James Broughton’s first HammyEnd article is all about how he found Fulham thanks to his Grandad.

Ever since I can remember, I was told I was a Fulham fan. You don’t really argue against it as a young boy, but when I was old enough to ask my parents, but the answer was always the same and emphatic: ‘It’s because of your Grandad’.

My grandad was born in south London, right as the Blitz started to tighten its grip on the capital. After his evacuation to the Channel Islands and subsequent return after VE Day, he lived as any other child of the time did; just about, to be precise. After three years of peace, London bounced back from its decimation and were hosts of the Olympic Games in 1948. My grandad and his family were caught in the whirlwind nature of this ‘greatest show on Earth’ arriving in their home city and were compelled to attend an event, for the story if nothing else. The event they happened to land on was a football match, not half an hour from where they lived in the suburbs south of the Thames. Great Britain versus France. August 5th 1948. The venue, Craven Cottage.

Being swept up in post-war Olympic fever, and seeing his nation win, compelled my grandad to ask his father to take him there again. ‘Alright Brian, we’ll come back to watch another football match. You’ll have to wait a few months first’. True to his word, they went back to the same ground to watch another football match. Once they’d gotten to their places on the terrace, however, my grandad was confused by something. Something glaringly obvious to him, but had evidently forgone his own father’s thoughts.

‘Why aren’t Britain playing Dad?’

‘Well, they don’t play here all the time, son. Fulham play here.’

And with that, a lifelong supporter was created, almost out of thin air. From that day on, my grandad would go along to Craven Cottage to watch Fulham play as often as he could. Sometimes with his father, maybe with friends. It never mattered, so long as he was watching Fulham. Once he’d fully grown up and started a family, he’d take his daughters (my mother and aunts) to matches in the late 70s and 80s, so long as they could have fish and chips for dinner. As they grew up, he’d try to imprint the same support onto their partners, with my own dad being the sole fruit of those labours. Then once grandchildren came along, he did the same. He seemed to be on a one-man mission to create a branch of the Fulham Supporters Club solely within his bloodline. 

As my cousins and I grew up, if ever Fulham were ever the live televised game, he’d gather us up from whatever else we were doing and get us to his house. The match would be on, we’d be scattered around the sitting room clutching our lemonades and he’d have his bitter delicately balanced on the sideboard, intently watching legends like Clint Dempsey, Mark Schwarzer, Brede Hangeland and, my own personal favourite, Damien Duff.

However special those afternoons felt, and they were, they paled in comparison to my tenth birthday. I’d been given two tickets to go to watch Fulham vs Swansea City at Craven Cottage. I was going to my first football match.  ‘Who do you want to go with James?’. Who else could I have gone with?

From my home in Sussex, Grandad and I got two buses and the tube to get to Putney Bridge. From there, it was all on foot. We made our way over the bridge and past the church into Bishops Park. It was a grey, dismal, freezing November afternoon. We battled our way against the wind, drizzle caking our faces and the purveying scent of beef, grease and onions got thrown up our nostrils by the gale. Then, we rounded the corner out of the park onto Stevenage Road. Grandad grabbed my hand and led me through the makeshift scrum of fans queuing at the turnstiles until we got to a quieter space between queues.

‘Go and stand there Jim, I’ll get you a picture with your programme.’

‘There’ turned out to be at the foot of Johnny Haynes’ statue. So over I went, my programme proudly held in front of me, Grandad scrambling for his digital camera. I looked up at what I now understand is a truly unique monument in British sporting culture, before Grandad yapped at me to say cheese. After he got the picture, he grabbed me again and we assumed position in the queue for the Riverside Stand turnstile. We got ushered through and round to the stand, up the stairs and down to our seats near the corner flag. The moments before kickoff, I just sat and reacted. The two stands behind each goal swaying and reverberating with deafening, explicit song, the luscious expanse of perfectly cut and lined grass, the Cottage. For minutes, I sat in the purest wonder I’d ever experienced. 

Two hours later, we’d lost.

‘Grandad, can we come again?’

To this day, I can picture the smile that slowly grew across his face after I asked him this. He’d done it again. There was another fan for life in the family. It didn’t matter one iota that we didn’t win the game. I’d been totally spellbound by being part of the thousands of people in that stadium, as if I’d found a second home. I’d found my people, my place, my team, all thanks to dear old Grandad. He’d made going to the Fulham game, wherever it may be, now had the same reverence to me as going to church. Thanks, Grandad.