Wembley's only winner is on the pitch

Solihull Moors lost out by a fraction to Bromley on penalties, meaning the London side are National League Champions.

The score was 2-2 in extra time, becoming 4-3 on penalties. It was one shot, separating the game. After a drawn out first half, Bromley scored, taking it to 1-0. It was during the second half, which saw the score, level. It remained 2-2 into extra time, the penalty shootout, finally seeing the south London side, trump.

The first half saw Jack Stevens substituted, after incredulous effort from the Midlander. Effort, too, requiring from block 139. I don't think I've done as many bicep curls, holding plastic cups, as I did in that corner facing block.

It will have been my first game in a stadium in twenty years and for good reason. I was cold and becoming savage into the second half. The scores remained the same, and I felt both the digits and myself, stagnating into the stadium's concrete.

Like father & son, ahead of Solihull Moors vs Bromley, which saw Bromley win 4-3 on penalties

An enthusiastic twenty-something, sat behind my right ear, became a wake-up prod. There was no way you'd have snoozed, although there was nothing but the inevitable penalty shootout to alleviate the frustration at such a flat score and for so bloody long.

It never fails to amaze me, the people who go and watch other people play sport. I have a rule, I never watch another male kick a ball around, Wembley or not. I'm either kicking it, or I'm sat overseas with a drink and usually a camera pointing at me.

Dawn: Solihull Moors ground, a meeting point for coaches taking fans to Wembley

The only real winner at Wembley is the player. It isn't the team, it's certainly not the fans, it isn't even the club. After a game, the expected back-rub, followed closely by trip to the local spa, where seats are taken in the bath house and the arranged company of females, arrive with champagne and plenty of sweet. This is the ticket of a real winner.

I don't care what the placement is in a league, a twenty-three year old, playing at Wembley is a success story in and of, itself. A lifestyle, differing from anything seen in the ITV show Footballer's Wives is a footballing life not worth having.

Disappointed: Moors fans, who spent more than two hours waiting, only to be let down on penalties

I was appalled to see a Turkish player at a game, last year (2022) get kicked by opposition fans. There was an inevitable investigation, which followed. You cannot hate on a young footballer. They set out and achieve a sporting goal. They embrace the life which comes with the career. This usually involves a wealth of material. One boasts in unapologetic and bombastic fashion. This, I salute. You, too will salute. Envy cannot option.

I, personally, am a fan. The good ones, live a life, not, too dissimilar to a life, I live. It's a desirable profession and they're good people to know, particularly when in a boothe with them at a nightclub.

I didn’t realise there was certain pubs home fans and away fans can and cannot go in. This does make sense. It minimises any risk of violence. It’s as pathetic as it is a tradition. Lads full of testosterone at the game, clashing with away fans, is an age-old, behaviour. You can see, you can hear the division. It was one big “yeah,” being barked in my direction from the Londoners, every time they scored, in this occasion two, forget the penalties. But a Londoner wearing white, against a Midlander, wearing yellow, just did not separate. I just saw a sea of footballing enthusiasm.

Kitted out: Wembley bound on the M40, travelling through Middlesex

We walked through the barriers at Wembley Park. A conversation with a couple of Brummies, revealed a pub called The Green Man. It looked further than it actually was. They were looking for a “just a Spoons.” We were looking for a pub heaving with fans and people we recognised from Brum. They sounded like off-duties, and besides, there’s always a Spoons. You know exactly what you’re gonna get, weak lager and pie and chips that have been standing in hot-holding for far too long.

GoogleMaps wouldn’t load. I couldn’t direction, so we walked in the general direction of where the marker was on our map. We lost the two Spoons hunters and carried on in a westerly, direction. Then the phones loaded. It sent us up a steep road. On the top was the pub. It meant, by the time we had walked to the top, we had earned our drink.

We walked through an unofficial door. It was being manned by security in orange. The garden was rammed. This is what I like. A busy beer garden will usually result in finding me, lodged in the middle. The weather was beaming. Overhead, sunshine, blue sky and holding traffic in and out of Heathrow. This was London, as I had remembered it. London, now, has become a living room.

The cosmopolitan and gigantic has transformed into the familiar and welcoming. There was only plastic cups. Does this still make sense? How is a segregated pub full of Brummies in North London any different from a pub full of Brummies in North London?! I’d have preferred glass, but the beer was cold and full of fizz.

Heaving: Moors fans, lapping up the sunshine at The Green Man, ahead of the Bromley match

A Croatian woman was walking round selling shots. I thought a couple of beers was going to act as ceiling height on a drinking. It didn’t. Hurrah! I never limit myself. I wasn’t driving. I was being driven, and I was at the footie. It was my first game in twenty years and it was a social, to put it, mildly.

I scanned the floor to see if I recognised any faces from Solihull. I then scanned again to see if there was anyone from Birmingham, I knew. I didn’t. Fortunately, Dad, who was with me, did. We joined, two tables for a waffle. I was sick of drawing on my vape and asked the guy in-front of me, who was smoking a Marlboro Gold, if I could have one of his fags. He handed me one. Sun out, beer in the right hand, fag in the left, conversation thick and fast, it was superb.

Block 139, which fast became a place of obligation as pace slowed, dragging play into extra time and then penalties

When a Sunday feels like a Saturday, you know whatever it is you’re doing is shit hot. The bloke we were talking to was one of my dad’s former fire service, colleagues. I was chatting to his wife, who was telling me she was off to Sorento in the coming weeks. I told her, I had never been to Italy, but had recently arrived from the Canary Islands. I went on to say, in a couple of week’s time, I’d by flying out to a different part of Europe, still sunny, but with a different twang.

We joined another guy in conversation. He was a relative of one of the players. He was sat on a bench and looked as miserable as sin. I stood back and did a lot of listening. It was my weekend and I was contented. I had the weather. I had the beer. I was surrounded by a peer group of white lads, who liked a drink and a chant. This made me feel right at home.

We had several rounds, before heading to a food stall for a wrap. I suspected it was going to be a difficult eat. There was nothing difficult about it. Just a few bits of debris landed on the floor, the rest in my gob, beautiful!

Wrap and a pint: The Green Man, easy to eat and the Heineken even easier to drink

A short walk and a verbal disagreement, left me at a petrol station with a tin of Heineken. A short while later and we were in the stadium. It was a long-winded game. It was only injury and stoppage time, absencing, which meant you couldn't have extended this game even if you wanted to. First half was good, second half, boring, penalties, finally waking up the blocks.

I thank the young, white lads for their enthusiasm. A group of about thirty spent the entire match, banging on the ceiling of the blocks. I got angry in the second half. I wanted a goal. I wanted a win, and I wanted to leave. I was glad when I re-joined the Metropolitan Line and found a Co-Op for a couple of pints, I urgently needed to sink after such a drawn out game.