Social Short Story – Writing History
Social Short Story – Writing History
A hundred and twenty five years.
Sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? Well, it is. Especially more so, when you use the words instead of writing 125. It was circa 1886 that our freedom struggle actually gathered headway. Also, Lenin had just turned sixteen, most of our great grandfathers were learning how to roll joints and Karl Benz had just driven a box on wheels at an astonishing 8 miles an hour.
Blithely oblivious to such developments, somewhere in south-eastern London, a bunch of hairy Brits were feeling very playful. They decided to put together a six-pence coin each, and buy a bladder covered with some rubber and kick it around. Being Brits, it took them a while to figure out that they actually had enough men to register with the Football League. It actually took them sixteen years!
And so, in 1893, Dial Square was found, only later to be renamed Woolwich Arsenal. One day, one of the players took offence to the fact that the first name of the club mocked his ginormous moustache. And so, Woolwich was dropped, and the playful arms-factory workmen were christened Arsenal.
The rivalry with Tottenham Hotspurs started somewhere back then, because picking a fight down the road seemed a lot smarter than carrying twelve men to Manchester by horse. After getting relegated in 1913, promotion to the first league occurred at the cost of Spurs. And that’s when we started fucking them over. Every year, again and again and again. A few years after the neighbourly mud-slinging ensued, a not-so-young man by the name of Herbert Chapman decided to quit Leeds City and come join the north London club. Maybe he just wanted to shop. No one knows. He suddenly decided to die in 1934, having built a team that won seven championships and two FA cups. He was the most successful Arsenal manager ever. Until France decided to spoil his 62 year old party.
Jump to 1996. If you’re wondering why I have skipped 60-odd years by just pressing enter, I will tell you. Arsenal endured a trophyless 1950-60’s, much like it’s fortunes now, and the Manchester United-Liverpool rivalry came to fore. (Although how Manchester could rival Liverpool, I have no clue. Manchester gave us a gay village in Canal street. Liverpool gave us The Beatles. ) All levity aside, nothing notable happened for the club apart from George Graham, who won us a fair few trophies.
If you watch Arsenal playing a football match today, you will catch glimpses of a wispy-haired, furrow-browed ageing, white guy mutilating and kicking a few water bottles to oblivion. Fear not, for he is safe and doesn’t bite. That man is considered by many, to be one of the finest football managers of today, and perhaps the finest talent scout since Simon Cowell.
Arsene Wenger, born in Strasbourg to a couple of bistro owners, had little idea that he would one day become the most educated man ever to grace the sport of football, or that he would be a part of one of the most intimate intertwining’s of a man and a club. A miracle worker, as dubbed by David Dein, he is known for modernizing the English football approach and virtually crafting the careers of players like Patrick Vieira, Thierry Henry and Cesc Fabregas, to name a few.
But, today is not just about the manager. It is not just about the players. It is not even about the WAG’s who are the subjects of some of our fantasies.
Today is about celebrating a birthday. It is a celebration of unity, of purity, in it’s absolute form, on the pitch, as well as in the coffers. It is about those millions of tears shed, those billions of claps heard, and those uncountable smiles that eleven men kicking a ball can bring to people’s faces. It is about those numbers written on the stands, it is about those unknown faces in the crowds, it is about those pictures in the corridors, about the benches in the dressing rooms.
It is about the cannon on the chest, about the blood-red shirts on the proud men, women and children, about the scarves hoisted at every victory, every goal, every foul drawn. It is about those cusses, those momentary lapses of dignity, those unforgotten moments. It is about the broken legs, broken dreams, and repeated assaults on pride and the repeated humiliations. It is about the blood, sweat and tears shed when no way looks to be right. It is about those times when everyone writes you off, and you have to keep fighting. Fighting, because you can’t let the fans down. You can’t let the traditions down. You cannot let the club down.
It is about that spring in new steps, those grown legs and yet nubile minds. It is about those faces on the field, playing together for the first time, understanding each other as if they were married, weaving artistic patterns on a lush green canvas. It is about a talisman, lighting the way. It is about those untold millions believing in a man. It is about that man showing his worth. It is about rising from the ashes, battling all odds. It is about winning every battle, warring till the last minute, the ultimate kick, the final whistle. It is about the taste of victory.
Arsenal as a football club, has endured a hundred and twenty five years of struggles, hardships and tragedies. It has tasted victory in foreign, unknown lands and gone down battling in it’s own yard. It has been written off, and written on again. It has delighted, frustrated and saddened. It has come a full circle.
I love Arsenal. I believe in it.
Happy Birthday.
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