Thirty years ago today, my life changed. Not quite a meet cute as you’d see in a Nora Ephron film, but a moment that started a love affair that still stands today. One that’s made me laugh, cry, and take a 20-hour day trip to Carlisle.
That’s right, on 17th August 1993 I stepped foot inside Dean Court.
On paper, the experience for nine-year-old me was very different from what my daughter of the same age experienced the first time she walked into the ground a year ago, but I bet the emotions, sensations, and excitement weren’t very far apart at all. For her, the visitors were Aston Villa, star-studded with the South American talents of Philippe Coutinho, Diego Carlos and the soon-to-be World Cup winner, Emi Martinez. For me, Cardiff City, their squad blessed with names that evoke a certain era: Kevin Ratcliffe, Alan Knill, Phil Kite, and the then-prodigious 21-year-old Nathan Blake.
It wasn’t about the players though (bar one, who I’ll get to shortly). The lights, the atmosphere, and the fans (me, my uncle Craig, and 3,052 others) were intoxicating. Live football gives me a feeling that little in life has ever managed to, and I was hooked from my first taste.
Among the scorers that night was another 21-year-old centre forward, our very own Steven Mark Fletcher. I’ve gone into enough detail about him here, but it’s fair to say that nobody in that ground would have anticipated him making over 700 appearances for the club. Almost a constant in my three decades following the club, Fletch remains part of the staff to this day.
Like that first game, though, this isn’t just about players. Sure, there are enough who I’ve idolised. Icons like Eddie, Matt Holland, Marc Pugh, Callum Wilson, and Wade Elliott unite us, but for me it’s those ‘I was there’ players who you wear as a badge of honour in conversation like a priceless retro shirt – Chukki Eribenne, Mo Berthe, Franck Rolling, Callum Hart, Marcos Painter, Christer Warren. But no, it’s not about them. It’s about memories, about friends.
In my early mid-twenties, my weekends were all about football. As luck would dictate, this was a pretty low point for us. Debts, administration and points deductions off the field saw us relegated away at Carlisle in 2008, falling back down to the fourth tier. Despite this, and our football being poor, it’s one of the periods I first thought of when I decided to write this. Despite relegation, the side boasted fans’ favourites spanning different managerial eras – Neil Young, Danny Hollands, Warren Cummings and Brett Pitman, the loanee Max Gradel (who we’d pay £7m for in the Premier League just seven years later) and, remarkably, the Spurs legend Darren Anderton – the last Bournemouth player whose name adorned one of my replica shirts.
The next season brought more lows but with them, perhaps thanks to them, the most pivotal moment in the club’s history. On New Year’s Day 2009, I was painting my nan’s kitchen, listening to Radio Solent as the club sacked the uninspiring Jimmy Quinn. At this point, every permanent manager I’d seen in our dugout had been a former Bournemouth player – Pulis, Machin, O’Driscoll, Bond and Quinn. This habit repeated itself when the board, led by Adam Murry, took a punt and made a young former centre-half our caretaker manager. Step forward, Eddie Howe.
Enough words have been spoken about our rise through the divisions, laurels finally thrown at Howe based on his success with Saudi billions rather than keeping us in the Football League (and in business) with players recruited from the local non-league scene, so I’ll leave that to the professionals.
What excited me most about Howe is that he made Bournemouth feel like the club I fell in love with again. Much like Fletch, he’s a golden thread running through my Bournemouth experience. While his successes will always outweigh those of his predecessors, the principles of Howe’s football echoed those of his former coach, Sean O’Driscoll. Formidable wing partnerships and technically gifted central midfielders feel part of the ‘Bournemouth way’.
While the highlights of recent years are immortalised in pre-match videos, replete with oft-repeated commentary (‘Pugh, that’ll do it’, for one), O’Driscoll’s Bournemouth is responsible for many of the moments seared into my brain. A 5-2 playoff final win in Cardiff is the obvious candidate, but when I think of glorious moments supporting the club, my mind goes back to a match many might have forgotten. A sun-soaked (and probably beer-fuelled) Saturday in September 2004, and a 5-0 win against Doncaster Rovers, a club that would appoint O’Driscoll two years later. It was everything both managers showcased at their best – fast out of the blocks, dynamic, and inventive. If it was a boxing match, they’d have called it three rounds in. In fact, the footballing equivalent pretty much happened. French defender Nicolas Priet was hooked after 21 minutes, having been torn apart by Wade Elliott. By this point, the Cherries were 3-0 up, including our future messiah scoring what became euphemistically known as ‘the Eddie Howe corner’. A ball played flat across the edge of the box and stepped over, lashed home by the golden boy.
Enough indulgence from me. Like all good relationships, my time with AFC Bournemouth wouldn’t be what it is without sacrifice. It wouldn’t exist without Craig, taking his nephew to game after game, patiently explaining the rules, when I’m sure he could have been doing something better with his time, taking me to the training ground to meet the players as a starstruck child. He still gives me lifts home now and is the first person I’ll talk to about anything football-related. My mum, a young, single mum, took me to games, always on foot, always interested, even when Neil Moss wasn’t playing. She queued up, with my poorly baby sister in arms, for four hours to get me and my mates tickets to that playoff final, a day I’ll never forget and wouldn’t have had without her.
It’s a love I’ve shared with everyone close to me. My nan, sisters, cousins, and wife have all been subjected, with mixed results. My sisters sat through a rain-soaked 0-0 draw against Blyth Spartans under the aforementioned Quinn, so it’s no surprise they didn’t get the bug. My nan was a stalwart for some time, even coming with me to watch us lose away to that lot down the round. Most importantly to me, all three of my children have been with me and two are now season ticket holders. Ben fortuitously watched us rise through the Championship and establish ourselves as a Premier League side, and then hopefully do it all over again. He was even an on-pitch flag bearer for our 2-1 win over Van Gaal’s United.
Adoring a football club is a weird experience. It dominates our weekend and, at times, our week. I’ve seen some incredible highs – winning the Championship at the Valley, last day survivals – and remarkable lows – relegations, thumpings, and the entire Paul Groves era – but it’s such a fragile bond. More than once, my club has been on the brink of folding. I’ve seen how much it’s been at the whim of an owner, or an administrator, who didn’t have the club’s wellbeing at heart. It’s a strangely powerless feeling. I tried countering that by serving years as the secretary of our supporters’ trust. I felt no more of a voice. Weird, isn’t it? So much of our identity and happiness is bound up in something outside of our control.
In three decades, the players have changed, as have the kits, the owners, the ground, even the badge. But it’s not about that, is it? It’s about the feeling, the people, the stories, the memories. Football is people. It’s community. My club might belong to Bill Foley, but it lives inside every one of us.
Here’s to the next 30 years.
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