Greg Swimer

Why Blue?

I’ve thought about trying to write a “Why Blue” for a while, but have always thought that I would struggle to answer the question. However, I’ve noticed that many of the “Why Blue’s” in recent weeks have tended to start something like “There’s no real reason… I’ve been Blue for as long as I can remember”, so now I don’t feel so bad about starting mine the same way.

So…

There’s no real reason… I’ve been Blue for as long as I can remember. In fact, that’s probably not quite true – it clearly had something to do with my dad indoctrinating me from the moment I was born. The first time that dad took me to Maine Road I must have been about 5. My sum-total experience of football up to that point had been based on kicking a ball around in the back garden being watched by adults sitting on sun-chairs, so of course, when dad told me that we were “going to a big football ground”, I naturally assumed that he meant a very big garden, with lots of adults on lots of sun-chairs. Emerging, wide-eyed, into the North Stand still ranks as one of my greatest moments ever. No idea what the game was, no idea what the result was – all I remember was that bloody great stadium, and all those people.

And that was that. I pretty much went to every home game from that time (sometime during 1976-77 season having, of course, just missed out on a chance to travel to Wembley to see us win something) until I left Manchester at 18. The years up until about 1980 are all a bit of a blur. I remember that we were good. I remember that it always seemed to me that whenever we kicked towards the North Stand in the second half that we won. I remember truly magical nights of European football in ’78-’79 when it seemed like Maine Road was the centre of the Universe. I think I remember Mike Doyle’s testimonial. I remember someone knocking my half-eaten “Curly-Wurly” out of its wrapper when City scored a goal once – that was very traumatic!

And then, all of a sudden, it was 80-81, and heady days indeed. Sticking a bag-full past Norwich, that wooden stand at Goodison which sounded like it was going to collapse when everyone stamped their feet at once when we equalised, playing football on the M6 whilst stuck in a massive traffic jam on the way to Villa Park, and then – oh glorious day – watching PP curl that beauty into the top corner. By the time Tommy Hutch’s head met that ball, I knew I had found life’s true meaning.

Enough said. The following 17 years and 75 minutes have been the standard tale of woe, hopeless optimism, self-delusion, enormous pride in very small achievements, unswerving loyalty in the face of total disaster, genuine belief that it can’t get any worse followed by genuine disbelief when it does, and… well we all know the story.

Looking back, the 8 years between ’81 and ’89 were pretty good, relatively speaking. Relegation didn’t seem so serious in those days (I’m sure that was the perspective of youth), and it seemed that we could always get promoted anyway, and have good fun stuffing rubbish teams like Huddersfield on the way. And, of course, even if we weren’t the best team in the world, then neither were the Rags, and so heads were always held high at school.

I’ve not spent much time in Manchester since I was 18, but the Saturday to Saturday rhythm of a dedicated City fan has never left me. I’ve always managed to get home for the big games, and, of course, they’ve almost all been complete disasters e.g. Liverpool, QPR, Spurs, Middlesbrough, Un***d… need I go on? I kept my ticket stub for the Liverpool match, saying, jokingly at the time, that I could show my kids a ticket for the last match City ever played in the top-flight. Hmmmm.

I now find myself living in Haifa, in northern Israel. I left the UK midway through last season – the last game before I left was Oxford away (0-0, and the most incident-free 90 minutes of football I have ever seen), and it was obvious then that something pretty bad was on the cards. I made it home for the QPR game, and was back in Israel on the fateful day, at work actually, since Sunday is a work day here, keeping in touch on the phone and on the Net.

It’s basically still pretty easy to keep in touch with goings-on, through the Internet, MCIVTA (nice work by the way), Sky News, and of course, the devoted efforts of my dad to cut out and send every article from the MEN and Sunday Papers. The West Ham match was live on telly here – same old story… livened up by the fact that the overseas commentary team thought that Hartson’s disallowed goal in the 8th minute had been given, and so, as far as we knew, the score was 1-0 for about 20 minutes after that until they realised and changed it back. Our celebrations were, in typical City fashion, cut short immediately when the Hammers waltzed through and banged in a legitimate goal.

I don’t think anything will ever change my support for, and love of City – certainly nothing as minor as getting relegated (again), or being completely pants. It’s been nearly ten years since I had a season ticket, but I still feel completely at home at every game (home or away) that I attend. One thing that I’ve always been able to gloat about over Rag mates is that I never have to go to a game alone, and I certainly don’t have to humiliate myself begging for tickets from people I hardly know just to end up sitting next to a load of total strangers. City games have always been enjoyable socially, despite (or maybe because of?) the often paltry offerings from the pitch.

I can’t understand where my excitement, expectancy and optimism for the new season comes from. All I know is that it’s there. I tuned into the World Service yesterday afternoon to find that:

1. City/Blackpool was the live commentary game – surely the first time a N’wide D2 game has been.
2. The crowd was 32,000 – the second largest in the country.
3. We were winning.

Unreal. We’re all part of something pretty unique despite all the s**te.

CTIAO (City Till It’s All Over)

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #422 on