‘HOPPERS’ LIVE TO CREATE MEMORIES
Afriend of a friend lives in a flat above a Domino’s outlet. That sounds like heaven to any pizza devotee – the ability to open a window and let the glorious scent of baked dough and melted cheese waft right in.
But, after just a few days, it became a living hell, the smell absorbed by the very fabric of his house. Unavoidable and inescapable. No amount of carpet fresheners have been able to eradicate it. A pizza is likely to never pass his lips again.
It’s the same for the worker on the conveyor belt at the chocolate factory, allowed to snack on whatever sweet treat passes under their nose. Again, after just a week’s employment, not a single member of the workforce wants to taste chocolate ever again.
But when it comes to football, the notion of ‘too much’ never enters our heads. We just can’t get enough. In particular, those intrepid groundhoppers just can’t get enough. And last weekend they had the chance to fill their boots, to add a further seven grounds to their respective tallies.
Memory
The Western League Hop is now established as a redletter weekend for the hopping fraternity (and I used ‘fraternity’ advisedly; the number of women bouncing from ground to ground was comfortably in single figures). It’s that regular weekend in early autumn when NonLeague’s hopelessly devoted can take in the poetic-sounding likes of Malmesbury Victoria and Buckland Athletic and Oldland Abbotonians – and, more prosaically, Bristol Telephones.
I wrote about groundhoppers in The Bottom Corner, where the seemingly permanently on-tour hopper Chris Freer described the pursuit as “collecting the intangible”. It was a lovely phrase that cut straight to the heart of the entire endeavour.
The pleasure for Freer and his ilk is not in amassing a collection that can be stored in boxes in the loft or displayed behind glass to anyone who shows a vague interest. For him, it’s the accumulation of experience, of knowing he was there. Some might question the purpose of all that effort and all that expense. After all, there’s nothing to show for it, except in the memory bank of the groundhopper himself.
Indeed, were it not for the presence of a smattering of hoppers from across northern Europe last weekend, I’d describe the hobby as quintessentially, eccentrically English. Like bogsnorkling or cheese-rolling – although, in their defence, groundhoppers do suffer way fewer broken bones than those blindly chasing a disc of Cheddar down an impossibly steep hill.
And, for all the eccentrics it attracts, the idea of watching several games within such a short space of time is undeniably appetising for man and boy (again, a phrase used advisedly). This particular hop offered seven matches in 40-odd hours but, allowing for the demands of kids’ football, the 12-year-old and I were only able to take in three Saturday games.
No matter. Those three offered up an aggregate of 11 goals, two penalties, two red cards and a seemingly infinite number of cautions. All the fun of the fair and more besides.
And a groundhop isn’t just about the football. There’s also the between-the-match action where the scramble to get to the next ground resembles a scene from The Cannonball Run. Cars and minibuses take to the roads, eager to beat the crowds to the next ground, aiming to bag a prized spot in the car park and an even more prized spot at the head of the tea-bar queue.
The boy was suitably thrilled by this all-hours drama, even if the ready availability and steady consumption of crisps throughout the day seemed to be marginally more important to him than scrutinising the on-field action.
Still, thanks to the confectionery stall at Hengrove Athletic, I did introduce him to the always-surprising delights of a Picnic bar. And if, in later life, he doesn’t take a job at the chocolate factory, it will join football as a treat he’ll never grow sick of.