Hip to be Square

My very first memory of attending a football match, like so many others', contains virtually no details about the goals, nor the scoreline, nor the players, nor even who we were playing. These details, these statistics, these facts have been pushed aside and replaced by the sense of awe, the feeling of wonderment, the overpowering synæsthesia of multi-coloured scarves and burger-van smells.

For my very first game, my dad took me to the Watling Street ground. It was (still is) three streets away from our house, but I was spared the arduous five minute walk and treated to being carried on his shoulders instead. This is where my memory begins:

As we turned onto Watling Street, I was met with an incredible sight. Hundreds of people were walking down the pavements, dozens more weaving in-between the passing buses and cars. From every side road, from every footpath, from every gap in the fence, people formed a human river, flowing steadily towards the turnstiles. I had never seen anything like it.

The queue at the gates heightened my anticipation, and once through, the scene before me was astonishing. From the top of the famous grass bank, the pitch looked a mile long; the people behind the goal seemed so distant it was as though they had barely travelled from their home town to be there.

To my left, the main stand looked capable of holding ten thousand people. It's roof was so high, it looked able to shield the entire pitch from the wind and the rain. The minutes went past, and still the flow of people continued; all around me, people streamed past, eager to reach "their spot".

At kick-off, the atmosphere changed completely. It seemed to me at that moment that every brick, every plank, every concrete block had been carefully positioned to divert your attention towards the pitch; and, on the sound of a whistle, that's precisely what happened. The focus of everyone's attention for the next 45 minutes was the game – everyone, it seemed, except me, who still couldn't help but look. Look at the people! Look at their faces! Look at this place! Look at this ramshackle Cathedral.

· · ·

Today, you'll find houses where the Watling Street ground once stood. It wouldn't be long after my first visit to that ground that it would have to be sold. Without it, it was impossible to continue. The football club was dead, but the spirit and the passion it stirred in hundreds of the fans could not be extinguished so easily.

The story of how an intrepid band of supporters rescued my club is one that I need to dedicate some time to in order to tell. I cannot do it justice in a couple of paragraphs. In the later years, I played the smallest of parts in the story, too. Throughout, the aim was simple and clear. Our club did not deserve to be homeless. Our club did not deserve to be languishing in lower-non-league obscurity. Our club and our town deserved better.

I have written before about the overwhelmingly positive impact that having our own stadium has had on the club and the wider community. Determination and volunteer work can only get you so far. Football today is a business, and you need stronger assets than good intentions to progress. Princes Park has been the springboard to our recent success.

That success was duly rewarded last weekend. Dartford won the Isthmian Premier League title and automatic promotion to the Conference South (aka Blue Square South). It is a fantastic achievement for all concerned, and we must be sure to make the most of every single new opportunity it presents. Next season will be tough, but if there's one club that knows a thing or two about overcoming adversity, it is surely the Dartford Football Club.

Pride comes in two colours: black and white.