Читать книгу No Win Race. A Story of Belonging, Britishness and Sport онлайн

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It started in May when West Ham United, my local football team, won the FA Cup. Football in the late seventies and early eighties was not glamorous. The balls rarely moved, rarely bounced because the pitches were always so muddy. The players didn’t look like athletes: a combination of wild facial hair, unkempt Afros, mullets and perms, thick ‘porn’ ’taches, rolled-down socks and ill-fitting football kits made it unattractive.

Trevor Brooking, the Hammers’ stylish midfielder with the leathery face of a miner, had been one of the few players during that period to shine on those boggy pitches. Brooking scored the winning goal against Cup favourites Arsenal. He was already a hero to football fans in the East End. But when he scored that goal, he became a sporting idol to every East Ender.

After the FA Cup, I spent most of the summer watching sport. Not really by choice. My parents rarely let me out to play in the street. Didn’t know why, but I kind of knew. They never told me directly, but my sisters’ stories revealed that the environment I had been growing up in was violent.