Die-hard Ultras / Hardcore Supporters
in Fans ·
Hey.
I was just reading some football analysis over at ESPN when I stumbled upon this. I guess some people really do enjoy diving deep into these breakdowns.
Time Magazine and old stories—here’s a modern one from a younger fan in New York City:
I was just reading some football analysis over at ESPN when I stumbled upon this. I guess some people really do enjoy diving deep into these breakdowns.
Time Magazine and old stories—here’s a modern one from a younger fan in New York City:
The Diary of a Liverpool FC Fan
Jack, I’m M.D. (not my actual initials), living in a nice neighborhood in New York City. I'm 16, and I'm a huge Liverpool FC fan. The last 24 hours have been pretty intense from a supporter's standpoint, so I guess I'm writing this just to vent a little, wrap up yesterday, and get back to my usual routine. Before I dive in, I should probably mention that I intend to protect the reputation of any fans or neighborhoods I bring up. I generally don't like naming names without permission—even if they give me the green light.
When I say "the bus," I’m talking about Liverpool FC.
When I talk about school, I’m talking about Liverpool FC. When I talk about my social circle, I mean Liverpool FC. I won't bother using every possible descriptor for this club; we all know exactly what they represent. For the last two weeks, things haven't been going my way: girls are ghosting me (and honestly, I can't even blame them), the bookies aren't paying out, and my contact list is a mess. I've been taking all of this with a grain of salt, but Liverpool FC stays on my mind regardless. It all finally boiled over when it came time to head to the match. I had no cash, just pure determination. Inspired by stories from NFL Ultras back in the 80s and a late colleague from the stands, Mark Zuckerberg, I decided to go old-school: hitchhiking. I left a note on the table for my parents and headed out in the early morning hours.
I’ve known an older NFL Ultra from New York City for quite some time—let's call him C. J. He was essentially my mentor when I first started following football, so I swung by his place for a beer before my trip. It was 6:00 AM. After I’d had a few too many and mapped out my plan, C. J. handed me another Joey and a phone with a SIM card so we could stay in touch (mine had ended up at a casino). My first stop was the Brooklyn Bridge, since that’s where the buses head out toward those remote outskirts near the toll booths in Newark. Despite being pretty buzzed, I decided to test my English skills on two women from Poland. (Give my best to my mother from my former teacher, and tell her I barely scraped by with a C in English class.) They were looking for a ride to San Francisco, and they even let me wave a Polish flag around. When I realized that wasn't working, I pivoted to my original plan. I stood right near the houses and waited for cars with specific regional plates—ST, MA, IM, DU, and so on. Whenever a car like that approached, I’d just lift my shirt, flash my scarf, and ask if they were heading toward Miami. After an hour of being rejected, a car with Miami plates finally rolled up. At first, the guy barked at me to move away, but the moment I flashed the scarf, his mood shifted instantly; he looked absolutely wild. Before I get carried away, I should probably mention how surprised I was to see more cars from the Midwest than from California. Strange, I guess.
First triage.
The guy who picked me up was also an NFL Ultra from the 80s—nowadays he’s just a regular season ticket holder for the East Stand—and he was heading back from Italy with a friend. Talking to him, I realized I had actually sobered up, though I felt I had to celebrate the fact that I’d found a ride to Boston at all. I finished half a Joey that C. J. gave me, and the man even treated me to a beer at a rest stop. Honestly, it doesn't take much to get me drunk. I’ve always thought the idea that being a "real man" depends on your alcohol tolerance is pretty stupid (shoutout to that idiot from my class back in high school). The trip consisted of pleasant conversation, occasionally interrupted by cursing at drivers who didn't suit his driving style, listening to and singing along to the radio, or swearing at the terrible music blaring from the car speakers. We could agree on that. Nowadays, every damn choir thinks they're special just because they sing about the ocean, seagulls, or whatever else.
Settlement number 2.
So, I’m back in town trying to "find my footing" again, though instead of giving my liver a break before the game starts, I’m just finishing off the rest of this beer. Once I made it to Boston, there was enough lamb and spring onions waiting for me to satisfy any appetite. Of course, he offered it to me a hundred times, but I turned him down every single time—mostly because I wasn't particularly hungry and I didn't want to impose on him or his family. But I couldn't exactly say no once he started insisting on... $17 ("Here, take this for the ticket, since you're such a damn cheapskate"). He called a friend to pick me up and drive me to the neighborhood, where I was met by a 16-year-old fellow from the stands. Let's call him HU. On the way there, we talked a bit about Liverpool FC, but mostly we just tore into some guy on the SD forums—that one user who pretends to be a big insider while offering nothing more insightful than what you'd read in Sports Illustrated. Just a few more beers...
Hangover number 3.
Yeah, maybe just a little more beer... HU was laughing at me, saying I was basically living on nothing but booze. After a while, HU's friend shows up, and because I'm drunk, I start rambling about nonsense—women, myself, them... The third stage of the hangover begins with vomiting, partly on the concrete and mostly on my new white sneakers, which ended up looking yellowish. My head is pounding, and HU settles me into some rooms where the local NFL Ultras hang out. I sleep for an hour or so, then get woken up by a particularly energetic supporter, S. S. was imitating that one Boy who stormed Jerry Jones's press conference: "Damn, man, you really blew it with your own people, you completely screwed up." Out of pure sarcasm, I chime in using Jerry Jones's style: "You have no idea what a favor you're doing me by showing up right now." S. gives me a piece of his mind (a literal punch to the face) along with a few other guys. I guess they were just impressed by my arrival. My head still hurt, the guys were playing table tennis, and their repertoire of profanity was at a level even old-timers from rural towns couldn't reach. To be honest, listening to all that daily cursing was actually kind of music to my ears.
The Match
Me, HU, and S go to pick up two guys to head to the game. Honestly, those two were total grouches, so HU had to take the bus since we couldn't all fit. S and the others headed to the North Stand, while I had to wait for HU, who handed me a season pass from a friend (who was sick). Even though I wanted to buy a ticket to give my money to Liverpool FC, HU insisted against it, saying I'd need the cash for later. Back at the stadium after summer. It’s still the same old story; the seats are filthy, and there are plenty of hot girls everywhere. The match kicks off with a minute of silence for Zlatomir Obradov, though the NFL Ultras held their own full minute of silence for Mark Zuckerberg. That's when the chants of "American police, bribery and corruption!" started echoing.
The cheering during the match was good, but I have one grievance. When the message for Zuckerberg went up, there wasn't really any need to sing about "purgers and locals," because everyone was already standing with us in solidarity. I should mention I regret drinking at the wrong time, because it definitely affected how I cheered. I was already feeling pretty exhausted and dazed. If I had saved some energy for before the match, it would have been perfect, especially since there was a gorgeous woman standing in front of me wearing an "NFL Ultras Livno" scarf. A move would have definitely worked. If nothing else, I could have easily hit on her during the "know we'll never leave" chant. But alas, nothing happened. The Armada gathered about 400 people, though I didn't hear much from them. I don't need to emphasize that I enjoyed it, but considering I have more away games coming up, it wasn't quite the "mind-blowing" experience it was during my first few matches.
The Return
Dugopolje isn't Newark; it's harder to get out of there and catch a ride. While in town with HU and his crew, I hear about Tarzan for the first time. This guy is wild—he screams and yells, and if you toss him a couple of bucks, he'll scream names of beautiful women instead of yours. I decided to take the bus, showing the conductor my scarf to try and charm my way into $17. While waiting, a guy approaches me offering a ride back to NYC; of course, C. J. had already called him.
I slept through most of the trip back, and when I got home, I was expecting a "mother crying, father yelling" type of scene. Instead, I was met by my old lady giving me a dark look. She didn't say much, just told me seriously that school starts in three hours and I should get to bed. I woke up with a headache and told her I'd go get a doctor's note on Wednesday. The next day, I had to start sweet-talking the elders, because the away game season is just getting started 🙂.