Herne Hill Seagull
Well-known member
Apologies for the self-indulgence, all, to post a blog entry on here, but I'm getting more than a bit excited about the opener on Saturday. If it seems a little overblown, well, sod it, it's how I feel.
Link to blog in my sig if you feel like reading any more.
--------------------
Amex will be the spirit of Albion fans made real
This is being written after midnight on Thursday night/Friday morning of July 28th to 29th. So that means that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, I'll be going to my first ever game at our new stadium. That word is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful to write, because it marks the end of a 14-year period during which we've had no home to call our own.
I've been up to the Amex and had a look from outside, of course. It looks like a beautiful stadium, fit for a club of much higher standing than we've had in the last few years. But much more than that, it stands as a tangible monument to the efforts of so many people who simply would not let this club die, or more accurately be killed. Who simply would not give up, would not go away, would not accept that Archer, Bellotti and Stanley would win, belatedly.
It carries their spirit, embedded in concrete and steel. Its smell will doubtless be of plastic, metal, dust, frying onions, beer and anticipation, at least for the first few weeks. That smell, and that spirit, is deep, richly textured and extremely powerful. It's the spirit of the few who barged the East terrace gate open to gain access to the boycott game free of charge. It's the spirit of all of those who sped across the north-west corner of the hallowed Goldstone turf, towards the directors' box, sending that weasel Bellotti scurrying away, never to return, marking the beginning of the reclamation of our home in those last few games.
It's the spirit of Dick Knight, our club's saviour. Of Fans United, and all the other supporters who backed us. Of Steve Gritt's engineering of a miraculous escape that desperate season of 1996/97. Of dragging our arses to Gillingham once a fortnight to see a poor side in a poor stadium in a grim Medway town (sorry, Gillingham), losing almost every week. Of getting back to Brighton, but putting up with a shambles of a ground which didn't belong to us, filled with seats which didn't belong to us about a mile from a pitch which didn't belong to us. Of Bobby Z banging them in. A trip to Cardiff the epitome of unlikely success, and seasons in the second tier. Successive managers baling out because it seemed like the new home would never come. Of Gary Hart's loyalty through it all.
It's the loved ones' memories of all the fans who've passed on during our homelessness, never to see our new stadium for themselves.
Of writing letters, marching, trying to be imaginative and innovative, never letting the anger or determination die, nor resorting to violence, while at the same time trying to support a club which still had on-field business to attend to. Of the eventual success of a campaign which had seemed to go on forever. Of the new dawn, Gus, Tony Bloom, title glory and beautiful football that most of us had never seen from a Brighton side before.
All of this will seep into the stones of the new stadium and make it our own. This club, and this stadium, is more important to thousands of people than I can possibly do justice to here. It is nothing less than the embodiment of where we've been, where we are, where we're going as a club, and the fight it's taken to achieve it. If I blub when the teams come out of the tunnel and the noise of the crowd rises to acclaim them, now you'll know why.
Link to blog in my sig if you feel like reading any more.
--------------------
Amex will be the spirit of Albion fans made real
This is being written after midnight on Thursday night/Friday morning of July 28th to 29th. So that means that tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, I'll be going to my first ever game at our new stadium. That word is beautiful. Absolutely beautiful to write, because it marks the end of a 14-year period during which we've had no home to call our own.
I've been up to the Amex and had a look from outside, of course. It looks like a beautiful stadium, fit for a club of much higher standing than we've had in the last few years. But much more than that, it stands as a tangible monument to the efforts of so many people who simply would not let this club die, or more accurately be killed. Who simply would not give up, would not go away, would not accept that Archer, Bellotti and Stanley would win, belatedly.
It carries their spirit, embedded in concrete and steel. Its smell will doubtless be of plastic, metal, dust, frying onions, beer and anticipation, at least for the first few weeks. That smell, and that spirit, is deep, richly textured and extremely powerful. It's the spirit of the few who barged the East terrace gate open to gain access to the boycott game free of charge. It's the spirit of all of those who sped across the north-west corner of the hallowed Goldstone turf, towards the directors' box, sending that weasel Bellotti scurrying away, never to return, marking the beginning of the reclamation of our home in those last few games.
It's the spirit of Dick Knight, our club's saviour. Of Fans United, and all the other supporters who backed us. Of Steve Gritt's engineering of a miraculous escape that desperate season of 1996/97. Of dragging our arses to Gillingham once a fortnight to see a poor side in a poor stadium in a grim Medway town (sorry, Gillingham), losing almost every week. Of getting back to Brighton, but putting up with a shambles of a ground which didn't belong to us, filled with seats which didn't belong to us about a mile from a pitch which didn't belong to us. Of Bobby Z banging them in. A trip to Cardiff the epitome of unlikely success, and seasons in the second tier. Successive managers baling out because it seemed like the new home would never come. Of Gary Hart's loyalty through it all.
It's the loved ones' memories of all the fans who've passed on during our homelessness, never to see our new stadium for themselves.
Of writing letters, marching, trying to be imaginative and innovative, never letting the anger or determination die, nor resorting to violence, while at the same time trying to support a club which still had on-field business to attend to. Of the eventual success of a campaign which had seemed to go on forever. Of the new dawn, Gus, Tony Bloom, title glory and beautiful football that most of us had never seen from a Brighton side before.
All of this will seep into the stones of the new stadium and make it our own. This club, and this stadium, is more important to thousands of people than I can possibly do justice to here. It is nothing less than the embodiment of where we've been, where we are, where we're going as a club, and the fight it's taken to achieve it. If I blub when the teams come out of the tunnel and the noise of the crowd rises to acclaim them, now you'll know why.
