother lived about fifteen minutes’ walk from Maine Road and many a Saturday afternoon I would walk up there and listen to the roar of the crowd. I didn’t go to my first game until I was nearly thirteen. My dad always banned me from going as this was the start of the darker days of football violence, so one Saturday afternoon myself and two pals sneaked off to Maine road to watch City take on Coventry. City lost! The score 2-1 to Coventry who, by the cruellest of fate’s tortuous twists, were now managed by none other than Joe Mercer. Oh the irony, oh the grief! On the pitch were demi-gods, Summerbee, Lee, Marsh, whilst in the dugouts and boardroom were rats and vermin in the shape of Messrs Allison and Swales. Players and manager were living it large whilst behind the scenes the lifeblood was already being siphoned off to other clubs. The decline and fall of the Roman Empire was probably no different, bread and circuses, and Swales fiddled as Maine Road burned.

I suppose it wasn’t all darkness and hellfire though. There was the mid-seventies revival, the period of Tony Book in the hot seat and Tueart et al on the field, but with hindsight (a marvellous thing) the moving finger was already writing in big letters on the wall of the main stand. There followed probably the worst period in the club’s history as mega-money was shelled out for sometimes mediocre players, only for them to disappear a season or so later for a fraction of their original price. Accompanying this the slide down the table brought cries of despair from the ever loyal Blue army. The eighties and nineties are probably best forgotten from a football purist’s point of view but as a true Blue I feel that for the fans it was arguably our finest hour. We showed the backbone and courage that was sadly missing in the club’s management. As fans we kept the faith whilst everyone from the press to the lowest swamp-dweller lambasted us for all the fools under the sun for giving our favour to such a ramshackle mob. All that could be said for the club at one time was that they had the best supporters in the country. I’m honoured to be classed amongst those fans.

I recently read a book that said that in general Man City supporters were left of centre liberals with a strong humanitarian touch. I’m not sure about that especially when I hear some of the abuse that is screamed by some of the less tolerant pundits in the North stand, but certainly there is something special about being a Blue that transcends the mere fact that you support a football team. For a start there is the die hard never give in spirit that is personified by the ‘City ’til I Die’ anthem. By rights this club that we all rave about doesn’t deserve the loyalty we so generously bestow upon it. With twenty years of underachievement behind us the blue and white army should have left in droves years ago, me along with it, but we don’t. A season in Division Two and we still were getting 28,000 average gates. I went to a freezing cold Wednesday night game in late October last year, when everywhere there was frost on the ground, to see City and Ipswich, only to find that I was one of 33,000. That level of devotion is in the blood. It says more about the character of the people who turn up week in week out than the football on the field will ever do. Simply stated, we support City because we do! It is in our genes to be fiercely loyal, foolishly proud and contemptuous of those who follow only success (like the supporters of another club we could mention but won’t). There are other clubs elsewhere in the world that command a similar level of fanaticism, I can think of Barcelona as a prime example, but there can’t be many other clubs that with City’s recent record could still call on the same level of support.

I’m proud to be a Blue. I love to go to Maine road and be with other Blues. “Alright mate” takes on a new meaning when it’s the guy or girl next to you in row F on a wet windy Saturday, more like a secret handshake than a greeting. We are a family, all of us, and it is a huge family. It spans the globe. My own personal experience is that I have friends in Germany, who live fairly close to Frankfurt, who regularly follow the Blues. G