When I was a young lad, my dad would pull on a thick coat and a black and white scarf and disappear every Sunday for a few hours from lunchtime and return home around 6 o’clock smelling vaguely of beer, cigarette smoke and would sometimes be in a good mood.  

My sister and I never really understood where he went and when we asked, we were told, “Boulevard” as if that explained everything.

 

It was only when I was a little older and the kids at school divided themselves into two distinct factions; red and white or black and white that I became familiar with rugby league.   There were the usual playground squabbles over which team was better – usually whoever had won the weekend before.

 

My family was black and white through and through. Dad was a supporter since the 1950s and his mum before him was even earlier than that, so by dint of simple family tradition, it meant I was also a Hull FC fan by birthright and would face being ostracized if I went the other way.

 

I wasn’t allowed to go to games until I was 10 years old, for some reason, but once hitting that milestone, I could be trusted to sit quietly with a Panda Pop and bag of Tudor crisps in the Boulevard Clubhouse while dad wandered around a noisy bar-room crammed with bellowing ruddy-faced men all wearing black and white scarves, bobble hats and the odd replica shirt.

The bar didn’t seem to have windows or ventilation, because the smoke in there was thick enough to inspire Deep Purple.  There was also a marked absence of females as I recall, apart from bar-staff. 

 

Once dad’s surfeit of pre-match beer was downed, we’d wander to the main gates of the stadium and stand there.   Dad knew one or two of the players, and he’d wait for them to arrive so one of the team would take me through the players entrance as if I was their son and I’d get in for free, thus satisfying my dad’s innate keenness to save a quid.   I was always watched with envious eyes of the other kids as I held the hand of Charlie Stone or was hoisted on the shoulders of Mick Crane and was taken into the ground where I’d head quickly to the turnstiles and wait for my dad.

 

The next part of the match ritual would take place while he hunted for the matchday programme seller, buy his copy and we’d then walk to the place at the end of the ground where he’d stood for many years, acknowledging his friends, workmates and fellow fans with a friendly nod or a shout of, “Now then, Alf” or “Alright, Wack?”

 

At this point, I’d have a wander around the terraces, weaving through the crowd and hoping to find a schoolmate or even some coins that had been dropped by a supporter.  I nearly always got lost and ended up being caught in a crush near the scoreboard while trying to reach a high vantage point and try and get my bearings again, ending up back near my dad just before the teams came out.  

 

For the first few months, I didn’t have much of a clue about the game, the team or what the hell was going on when they all seemed to engage in a merry bout of hitting each other, often running from the far side of the pitch to throw a punch.   It didn’t matter because I loved the smell of the burgers cooking, the swelling noise as the game dictated the spectator’s excitement, and the odd song that drifted across the stadium which brought into question the referees’ parents or the oppositions lack of morals. 

 

Eventually, the hooter sounded for half-time and the Tannoy system crackled into life with the usual “happy birthday” messages, upcoming events and the plea, “could the owner of a Ford Escourt, registration NRH 146M, please return to their vehicle, as it’s on fire”.   Dad would then reach into his pocket, pull out a pound note (You might need to Google that) and send me for food.  I had to go alone so he could save his “spot” and stop other fans standing there. 

I’d head off through the mass of supporters all having the same idea – trying to reach the battered Portacabin behind the Main Stand which had a queue that was, I’d estimate, five miles long.  A few people would also wander furtively around the back of the little refreshment hut and appear a minute later shaking their hands and tugging their trouser zip up.  All very mysterious.

 

The refreshment hut itself was a sight to behold.  It had cigarette burnt floor and walls and an ear-splitting noise from a very dangerous-looking water-boiler for the drinks.   This ancient steampunk device was clearly from a H.G. Wells book and if it exploded would devastate a square mile of the nearby houses.

 

The smoke and steam from the burger grill and chip fryers were enough to melt your bobble-hat and the staff inside looked a little angry and sticky, but I loved it when the queue moved along, and you could stand inside.   I’d finally reach the counter as the crowd-roar went up for the second half to begin.  I’d buy my dad his burger and I would always have my favourite and secret pleasure – a cup of Bovril in a Styrofoam cup with a precarious plastic lid on.  

 

I’d have to slowly carry the food and drink back to the place where I hoped dad would still be and sit on the floor, carefully removing the lid from my drink and the smell of beef would drift out.   The drink itself was pretty weak but in November, it was the heat from the cup you craved in your little ungloved hands.  The Bovril would stay red-hot for about 30 seconds after the lid was removed so you drank it and reached the bottom where, if you were lucky, the undissolved Bovril would leave a residue of dark black goo.  I could dip my finger in and sit with quiet pleasure getting high on the taste of beef extract.

 

Back to the game, and if Hull FC had won, dad would be in a great mood, perhaps getting me a Marathon chocolate bar from the shop on the way back to the car and we’d arrive home to the smell of gravy, roast dinner and the remnants of the post-match commentary on Radio Humberside.

 

Nowadays, the rugby is usually on a Friday night and my dad passed away and went to the celestial Threepenny Stand a couple of years ago, but I have passed on the black and white passion to my own kids.  The Bovril is 4 times the price but is still reassuringly weak and watery though. 

 

Shaun French