Chapter 301: The Den I

The skip went into the hold of the team coach at 10 to 9 the next morning with the 3 still on top. Stan watched it all the way in, shut the hold door himself, clack, and kept his hand on it till the driver started the engine.

At half past 10 our 6 supporters’ coaches stood where it had been, all the way down Marsh Road, with their engines running, rumble. I was on the first one. Margaret had the seat across the aisle, with the police letter in a plastic wallet on her knee.

"They meet us on the far side of the Blackwall Tunnel at 12," she said, loud enough for the first 6 rows. "2 vans and 4 motorbikes. We follow them in. Nobody gets off this coach till we are inside the cordon at the ground. Nobody."

"I have been told that at every ground I have been to since 1958," said Ted, from the window seat 2 rows back, with his stick between his knees.

"Then you will know it is true, Ted."

Terry Brennan sat in front of Ted in a club tie, because it was the first day, with his wife Pauline beside him. Kelly’s lad and his friends had the back seat and a drum.

"Is it right Charlie is on the bench?" the lad called down the coach.

"Who told you that?"

"Kieran told his mum, Mr Mercer. Everybody knows."

"It is Craig’s team. He names it at 2."

"If it is the Scottish lad, I am not singing for him. Not today."

"You sang for him at Saltcote," said the boy next to him.

"That was a friendly."

"Leave the poor lad alone till he has kicked a ball," said Pauline, without turning round.

"Charlie has been here since we were non-league," said Kelly’s lad. "That is all I am saying."

"And the Scottish lad has been here a month," said Ted, to the window. "Give him till Christmas, son. Then say it."

The drum stopped somewhere past the Dartford turn, and we went down into the Blackwall Tunnel with the tiles going past the windows.

"40 years I have followed this club," said Terry. "I never once thought I would be on a coach to Millwall for a league game."

"Is that good or bad?" said Pauline.

"Good. I am frightened to death, and it is good."

The police were where Margaret’s letter said they would be. 2 vans pulled out in front of us, the motorbikes came alongside, and our 6 coaches went through South London in a line, with a siren at every junction, whoop, whoop.

A man outside a cafe lifted his mug to us. A lad on a wall gave us 2 fingers and a grin, and the back seat gave it him back.

"Sit down," said Margaret, "all of you," and they sat down.

"Are they like this everywhere?" Pauline asked her. "The police?"

"Not everywhere," said Margaret. "Here, yes."

At the last set of lights a policeman on a motorbike rode alongside the back window and tapped on the glass. "Keep it in the coach, lads," he said. "Sing all you like. Keep it in the coach."

"TIL-BROOK! TIL-BROOK!" sang the back seat, sitting down.

The Den came up out of the railway arches, square and blue, with the sun on its roof. We went in through the cordon, and the coach doors went, pssshh, and 300 of us got off under the eyes of 40 policemen.

The rest of our 1,600 were coming along the walkway from South Bermondsey station, or were in already.

A sergeant with a clipboard met Margaret at the coach door. "Margaret Bell? From Tilbrook? We had your list of coaches and the times. Thank you for that. Most clubs do not bother."

"We will want them back at 5 past 5," said Margaret, "in the same order." Then, to us: "Turnstiles to the left, everybody. Upper tier. Ted, there are a lot of stairs."

"There always are," said Ted. He looked at my club tie. "Go on, then. Do it properly."

I left them at the turnstiles, clack-clack-clack, and went round the outside of the ground. I had promised Margaret I would take tea in their boardroom at 2, on the first day.

Outside their boardroom hung a photograph of the Isle of Dogs factory whose men had started the club in 1885.

One of their directors met me at the door, a woman of about 60 with a small gold lion on her lapel.

"Welcome to the Championship, Mr Mercer," she said. "1,600 of yours, they tell me. On the first day."

"We asked for more."

"Everybody asks for more for the Den. This ground is 20 years old tomorrow. The club is 128." She took me to the window with my cup. "And your ground? Is it yours?"

"It cannot be mortgaged. There is a covenant on it from 1923. And since May it cannot be sold unless our supporters’ trust says yes."

"Then you are luckier than us."

She pointed past the railway arches at a car park, a row of warehouses and the low community hall next to the ground. "All of that, round us. The council has had a developer drawing flats on it since last year. Every time I come in, the drawings have moved a block nearer."

In the life before, 3 years from that afternoon, in September 2016, the council’s cabinet voted to take the land round the Den and sell it to that developer. Millwall’s supporters fought it all winter, and in the January the council gave it up.

I looked at the car park for longer than she expected.

"Does the land belong to you?" I said.

"Some of it we lease. They know that."

"Keep hold of it."

"We intend to." She put her cup down on its saucer. "Will you sit with us for the game? The seats are good."

"Thank you. I will go and stand with ours, if you do not mind. It is our first day up here."

"Mind the stairs, then. They are steep in the North Stand."

They were. I got to the top of the upper tier as the teams came out, and 11,000 people sang the club song at us, the one they sing as the teams walk out, every one of them with an arm up at the end. The concrete under my feet shook with it.

"Listen to them," said Pauline. "Terry. Listen to them."

"Then sing," said Terry. "SING."

1,600 of us answered.

"TIL-BROOK! TIL-BROOK! TIL-BROOK!"

Then the tide song, the whole upper tier at once. Kelly’s lad was at the end of a row with his arms up, and Terry sang it with his eyes shut.

Ted sat in his seat 4 rows down with both hands on his stick and sang every word. When it finished he looked back over his shoulder for me.

"Seats," he said. "Every ground we go to now, they give me a seat."

"Stand up when we score."

"I will."

Down by the corner flag below us, Charlie Rudd was already warming up by himself with the 3 under his training top. The home stand along the side saw him first.

"WHO ARE YA? WHO ARE YA?"

Rudd ran to the halfway line and back and did not look up. Kelly’s lad climbed on the back of the seat in front and started Charlie’s song, and our end took it up and sang it till the kick-off.

"We are singing for Charlie till he comes on," the lad told the boy next to him.

"What if he does not come on?"

"Then we sing for him till the coach."

The referee blew, peeep, and Tilbrook Town kicked off their first game in the Championship.

For 10 minutes Millwall came at us down both sides with the noise behind them. In the fourth minute their wide man on the right picked it up 30 yards out and shaped to come inside onto his left foot, the way Charlie had written it down.

Robertson stood off him, a yard to the inside, with his body turned, and showed him the line. The wide man took the line. He got to the byline and crossed it with his right, and it went over everybody and into the side netting, swish.

"THAT IS IT, ANDY, SON!" Terry was shouting at a boy 40 yards away. "THAT IS IT!"

"He cannot hear you, Terry," said Pauline.

"He knows."

By the quarter-hour the home stand along that touchline had found him. Every time he touched the ball they booed him, whoooo, the whole length of the stand. He kept his eyes on the wide man and never once looked up at them.

On 18 minutes their centre-forward hit one from the edge of the box, and Tom Braithwaite went full length and tipped it round the post, thwack of the glove.

"BRAITH-WAITE! BRAITH-WAITE!"

"GOOD LAD, TOM!" Ted was half out of his seat. "GOOD LAD!"

Harry headed the corner away, thock, and the Den roared at that too.

On 27 minutes N’Golo took the ball off their midfielder’s toes on the halfway line and gave it to Riyad without looking. Riyad turned his full-back inside out on the touchline, once and then again, and slid it into the space behind their back 4.

Jamie was already running. He took one touch to get it out of his feet and hit it with the second, low across the keeper, thump, in off the inside of the far post.

The upper tier went up. We were on our feet already, and we went up again, and the floor of that stand banged under us like a drum, bang bang bang bang.

Terry had me round the neck, and I had hold of the rail in front with both hands and was shouting Jamie’s name with the rest of them.

"VAR-DY! VAR-DY! VAR-DY!"

"WE ARE TIL-BROOK! WE ARE TOP OF THE LEAGUE!"

"We are as well," said Pauline, laughing. "For about an hour."

At the far end Jamie stood with one finger pointing at the sky until the others got to him. 4 rows down, Ted was on his feet with his stick in the air, and he made sure I had seen.

"I said I would!"

The Den got louder. They sang No One Likes Us, the one every ground in England knows them for, and the stand along the side was still singing it when the ball went back to the centre spot.

"Louder than them!" Kelly’s lad was shouting along the row. "Sing louder than them!"

"We cannot, son," said Terry. "There are 11,000 of them."

"Then sing anyway!"