The author recounts a morning encounter with an elderly man walking along the A4, initially mistaking him for a lonely, lost soul. The realization that the man was wearing a Brentford FC shirt and heading to a supporters’ coach for a game in Sunderland transformed the author’s perception. From pity, the author moved to envy, appreciating the camaraderie and shared passion of football supporters, even in defeat.
The clock struck 6 am on a gray Saturday as I drove west from London, the A4 humming beneath the M4 – a congested corridor where two roads squeeze into the same airspace. It's a rather depressing area. Even at midday, the sun struggles to penetrate the gloom. What’s worse, there are makeshift shelters constructed from scrap wood. It’s a sad sight.
It's no place for anyone to sleep, and certainly not a pedestrian-friendly zone, especially at that ungodly hour. Yet, there he was, an elderly man carrying a shopping bag, walking slowly. My initial reaction was sympathy for this seemingly lost soul.
I couldn't help but wonder about his story, how he ended up in such a desolate situation. Shortly after passing him, a red light forced me to stop. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I noticed something different in his gait. Despite his slow pace, there was a sense of purpose in his walk. He didn't seem like someone aimlessly wandering without a destination. Then, as the lights changed and I drove on, I saw it: a red and white football shirt. Suddenly, the scene transformed.
We were near Brentford FC's stadium, and I remembered they were playing Sunderland that day. It dawned on me that this man was likely headed to the ground to catch a ride on a supporters' club coach heading to the match. What I earlier perceived as an image of loneliness was now something completely different.
Now, some might feel even more sorry for him, questioning his sanity. A 600-mile round trip to watch a football match? Madness, they might say. But for me, he had gone from the loneliest man in the world to someone who, at least for that day, would be surrounded by camaraderie. My pity quickly turned to envy.
I've spent countless Saturdays on similar coach trips, supporting my team, West Bromwich Albion. I remember going as a child with my grandad, overflowing with excitement. And countless times since. While I still feel that excitement today, my expectations of victory have tempered somewhat. The real joy lies not just in the match itself, but in the shared journey. Each coach carries a diverse group of supporters, from young kids to seasoned veterans, many of whom know each other well.
Based on my experience, these coaches share a common character, regardless of the club they support. There are those who haven't missed an away game in decades. There's always someone convinced of victory, no matter the opponent. And someone else, like me, who expects defeat, regardless of the odds. Some passengers never stop talking, while others remain silent. Someone usually brings cakes to share. Every weekend, it's a comforting thought knowing these travelling communities crisscross the country.
That Saturday evening, I checked the Brentford result. Despite taking the lead with 20 minutes remaining – a brief moment of joy – they quickly conceded an equalizer. Then, Sunderland scored again in the dying moments, snatching victory. A crushing defeat. Trust me, the journey home from Sunderland after a loss like that is always arduous, no matter where you're headed.
As I went to bed near midnight, I imagined that man trudging home along the same road, his posture even more hunched, his shopping bag empty, but his heart already set on the next game.