I’ve never felt more welcome as a fan than in the Red Wall

I WRITE this in the dim lights of a Boeing 777-417.

Directly to my left, and just a seat to my right, sit two other Welsh football fans.

Seat 16B is also occupied by a Welsh football fan. That’s me. For as long as I remember, I’ve been a sports fan.

My Saturdays were spent checking the Pools, my evenings watching local cricket just up the hill. My Sundays watching Michael Schumacher battle with Mika Hakkinen.

As the youngest of four children I was my dad’s last hope to bring up a Man Utd fan. He succeeded. There were occasional trips to Old Trafford to see a first team game, but when the reserves or youth teams were around, we went to those too.

I remember seeing Jaap Stam in the Trafford Centre, me gawping next to my dad.

I’ve watched Aussie Rules in Melbourne, the Cubs in Chicago and Jamaica and England do battle in the Commonwealth Games netball final in Manchester.

I’ve been a doting sister and girlfriend, stood on the touchline of cold football or cricket pitches watching amateur sport.

On Monday, May 28, as most of you were sleeping, I stood on a bleacher in blazing Californian sun. I was there inside the Red Wall. If Facebook did a status for nationality, mine would be “it’s complicated”.

Of Polish and Irish descent, born in Yorkshire to Lancastrian parents and married to a Welshman, there’s pretty much always someone I can justifiably be cheering for.

I have never, in any of those stadiums I’ve been to, ever felt more at home than the Red Wall.

If you think football fans are hooligans, I get it.

I’ve stood as a terrified teenager and watched Fiorentina fans have to be kept behind a cordon at Old Trafford.

I’ve lost the hand of someone at the railway station and not known where to turn in a sea of, mostly male, middle aged football fans.

I’ve reported on, I’ve watched and I’ve been at derbies that show shameful and criminal behaviour.

I’ve argued in favour of unsegregated rugby fans “getting it” more than the worst of football fans.

I’ve been priced out of getting tickets to see my club team.

And yet, Welsh football – not just because of its recent glory – has helped me fall back in love with the game.

It’s not the ticket prices (but they help) or that the team play on my doorstep (but that helps) but the fans.

At noon on Monday, our group of four entered the Britannia pub in Santa Monica which, quite frankly, had no idea what the heck had hit it. The staff were amused, confused and laughing when they ran out of almost all of their beer.

The Rose Bowl stadium is used to fans – it has a capacity of just over 90,000 and normally hosts UCLA’s American football fans. That day it was taken over by Mexican fans marking their team’s send off to the World Cup. I can confirm they are fans who know how to party. There were costumes, Mariachi bands, and, of course, Mexican waves. There were cheers and songs and proud flag waving.

Fans made a point of walking past us to film us, our chants and hymns.

While there were a few brawls between sets of their fans, inside our merry band there was no trouble, no anger, no resentment.

There was a group of like-minded people, men, women and kids, all stood wearing red and with a common purpose. We were there to support our team. No-one turned to me and asked why I was there. Why I had the shirt on or why my accent was different.

No-one asked the fans in the stadium with their Californian fans or American accents why they were there – for trivia fans, they were mainly expats or those with Welsh ancestry.

The man who walked past trying to start a chant of “oggy oggy oggy” in his American accent wasn’t met with abuse but a sort of shrug of “thanks for being here, but it’s not quite right”.

The dad who told the lady behind he was desperate to get his son a football (not rugby) shirt wasn’t belittled for not being a “true fan” but told they could get him one sent.

We watched a game that may not go down as a classic but we, few hundred, did our best to show why Wales fans are what they are.

They were friends, families and fans all joined together in the Californian sun.

As we left the stadium, we were high fived, fist-pumped and cheered.

We wished Mexicans good luck in the World Cup.

We were there united. Two groups of people who historically have little in common.

Football, sport generally, is divisive but sometimes it shows that it isn’t about what divides us. It’s what brings us together.

I was incredibly proud to stand there with my friends and 82,000 strangers to scream, shout and chant for a squad of players I don’t know, whose birthright I don’t share.

But for whom I will bear a long-haul flight 10 times over because the Red Wall adopted me, took me under their wing and welcomed me.

And despite all that football does wrong, that’s something it can be proud of.