Read all about our visit to Chester FC, of the English fifth tier, for the 'Cross-Border Derby' against Wrexham at the Deva Stadium, Chester.
General Info:
Date of Visit: Saturday, 19.4.14, 12:00
Club Name: Chester FC
Nickname: The Blues, The Seals
Founded: 2010 (after the dissolution of Chester City FC)
Stadium: Deva Stadium, Chester, Capacity: 5,376
League and Rank: Conference National (5th Tier) Rank: 19/24
Official Site | Wikipedia
The Visit
We reached the dark blue gates of the Deva Stadium at around 11:30, with the match due to kick off about half an hour later. We came with high hopes of getting tickets, even though they couldn't be bought in advance online, and despite the police's explicit ban on selling tickets on match day. A well-fed, rosy-cheeked steward wrapped in clingy fluorescent yellow plastic asked us what we were doing there, and we introduced ourselves as having come especially from Israel to see this match. We also said we'd spoken earlier with David Riche, the club's marketing manager. The steward directed us inside to keep waiting in the car park. Mumbling into his radio and the odd disappointed face on his part made us realise this was probably going to be harder than we'd expected… Just how hard, you can read You can read here in the post written before the trip.
Meanwhile, as we waited in the car, we photographed the beautiful stadium from outside, wrapped in blue corrugated metal. We could hear the singing of both sets of fans already seated inside. We could feel the enormous tension of this match deep inside the blue walls. We were ready to do anything to be in there at that moment. Opposite our car were the police officers responsible for securing this complicated event, dressed in fluorescent yellow overalls. There was a sea of yellow before our eyes. More police than fans. Among several squads of junior officers, one officer stood out, equipped with a baton, weapon and handcuffs, holding a video camera as his main weapon. This RoboCop was the one filming the disorder, making sure to identify those responsible and fold them, with moderate violence, into the nearest van. As we discovered that the officer's width exceeded his height, the human robot began advancing towards our car and, identifying himself by name, stuck his head into the car and asked why we were filming him. We explained that we weren't filming him but the stadium walls, and he left us in peace, to everyone's relief.
We kept waiting in the car for a few more minutes while the steward clucked around us, trying to get hold of the honourable Mr Riche, who was taking his time. After a few minutes, the steward told us regretfully that no way had been found to get us in, despite every possible avenue being tried. We'd already started working on our next fiery speech, or on offering the lad a large portion of chips, but then another crackle came over the steward's radio. He turned aside so we couldn't listen and came back with the news that we'd been cleared to buy tickets at the ticket office. To this day we don't know how it was sorted, but Cinderella herself didn't exactly understand back then how mice turn into coachmen and drive a pumpkin carriage, and that's fine. We left the car in England (in the car park) and walked towards the ticket offices, located in another country (Wales). Yes – that sentence can only be said about Chester's stadium, which sits exactly on the geographical border between the two countries. The Blues' stadium rising above us held 5,376 seats, all of them full, and it sounded like it too. We bought tickets for the match at £14 and ran, screaming wildly, towards the standing terrace waiting for us. After overtaking whole groups of hooligans who couldn't believe their eyes, we passed the heavy security checks at the entrance and walked towards the noise.
And at that very moment the match kicked off… The Chester and Wrexham fans were in a frenzy. Thick blue smoke made its way to us on the wind carrying it from one of the nearby stands. We went through the tunnel leading to the stand, and the atmosphere was electric. In front of us the players were running on the pitch: Chester's players in blue and white and Wrexham's in red. Around us, the innards of a volcano about to erupt at any moment. We turned left in the gangway and looked up and back at all the Chester fans who were our neighbours in the stand. They all looked as if marriage within the family were routine around here. All of them short of teeth, short of hair, pink-skinned and hard-up. But all of them with fire in their eyes as they saw what were, to them, the lowest of the low on the pitch – the visitors from Wrexham.
You can read about the long-standing rivalry between the clubs here, but being part of this occasion is something you don't get to experience every day. We positioned ourselves far, far away at one end of the stand so as not to stand out too much among people whose ignition point approached zero, and the five of us stood on the terrace steps. It was a bright, warm day and visibility was great. The midday hour added to the summery atmosphere, and everything was in place – except the standard of football. We still hadn't recovered from Stockport's 0-0 the day before, and here we were again watching a timid match with very few scoring chances and far too many aimless long balls. The more interesting part of the match actually took place behind us and had nothing to do with football – among the local crowd, who never stopped abusing Wrexham's fans and players with literary insults such as: Donkeys, Sheep Shaggers and the most common: Shit. This insult was served in several variations, such as the song 'You're shit and you know you are…' (to the tune of the Pet Shop Boys' Go West), and rhythmic, repetitive shouts of the word again and again: Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! The battalion of police spread along all four sides of the pitch also came in for considerable abuse. Every time a goal threatened for either side, the police spread out across the stands facing the fans, which heated the atmosphere even more. We regretted not having listened a bit more in English lessons at school, and not quite understanding the verbs and adjectives bestowed on a tall, attractive policewoman standing there.
The match went on and the minutes passed, with no real threat recorded at either goal. Chester desperately needed every point because of their uncomfortable position at the bottom of the fifth tier. We expected them to attack in waves, but apparently the fear of conceding outweighed the desire to score. Wrexham were a bit more secure further up the table and looked it on the pitch: it seemed Chester were the emotional, less organised, more creative side, while Wrexham were better drilled as a team and more tactically disciplined. Ahhh, how we prayed for a goal… but the rare miracle didn't happen, and this match too ended 0-0. We were already thinking we wouldn't see a single goal on this tour, with two more matches ahead of us…
After the final whistle, we made our way out of the stadium with the first wave of fans. We headed to the club offices and the club shop to leave our mark. The club shop was almost packed to capacity, as is usual after matches (yes, even at the tail end of the season). We looked for home shirts to buy as souvenirs, but it turns out that towards the end of the season the stock of replica shirts runs out, and it's very hard to find them in the common sizes. Now it was the turn of David Riche, the club's marketing manager, to receive the plaque:
We all went through big wooden doors and informed those standing there of our arrival. One of them went to call the busy David. David came out to us with a fake smile hiding his real thoughts about us: 'Who are these people, and what do they want from me now?'. There we stood, us and him, in the club lobby, in the middle of a big blue carpet, with Chester's blue lion crest stuck on one of the walls. Above big white doors stood another sign: Welcome to Chester FC. David – a young, energetic chap, it seemed, armed with a good suit and of course a tie – apologised that he couldn't spend long with us. He had to announce the man of the match. With no choice, we cut the plaque ceremony to a minimum. David took it with thanks and pulled a business card out of his suit pocket in return. Just like that, so we'd stay in touch. After a few words of thanks and respect he went back to his duties, and we left knowing that another club had received the Cinderellas' welcome. Respect!
