Words: Brian Owen Martin // @BrianOMartin
Nostalgia has been described as a ‘seductive liar’ (George Ball) and a ‘powerful drug’ (Kate Christensen). When you reach a certain vintage, or as some may say, vantage, it is and will be hard to resist. Though, nostalgia will often lead you to start contemplating your journey through life. My current position, researching football media, has meant I have often found myself of late exploring my football path. In my formative years, memories are hazy. There may be names of famous players or managers, but no clear recollections of significant football events. I may have been occupied with trying to discover my superpowers, landing a rocket ship on a new planet, or fighting off cowboys.
However, in 1986, a wondrous thing happened. There is a famous phrase regarding the cultural shift of the 1960s that goes along the lines of ‘before The Beatles it was black and white, then after it was colour.’ The 1986 World Cup in Mexico had a similar impact on myself for football. The colour, the atmosphere, the vibrancy, the exoticism caught the imagination of my younger self, in a manner that football never had before.
At the centre of this exhibition of witchery was an Argentinian man. He stood at 5 foot 5 inches tall, and was a genius. He was ‘El Pibe de Oro’, Diego Armando Maradona. There have been plenty of words written and views expressed regarding Maradona over the years, both good and bad. But for a young impressionable lad from cold, grey Scotland, he illuminated football and ignited a passion that has never been extinguished.
It really is difficult to find the words to describe how Mexico 86 changed everything in my footballing world. Though this article is not about my feelings regarding the ‘wee man’ or the beauty and magnificence of that particular world cup, it does suggest the influence that a major media event may have on young minds. My nostalgic mind has not entirely forgotten what football in the 1980s was like. Anyone that may remember will recall that it was a challenging period for the sport, a different beast to the behemoth we see before us now. However, these issues and problems did not matter to my young impressionable mind. I had El Diego.
Maradona celebrating Argentina’s 1986 World Cup win.
Photo Credit: Sportsnet
After opening the treasure trove of football excitement, it went dark again. Though there are moments that arrive through the fog and haze of my memory. As with most football journeys I am familiar with, mine is wrapped up in family, locale and identity. My post-Mexico 86 memories are littered with these connections despite the confused muddle in my middle-aged mind; trips to Stair Park, home of my Fathers beloved Stranrae; visits to Fir Park, home of my local club, Motherwell, whom I would fall deeply for. I fail to recollect my first game, or the score of any matches.
Though, if someone mentions the name Stevie Kirk, it may take me back to the deepest recesses of my mind. Mainly it is the sounds and sights that are most familiar and vivid; the singing, the crowds, the smells, the food, the complaints of my Mother, who was of the opinion that such places were no place for a child such as myself. There is one figure central to these thoughts, despite my lack of understanding of the sequence of the voyage; my Father. Whatever aches, pains, joys and triumphs I discover along this journey, I have him to thank.
Motherwell’s Stevie Kirk.
Photo Credit: Motherwell FC
The journey did lead me to a very special place and moment; Hampden Park, 18th May, 1991. It was at this stage that football, and this particular club became a significant part of my identity. It is Stuart Hall who suggests that identity is fluid, an ever-evolving construct. This particular cup final entrenched Motherwell within the evolution of my identity card.
There will always be arguments in football regarding ‘the best this’ or ‘the best that’ due to our strong emotional bonds to teams or the tribalistic nature of fandom. Since then, the 1991 Cup Final has probably been outstripped by Hibs in 2016, and their 114-year wait for the trophy. For myself, this was an occasion similar to Mexico 5 years earlier. In this moment, the excitement and exuberance was not through a television, but witnessed with my own senses, an array of colour and noise.
This would be the highlight in my years following Motherwell. Nobody forewarned me that this success was merely just a blip in an otherwise steady stream of waiting. It was and never is boring, but the years have been exceedingly frustrating.
The experience did leave me with a false sense of hope. I was of the belief that it would always be this way. The feelings created by watching this football club of mine win a major trophy were a revelation for my teenage self. As many know, football support is never always this way; even the most successful of clubs go through their phases, never mind a provincial club from North lanarkshire. Though it did peak my interest, and for years after, I would continue to chase the thrill and excitement of that Scottish Cup Final.
The Scottish Cup winning Motherwell side of 1991.
Photo Credit: Daily Record
As you progress through your teenage years, there are more interesting hurdles and distractions to appear. I will leave you to form your own representations of what these may be. But as many know, the football journey is never straightforward. There are many interruptions and diversions on the path. But when choices and commitments are made regarding the target of our football affection, then they must never be broken.
There is an awareness that for many in the era of football globalisation your local football club is afterthought. Many supporters now focus on global stars and super clubs. For myself, football is about belonging, identity, community, and my cultural background.
These elements are also why I follow Scotland, for good or for bad. After all, my country of birth is what attracted me to that monumental sporting event in 1986. Being both a Motherwell and Scotland fan is no easy task. I have travelled extensively within this planet and met an assembly of interesting and fascinating characters. Wherever the proverbial wind has blown me, these cultural markers have often led to the genesis of some engrossing conversations. But these tales are for another time.
It was the mid-1990s where things got exciting for a Scotland supporter in young adulthood. There were two electrifying, and captivating international tournaments during the decade; Euro ‘96 and World Cup ‘98. I do not believe that any Scotland supporter was of the judgement that these would be our last international tournaments for over two decades. We would exit, as usual, at the end of the group stages. Though, there was a sense of optimism and innocence during this era, which was assisted by my retirement from adolescence and the proceeding changes that adulthood would bring.
Scotland’s Euro ‘96 team.
Photo Credit: STV
Before we leave the platform to continue the journey to France ‘98, I will elaborate further on Euro 96. Anyone familiar with the tournament will recall that Scotland were ‘almost’ men once again, but qualification to the knockout rounds was to elude us. However, the pre-tournament caught the imagination of a nation, a country captivated by a tournament being hosted by our English neighbours. And to top it off, guess who we drew in the group stages? Yes, them! Anyone familiar with the tournament has the knowledge of what went next.
A 0-0 with the Netherlands, followed by that game and that goal. Nostalgia has furnished me with the memories that Scotland played well against England. To be honest, we were beaten by a remarkable goal, and an extraordinary player. The Gascoigne goal has even given its blessing to omit the McCallister penalty from my mind. Almost. Going into the last game, ironically, we would need our old pals England to provide assistance by beating the Dutch, and which they did, healthily. Although we were close to qualifying for the knockout stages, our inability to score goals was our downfall.
There has always been something regarding international tournaments that has drawn me in. I’m not exactly sure of the reasons. The festival, carnival atmosphere, the different nations, the variations and variety of people. Ever since ‘86 I have been enthralled by these tournaments. The explanation may lie in Bakhtin’s theory of the carnivalesque, and the temporary suspension or disruption of everyday social norms, where life is turned ‘inside out’ and ‘upside down.’ Where elements of culture may experience the qualities similar to the disruption and joy witnessed in a carnival.
What may have reeled me in are my earlier adventures with Mexico, Argentina and Diego. Where I was intrigued by these foreign and far-off realms. A tournament that highlighted both the beauty and drama of football, and the magic of Maradona. There is also another player that would come along in a World Cup, and who would excite me in a similar fashion. The tournament was France ’98, and the player was O Fenômeno, Ronaldo Luís Nazário de Lima.
Scotland’s World Cup ‘98 team.
Photo Credit: The Scot
The greatest tribute that I can provide to Brazilian Ronaldo (R9) was the sensation of fear that was sensed before Scotland faced Brazil at France ‘98. I am unsure of how others felt at the time, but it is the combination of trepidation and excitement of facing the greatest player in the world that I recall. There is no other player in my football journey that has come remotely near to bringing to the surface the same mixture of emotions as R9. He had just come off an excellent first season with Inter Milan after breaking a world transfer fee, a player at the height of his career and still only 21 years of age. For many younger football supporters it may be difficult to understand how devastating a striker Ronaldo was. He was a truly fabulous player.
All I know and remember is how anxious I was over Scotland facing arguably the greatest player in the world. I had recently begun a new job at the time, and I am sure life did continue for many people in the country. But that particular match seemed to freeze my small nation, where everything seemed to stall, just for a moment, where the tide of time paused. It was Scotland against the greatest, the mighty Brazil, in a World Cup opener. It is difficult to comprehend how unfortunate we were in that game. And there was not a lot to be worried about regarding R9, who did go onto win player of the tournament despite his issues in the final.
From here the journey has been mostly agony, pain and suffering, but my love for this game has not withered. I have seen it grow from a sport in the 80s with endemic issues that it had to tackle, such as old derelict stadiums and hooliganism, to the most popular sport on the planet. This sport has provided me with many great moments, provided me with a connection to my father, and has led to me studying the subject for a PhD.
Over the journey my level of interest and support has fluctuated due to other distractions in life. But I know it is always there, waiting for me to return. Though, in all honesty, of late I have become disillusioned with this great game of ours. Football is increasingly becoming two very differing sports, with the haves and their worldwide supporter base, and the have-nots, who still rely on their local community. I have noticed my attraction and attendance to lower league football growing and other less popular competitions with which I may have a connection.
Stair Park, home of Stranraer FC.
Photo Credit: BBC News
I found myself recently at my local junior side, Lanark United, the town to which we migrated many years ago. It would be years since I visited Moor Park, however the club were chasing promotion, and an invite was forthcoming from the aul lad, so off we went. Although the club lost and missed out on promotion, it was an enjoyable experience, and something I will strive to repeat.
It is these experiences of place and location that define my football identity. The game for me has never been about success or what some may regard as superior football, there are great, good, average and poor matches at all levels. It is and always will be about representation. I have no understanding of why someone from Mumbai or Bangkok follows Manchester United or Liverpool. These clubs have a large enough following to survive no matter what circumstances are thrown their way. Neither is it about solely lower league clubs, but local community clubs need your support no matter their status, whether in Scotland, India or Thailand.
Moor Park, home of Lanark United.
Photo Credit: Brian Martin
During my journey, both metaphorically and literally, I try to attend local matches when possible. Due to marriage, I now have strong connections with the Mexican city Morelia. I have often found a club that is now close to my heart and adds to both my social and cultural identity calling card. Morelia has similar issues to other cities and towns, where locals often do not follow the local side. Whenever I visit, I am often queried why Morelia, why not Club America, or Tigres, or any other larger Mexican club side.
The truth is, I have no connection to these clubs and their locations. Morelia the city is what I know, it is where my wife is from and it is where my relationship and association with the country began. It is through this city that I am now familiar with the country. It is now representative of the history of my family and a vital element of both my football and life journey. It also represents my passions of football and travel. In my voyage, both have provided me with so much, and I have no idea where I would be without either.
Estadio Morelos, Morelia, México.
Photo Credit: Brian Martin
When I began writing this article, I had no concept or idea of the destination. In my research, where I explore media representations, there are also the concepts of identity. We often look to the past for answers to our problems. However, to understand ourselves we must also look to the past. Using nostalgia for the purposes of the article has permitted me to explore myself and how football represents certain and specific elements of identity; the teams I follow, am passionate about and the research I conduct, exploring my historic roots, the migration of my family, my travels, my family relationships.
These indicators tell you a great deal about myself. If I followed and was emotional about Real Madrid, Barcelona or any other super club, it would reveal very little. Taking a closer look at my footballing history and journey allows me to appreciate my identity in greater detail.
It also provides me with the tools to explain how football is about so much more than the glamour we witness through the media. When I began writing this article, I had no concept or idea of the destination. To be honest, I still don’t. My aim was to begin writing with my heart and observe where the words would take me.
It is maybe best to end there. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey.
‘The Fans Are The Club’ sign at Albion Rovers.
Photo Credit: Albion Rovers FC