There’s a photo somewhere of me at Elm Park as a mascot, grinning like I’d just signed for the club. I was eight at the time, so around 1987. I’ve attached it, mainly because if I don’t, this probably sounds like one of those stories that gets less believable every time it’s told. I’m 47 now, so it’s stuck with me.
Just before I went out, my uncle said to me: “Run straight forward when you get on the pitch, I’ll be in that stand.”
So I did. Straight out, straight ahead.
And I got a massive cheer. Whether
it was actually for me or just because that’s what people do for mascots, I’ve always chosen to believe it was definitely for me. At eight years old it felt unbelievable.
I remember the walk there just as much as anything. I used to go with my grandad and he’d always buy me a king-sized Mars bar, look at it and go, “can you eat all of that?” like it was some sort of challenge. Never once failed.
I also remember the Boxing Day game against Birmingham, which was actually the day I was mascot. The two others in the photo are my cousins, Justin and Jonathan.
I’m pretty sure it finished 2-2, but I remember everything else about the day more than the game. I couldn’t tell you who played either; at that age you didn’t care about line-ups, you just knew when to cheer.
Elm Park just felt different. I know everyone says that about old grounds, but it really did.
I can still picture that corrugated iron roof and the noise hitting it and coming straight back down. When it got loud, it felt properly loud. You weren’t just watching it, you were in it.
And somehow I used to just wander about on my own. Different parts of the ground, just taking it all in. Looking back, that probably sounds a bit mad, but I’m sure my grandad had an eye on me somewhere. At the time it just felt like total freedom.
I can still remember the chants as well. Proper simple stuff.
“We are the right side, we are the right side, we are the right side of the stand…”
Then the other side coming back with:
“We are the left side, we are the left side, we are the left side of the stand…”
Back and forth like it actually mattered who won. I can still hear it now. You could hear everything there as well, including things you probably shouldn’t have been hearing as a kid.
That was it really. I was hooked from then. And as it turns out, that was probably the perfect introduction to what supporting Reading is actually like.
Because just when you think things might go your way, football finds a way to remind you who you support.
For me, one of those moments was the playoff final against Bolton Wanderers at the old Wembley. I was there, completely convinced it might finally be our day. By the end of it I’d lost my voice and was absolutely gutted.
I remember a Bolton fan laughing at me as I let out a tear, which at the time felt like the worst thing that could possibly happen. Looking back now, it’s probably quite funny. At the time, not so much.
Then came the Madejski years, which felt like the complete opposite at times. Proper highs. Promotion, that ridiculous 106 season, turning up expecting to win most weeks, which still feels strange even now.
And little things as well. Seeing loads of Steve Sidwell and Dave Kitson ginger wigs in the crowd, everyone completely buying into it. It just felt like a proper connection between the team and the fans.
It felt like we’d properly arrived.
And then… more recently… the Dai era.
I won’t go into that too much. I think, like most Reading fans, I try to block it out a bit. It’s been tough, frustrating, and at times just confusing more than anything.
And weirdly, those moments, good and bad, all just blend into what supporting Reading actually is.
Fast-forward a few years, and not a huge amount has changed really. Grounds are nicer, seats are cleaner, but the feeling is the same.
Every season you tell yourself you won’t get carried away. You’ve seen it all before. You’ll be sensible.
Then three games in, after a half-decent win, you’re thinking… “playoffs?”
That never really leaves you. It just gets a bit more cautious as you get older.
But the main thing is, it never actually puts you off.
It’s the routine, the habit of it. Checking fixtures, looking at the table, convincing yourself the next game might be the one where it clicks.
And it’s the shared side of it as well. The looks, the little comments, the ability to laugh about it because otherwise you probably would go mad.
Looking back, that day at Elm Park was the start of something that’s just always been there really. Through everything else going on in life, Reading has sort of ticked along in the background. Sometimes brilliant, often frustrating, occasionally baffling, but always there.
I sometimes think about that eight-year-old running out onto the pitch, absolutely loving it.
I probably wouldn’t warn him off. But I might tell him to brace himself slightly for the next 40 years.
Then again, he probably wouldn’t listen.
And to be fair, neither have I.
