Ladies and Upton park return

‘All those in favour say aye,’ or was it ‘All those in favour say I?’ 

Team or self? 

‘There’s no ‘I’ in team,’ the motivators smugly quote. 

Well there’s an ‘I’ in side. And there’s ain united. 

We are unfortunately  living in a ‘look at me’ society, where self is all important. All that matters.

Do we need to redefine the word ‘selfish’? Maybe insert a hyphen. Self-ish?

Self. ‘Self importance’ which was once slung about as an insult is now accepted…. even expected as the norm.

No photograph is worth it’s salt unless the ‘takers’ mug (ugly?) is taking the limelight away from the intended subject. (I too am guilty as charged with an unsuspecting kangaroo)

Self.

The first I’d heard about the battle of the sexes fixture was at West Ham Ladies away cup win against Crystal Palace. A fan website with a vested and invested (time-wise) interest in West Ham Ladies had an inkling to get a team up to play them in a charity match at Rush Green. Even I was asked to partake. Me? A Saga holiday  qualifier. What were they thinking?  Whoever thought I would relish the thought of being kicked up in the air by Rosie Missen, or having a clash of heads with Hannah Wheeler, or challenging a fifty fifty with Olivia Sammons, was grossly mistaken.

However, before the idea had had time to germinate it was ironically hijacked and equally ironically  described as ‘ the brainchild of ….…’

Sour grapes were not on the menu. Our pick-and-mix of nobodies was no match for the delectable   (albeit nepotic) gourmet running buffet of D-Z listers. And this feast of football was now to be served up at the Michelin Star rated Upton Park, aka (the recently/historically/romantically ‘entitled’ ) Boleyn Ground, whilst at the same time cocking a snook to the ‘Greasy Spoon’ that was Rush Green .

Where’s the harm? What’s the problem? 

As far as I was concerned the wasn’t any. A game against the Ladies in what was in a way Dad’s back garden would have been fun. 

For them. 

No justification necessary. 

The whole thing was shot in the foot by the (self) promotion on social media, the match being touted as ‘The last time to see the stadium if you didn’t have tickets for the Manchester game which was the ‘last time’ Joe Public could see a match there. I’d already seen the people at  Upton Park who didn’t have tickets. They were the ones lobbing bottles at the Manchester United team bus. And it wasn’t a charity match anymore, it was thinly disguised as a fundraiser. A free entry fundraiser. Maybe it was an exercise to see how far the young pretender’s muscles would flex. Maybe it was because, like a shark, once they had tasted the blood of playing on the Upton Park pitch they had become insatiable.

Self - Even I was being seduced by the notion. From the ‘you gotta be kidding me!’  I went to offering to go in goal (10 minutes max). History. Sod that. I was dreaming of my Warhol quarter of an hour (minus 5). I’d already come out for a cross (punching it clear) in my sleep.

The first murmurs of unrest doubted the ethos of the fixture, rightly or wrongly, and envisioned it marring the memory of the ceremonial beauty (apart from the bloody awful ‘Rejects’) and historical implication of the official farewell. Dancing over a grave?

Trivially and trivia (lly) all I could think was that if the game did go ahead, it would feature in pub quizzes for years and years to come taking the place of Alvin Martin’s anomaly of a hat trick.

An internet argument ensued. 

Internet arguments are pointless. After two or three exchanges they become personal, sexist or racist. Or all three. Internet ‘discussions’ are playground fights at best.

This is the point where the grown ups in charge should have stepped in and made a decision.

They didn’t.

There was a referendum instead. 

It was ‘Let the Ladies play’ against ‘ Preserve the men’s place in history.’

Internet polls require no effort, no passion or any deliberation from the voter. Click a box in the time it takes for the next level of Candy Crush to load. 

Who would vote?

The  likers vote for. The likers ‘friends’ vote for. They’ve been tagged (begged). They don’t know all the ins and outs, but  by clicking the thumb(s) up they’ve lended (sic) moral support. Lended. Not given. They expect it back…forget to retweet their retweets at your peril.

The haters vote against. Haters are half glass merchants. Against the grain spoilers. Keyboard crusaders out (in) on a mission. They have an uncanny ability, nay, superpower to know exactly what’s right (never) and what’s wrong (always). Haters are unrelenting. Likers relent. Haters rant like demented Wicked Witches of the West (www.) at their flat screen spittoons, dishing out curses and fatwas to all and sundry. Likers shrug a philosophical ‘Oh well’ and get on with their advocations of cute pet video shorts.

The votes were in and counted and so were the chickens.

It was David (not that one…. or the other one) versus Goliath.’

Apparently David has more friends than Goliath, there was no need for any secret weapons.

This was a victory of Pankhurst proportions… or was it? 

Before you could say open top bus…… it was off.

The ‘grown ups’ finally stepped in.

The gods had spoken. The Demi-god had been overruled. 

As a staunch supporter of both teams, I was a bit saddened that it had come to this. The hard work that goes into running and maintaining the ladies club, the Chairmen with their generosity and personal hours of devotion and over a hundred players of all ages on the books, was being over shadowed by an unnecessary crass debate. 

12,000 votes were cast. It was close. 52% - 48%. Which meant 6,240 voted for the Ladies (average home attendance 50). Surely these voters could show their support by actually going to a (insert swear word out of frustration) game. That would definitely tick the box.

The Ladies team is a butterfly, fluttering free, occasionally resting on the shoulder of the club and not a fly in the ointment in which they were in danger of fast becoming. As a supporter and a reporter I really hope that one day soon the Ladies team will be completely fusion welded to West Ham United Football Club instead of just being Claret and Blu-tacked on the periphery.

Peace.