1990, another world. My father and I have decided, seemingly without a word being uttered to anyone else, that it’s all very well attending Arsenal home matches but that expansionism is on the agenda. The previous year we took the train to Derby for a memorable (to me at least) 3-1 victory at the Baseball Ground and an end of season 2-2 draw at Carrow Road, Norwich, enlivened by a seemingly endless sing-song to pass the time as we were held hostage by the local constabulary before being released into the heat of the East Anglian summer. I can only assume my own extreme enthusiasm was the reason for an increase in the number of away games.
Regardless of why we were going to these games we were presented with a small but not insurmountable problem. The problem was that I was small and not insurmountable, and in those days away games meant standing on terraces with lots of fully-grown men. To add to the challenge I wanted to stand as close to those making a loud noise as I could.
Dad devised a novel solution. Possibly inspired by the ‘big step’ at the back of the old Clock End terrace at Highbury he used to stand on, he hammered together some old bits of wood that were lying round waiting to be repurposed. This is interesting in itself, as I am now not much younger than he was at the time and have acquired no junk wood, lying round waiting to be repurposed. The wood was fashioned into a block, maybe 50cmx30x20, just large enough for two feet to stand on. As if by magic, I now enjoyed a bonus in the height department when competing for airspace on terraces across the land.
‘The block’ (as in ‘have you got the block?’ And ‘you can carry the bloody block back to the car’) made its debut at Plough Lane, Wimbledon in August 1990. Its magical properties conjured a 3-0 win, including a corking half-volley from Perry ‘El Pel’ Groves. In the midst of this triumph were signs that the block might also prove to be trouble. When a goal went in, the crowd erupted, with the shoving and surging that went with it, and I went tumbling off the block and into the melee. Fighting my way back up to where Dad was stood we both realised the block had gone on its own little adventure and was nowhere to be seen. I went off to look for it and emerged through the bodies after a short time brandishing it in triumph. This happened every time a goal went in that day and on each subsequent occasion.
Taking such an item into football grounds also posed an interesting scenario for the local police. At Nottingham Forest’s away turnstiles, the block was sternly examined by a copper, who was clearly wondering why he should let in something that could be used as an effective projectile to be hurled at opposing supporters. We must have seemed like the right sort of chaps as he let us pass through the turnstiles, though not without admonishing me to grow, so that I could at some future point leave the block behind and not make his job any harder.
Yet it was not just me who found a leg-up useful. At several grounds I fought small battles throughout the match with those next to me who placed one foot on the block, and were clearly considering mounting a hostile takeover of it for their own ends. Sharp elbows and well-timed shoves – usually at exciting moments in play – generally dispatched these ne’er do wells. Go get your own block!
At some point that season we stopped bringing the block. I had grown enough inches to render it necessary, and though it always made it home safe it did add some complications to the simple joy of going to a match. And Arsenal won the league that season, losing only one game in the process, away to Chelsea, when as far as I can recall we did not have the block with us. Make of that what you will.