Finding my colours

I knew Tottenham Hotspur had arrived before I had even reached my seat. Not because I had seen the team. Because I had seen the queue.

The longest queue on the concourse was not for burgers, beer or coffee. It was for the merchandise store. Staff were controlling how many people could enter at once, while a significant line formed outside. I had expected people to buy food before the match. I had not expected buying a shirt to be the priority.

Then I started noticing the shirts already being worn. White Tottenham shirts, old and new. Plenty of Sydney FC sky blue. A Chelsea shirt. A Socceroos jersey. Even an All Blacks top that made me look twice.

There were also plenty of people wearing nothing football-related at all, just jackets zipped up against a cold Sydney evening. It left me wondering about something I had never really considered before. When a club like Tottenham visits Australia, what exactly are people saying with the shirt they choose to wear? Or choose not to wear.

The question stayed with me through the warm-up.

Behind me sat a British couple who had flown over from Auckland. It was their second Tottenham match in a week after watching them there as well. The husband casually mentioned that he had supported Spurs for decades. There was nothing remarkable in the way he said it. This was simply what supporters did when the opportunity came along.

Around the ground, pockets of Tottenham fans already knew the songs. They recognised players before the stadium announcer said their names and sang together without needing to be prompted. It made the match more enjoyable. It was also mildly irritating when you were supporting the opposition.

At one point, a lone trumpet player started one of the tunes. The Tottenham supporters joined in, sang the song and then, as chants usually do, gradually moved on. The trumpet player did not. He kept playing through the silence that followed, long enough that even some of the Spurs supporters appeared ready for him to stop.

I realised I was watching them almost as much as the football. Not because I wanted Tottenham to win. Quite the opposite.

I have supported Sydney FC for years and recently became a member. Walking into this part of the stadium felt different knowing these would become my seats for the season ahead. They were not simply good seats near halfway anymore. They were my seats.

When Sydney pressed forward, I found myself encouraging them a little louder. When a decision went against us, I joined the groans around me without thinking. Somewhere along the way, supporting had become participation.

Nobody hands you a manual when you become a member. You simply begin to feel that cheering, applauding, encouraging and, occasionally, letting the referee know exactly what you think has become part of the job.

The football itself was fascinating. Tottenham moved the ball with a precision that stood out even during the warm-up. Sydney defended stubbornly and gradually grew into the match. Every time it looked as though Tottenham might pull away, another block or interception kept the contest alive.

Football is comfortable with a draw. Most weeks, that is where the story ends. This night did not. As people began filing towards the exits, the announcement came over the speakers that we would be staying for a penalty shootout. Some kept walking. Most turned back towards their seats. The shootout finally separated the teams, although the result never really felt as though it explained the evening.

I kept thinking about the people instead. Thousands of us had made the trip on a cold school night. Some had come from the other side of Sydney. Some from interstate. At least a couple from New Zealand.

After the final whistle, we all disappeared again onto different trains heading in different directions.