Tote bag, baggy jeans, white trainers.
I think the saying is ‘like a sore thumb.’
I am not exactly the usual type of spectator in the West Country crowd of about 35, but I don’t think the regulars care at this point. They’ll take what they can get.
I approach the turnstile.
“How old are you?” the steward asks.
“Twenty.”
“You don’t look it.”
A warm welcome.
A toddler kicks a ball around with his dad as the players warm-up. Portishead’s future is in good hands.
As Portishead Town prepare to host Cheddar, I take my seat in the stand, if you can call it that, and wait for the teams to emerge from the changing rooms that are just about holding themselves together.
I quickly notice one of the Posset ultras.
He turns to me as I sit in the 44-seat stand. A generous sponsor of the club and a retired local businessman, the gentleman’s passion for the club is evident. He is one of the more vocal of the small crowd during the first period. My hunch that he would have a solid connection to the club is confirmed as we chat during the break.
Small talk about Portishead Town’s performance at home to Cheddar on the overcast Saturday afternoon in February quickly turns to a deeper conversation on the state of the long-standing non-league club.
He informs me that the hosts have the lowest average attendance of clubs in the South-West. An unfortunately impressive feat for a team in the Toolstation Western Football League.
The crowd of loyal Possets are their usual supportive selves, but you cannot help feeling that the club, that has been around since for 111 years, could do better.
Boxing Day’s fixture against local rivals Nailsea & Tickenham attracted around 150 spectators, showing that numbers are possible. The problem is consistency.
The game itself isn’t quite the Premier League standard shown in the clubhouse pre-match. The Portishead midfielder getting changed pitch side before kick-off probably should have been an early tell.
Countless unnecessary F-bombs litter proceedings, along with the referee’s constant need to call everyone ‘player,’ single-handedly raising the xC (expected cringe).
A bobbly pitch, tiny huts for dugouts, and questionable refereeing decisions are the standout characteristics of the game.
“That looked like a corner,” the Portishead manager exclaims, eyebrows raised.
“It looked like it from here,” replies the linesman.
The ref gives a goal kick.
It’s 40 minutes until the hosts find the only goal of the game when the no.10 cushions the ball with his chest and punts a half-volley into the bottom right corner, wheeling away in the home black and white strip like a pre-headbutt Zidane at Juventus.
The second period is played in much of the same vein, the most prominent occurrence being a stonewall penalty that everyone saw, apart from the referee.
Despite the hosts frustratingly taking the ball to the corner flag in the final few seconds and some choice words being used, the two managers show their respect.
“We’ll have a beer later.”
The locals disperse from the ground and the old businessman’s sincere but somewhat solemn final words in our exchange resound in my head as I follow.
“Thanks for coming.”
Malachi Obrey 