In March, I suffered a loss: the loss of a dear companion that had been at my side for over two decades. I’d spent near enough every other weekend with them, as well as a decent amount of school nights. They’d seen me grow from a prepubescent boy into a mid-thirties grown-up, they’d witnessed my rawest human emotions: from tears to fears; hope and euphoria, and everything in-between.
In March, I lost my football scarf.
Losing a bundle of red and white woolly fibres may seem trivial, and mourning its loss perhaps childish – but do not mistake a football supporter’s scarf for simply being a piece of functional, mass-produced and easily-replaceable clothing, oh no. It holds our club’s history within its threads which absorb the week-to-week drama, on and off the pitch. Pub pongs get entwined and pie grease becomes entrenched in the acrylic, and the superstitious amongst us believe our scarf is innately tied to out club’s fate.
In the opening weeks of the season in 30 degree heat, you carry it with you. Yeah, it’s a hassle but it is ritualistic, and if you leave it at home and your team loses, it’ll be your fault. Eventually, it’s been your match day companion for so long that it feels weird to be without it.
This is how I felt about my scarf. Red, with white ends and ‘Arsenal’ written across the length. I got it in the summer of 2002 from the little club shop behind Highbury’s Clock End. I was 13.
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In March, I suffered a loss: the loss of a dear companion that had been at my side for over two decades. I’d spent near enough every other weekend with them, as well as a decent amount of school nights. They’d seen me grow from a prepubescent boy into a mid-thirties grown-up, they’d witnessed my rawest human emotions: from tears to fears; hope and euphoria, and everything in-between.
In March, I lost my football scarf.
Losing a bundle of red and white woolly fibres may seem trivial, and mourning its loss perhaps childish – but do not mistake a football supporter’s scarf for simply being a piece of functional, mass-produced and easily-replaceable clothing, oh no. It holds our club’s history within its threads which absorb the week-to-week drama, on and off the pitch. Pub pongs get entwined and pie grease becomes entrenched in the acrylic, and the superstitious amongst us believe our scarf is innately tied to out club’s fate.
In the opening weeks of the season in 30 degree heat, you carry it with you. Yeah, it’s a hassle but it is ritualistic, and if you leave it at home and your team loses, it’ll be your fault. Eventually, it’s been your match day companion for so long that it feels weird to be without it.
This is how I felt about my scarf. Red, with white ends and ‘Arsenal’ written across the length. I got it in the summer of 2002 from the little club shop behind Highbury’s Clock End. I was 13.
Do not mistake a football supporter’s scarf for simply being a piece of functional, mass-produced and easily-replaceable clothing. It holds our club’s history within its threads which absorb the week-to-week drama, on and off the pitch. Pub pongs get entwined and pie grease becomes entrenched in the acrylic, and the superstitious amongst us believe our scarf is innately tied to out club’s fate.
Over the years, I’ve met many people at matches who have become friends, but you don’t always know who you’ll see at any given match. My scarf was my closest, most reliable match-day buddy: 22 years of rapturous wins, crushing defeats, youth games and cup finals. I’d cling to it in nervy periods of play, or a penalty (for or against), or Arsenal were holding on for a result by their fingernails.
It fluttered out of my dad’s car window on my formative, wide-eyed weekends as a match-going fan. I feared the wind would snatch it, so I’d clamp it between the glass and the frame too tightly and it left a permanent scar: its white tassels became frayed at one end. My dad passed away in 2014, and whenever I saw those frays, I’d think of those car journeys. And, of him. Those frayed tassels brought back memories of XFM on Dad’s car radio; finding a parking spot around Clissold Park; pre-match chips and Dad chuckling his way through every unsavoury chant.
After my dad died, the first photo that was taken of me is on Wembley Way before an FA Cup semi-final against Wigan. In it, I’m smiling again and my scarf hangs around my neck. Arsenal won that game, and we went on to beat Hull in the final. Me and my mum went to the trophy parade. There’s a photo of us, smiling, under a blindingly blue sky: me with my scarf, her with a photo of my dad in her hand.
After my dad died, the first photo that was taken of me is before an FA Cup semi-final. In it, I’m smiling and my scarf hangs around my neck. Arsenal went on to win the Cup and I went to the trophy parade with my mum. There’s a photo of us, smiling, under a blindingly blue sky: me with my scarf, her with a photo of my dad in her hand.
Unbeknown to me, I still had another ten years left with that scarf.
I’d thought about retiring it before its disappearance this year. I’d wondered if it might be the right time when it turned 20 years old. I remember thinking that if anything happened to it, I’d be gutted, but my brain went on to justify giving it one more season because no other scarf was as good. We’d come too far. We had too much history.
It was so intrinsically linked to me that it eventually became a bit of a joke. At the pub before games, my mates would feign panic if they thought I didn’t have it with me – but of course I did. It was just hidden from sight under my coat, or just over there on the seat, or just tucked safely in my inside coat pocket.
Until the night wasn’t.
I’ve got a new scarf now. It felt odd at first: hard, cold, sterile. But it’s grown on me. In time, it’ll feel weird to be without it.
It vanished after Brentford at home on Saturday 9 March, 2024, on the London Overground, somewhere between Canonbury and Surrey Quays.
A month on, I posted a loving eulogy on Instagram. I wondered if people might find it silly but humour me with a bunch of tearful emojis to be nice. But no, plenty of people got it. They posted comments of heartfelt support and there was an opportunity to write an essay about it for an advent calendar. Friends and colleagues asked for more details so they could spread the word, in the hope that it might be found.
Alas, it wasn’t.
I’ve got a new scarf now. It felt odd at first: hard, cold, sterile. But it’s grown on me. Red, with white ends and ‘Arsenal’ written across the length, plus some cool patterns either side. It hangs round my neck. I grip it when the game gets nervy. Even if it’s hot, I take it with me.
And in time, it’ll feel weird to be without it.
This is the first one!
Published tomorrow!