My First Away Derby – Boston 2006

Me at York Street in 2006

My first away local derby was Boston in early 2006. I’d managed to avoid these games as a mascot purely because of the fear factor. I’d been a home fan in enough local derbies to know I didn’t want any part of the hatred directed at the away support, and luckily thanks to a misplaced reputation as being a nasty side I didn’t get invited to the likes of Hull or Grimsby. However by 2006 Boston appeared to have softened in their approach to visiting mascots and my presence was requested as part of the pre match entertainment. I was reluctant to go but enough fans asked me the week before during our home game with Rushden that I thought it only fair to go. The people asking me to go were going to be there anyway and they had to pay £13 for the privilege, so I should really take up centre stage pre match for next to no outlay at all. I roped my old man into driving me down there as he often would, and that was that. I was going to Boston.

Boston is frankly one of the worst places on earth. A couple of weeks before the game I’d been there for a suit fitting and discovered that most of the inhabitants seemed in some way genetically mutated. Bottom lips that collect spittle and a limp for no discernable reason are the order of the day in this out of the way little town, consisting in the main of around 75% unemployed people and a further 25% unemployable. I hadn’t been impressed then as gangs of no future layabout youngsters wandered around like in any town in Britain, although I had noted that these layabout youngsters seemed to have something worse wrong with them than bad taste, bad diet and poor career prospects. These kids just seemed like the space between their ears was reserved for that magical day that they might actually produce a thought, or maybe even something that bore close resemblance to a conversation topic. However for the time being they were happy wandering round town blankly looking for something. I don’t even think they know what it is.

The town seems to be a jumble of tiny roads, nonsensical junctions and bland buildings. A couple of major retail chains have moved in, but I think the fact the major clothes retailer in Boston is still a local name just about sums up the consumer attractiveness contained in the town boundaries, i.e. zero. Okay they have a Tesco’s and a McDonald’s but I think even a trip to the Burkina Faso capital of Ouagadougou will reveal a 24 garage and Tesco deli counter and I know Baghdad has an outlet selling Happy Meals and Double Cheeseburgers.

My visit may not have been such a discerning one had there not been a couple of letters sent to Boston in the week warning them on the dangers of having me there on match day. I took a couple of calls from Nigel Dennis Lincoln’s groundsman and James Lazenby the Marketing Assistant to check I had no plans to cause havoc, and obviously I wasn’t. As a staunch City fan first and a mascot second I did find it hard sometimes to keep my emotions in check, but I was also aware of the dangers of causing trouble in such a volatile atmosphere. I think the letters suggested I might have some sort of attack planned for Boston’s larger than life manager and dubious businessman Steve Evans. Don’t get me wrong I’d have loved to do something to a man generally despised in Lincolnshire anywhere north of Sleaford, but I didn’t fancy a criminal record for inciting a riot so I planned nothing. The oversize kilt and bag of monopoly money had to be put to one side in the interests of common sense. Boston’s club secretary John Blackwell rang me to check I was kosher and after a blunt conversation he obviously realised I was and clearance was received for me to attend.

With this in mind I have to openly admit to being apprehensive about the visit. You see rivalry between the two clubs isn’t on a level with your normal club rivalry. Normally there’s a history of on the pitch battles or bitterness that often boils over into violence and aggression. Between Lincoln and Boston there is none of that. We always have been and probably always will be much better than they are with better facilities, a better ground and something akin to a better history. Their entire existence has been made up of non-league clashes with a recent and less than successful visit to the football league. The rivalry comes from us being their closest geographical team. I soon found out that they don’t quite see it the same as we do.

My Dad was coming as a helper for the day. If I travel away I always manage to sneak the mystery ‘helper’ in with me. I don’t actually need help putting the suit on anymore as you get used to it after thirteen years but I take the opportunity to get one of my nearest and dearest into the game anyway. Being an unpaid mascot isn’t in any way financially rewarding, and these little perks do help to raise the profile of the job. I am usually okay to get a couple of visiting fans into Sincil Bank even if there’s only one mascot and it’s a bit like an unwritten rule of the profession that away mascots can bring somebody with them as support. There’s only Rushden and Diamonds that didn’t allow it, requesting that both my helper and me bought tickets. Needless to say I’ve never sample the delights of their hospitality and I sent them a letter explaining the way things work. Strangely their mascot never visits us either.

So with my helper in tow we made the short forty-minute journey down to South Lincolnshire on a cold March day. We parked in town and made our way towards what we expected was the ground. It felt like I’d stepped back into the eighties as we saw the floodlights mounted on huge towering pylons in all four corners of the ground that stood head and shoulders above all the buildings around them. It also felt like perhaps we’d come on the wrong day because there was nobody that resembled a football fan to be seen bar the odd red and white striped city shirt desperately looking for a boozer that didn’t smell of cabbage.

The suit had made the journey on the team coach so I made for the reception area where I’d been informed the suit would be ready for me. James Lazenby was to take the suit from the bus to the reception for my collection. What could be harder?

We turned into York Street, made our way past some terraced housing and into a clearing with the ground set back from the road. The ground and bar area looked like one of those large buildings you get at the seaside that holds indoor Sunday markets selling tat that no one really wants. The car park was lumpy and suited to off road vehicles, and the ground was dilapidated at best, on the brink of collapse at worst. I asked a vacant looking steward to point me in the direction of reception and followed his gnarled finger aimed towards a window in a brick wall. Easy.

Not so. The lady behind the counter was as much to us as tits on a fish. She peered out from the six by four box room in which she was stood with as much interest on her face as an OAP at a Snoop Doggy Dog concert. I asked her if the suit was in reception to which she replied ‘Well this is reception’ before scornfully looking around her cage as if to highlight its inappropriate size. In fact she made me feel like it was my fault she was ensconced in this bland box room that doubled as the hub of a potential non-league club. I was then ushered away from her window so she could deal with the other people behind me in the queue more worthy of her time, which incidentally numbered none.

I soon found a group of people smartly dressed in matching suits who’d obviously come with Lincoln City and I was able to locate my suit. I chose to leave it on the team bus whilst I sampled some of the local hospitality in the bingo hall come social club that doubled as a Boston fans meeting place.

Both my Dad and myself were reluctant to enter the domain of the Boston fan, but surprisingly the pre match beer turned out to be the highlight of the day. The bar itself wasn’t the Ritz but for a club of Boston’s size it was certainly adequate. Inside the large hall there was again the feel of a holiday club camp with its dark walls and extended bar that runs along on end of the room. It was shortly after making these observations I noted that the bar was also filled with wall-to-wall Amber and Black Boston shirts, with not a single Red or White stripe in sight. Sight was almost possible given that the room had no natural light in it, and the strange semi glow of artificial strip lights added a menacing angle to an already worrying situation. However neither Dad nor me had worn our colours so we made our way to the bar and purchased a couple of pints of the good stuff before sitting down. A large TV was screening the Aston Villa and Everton game, and we enjoyed a bit of banter with a tubby Boston fan and his son next to us. It has to be noted that despite purchasing three pints of a popular larger each tasted different despite supposedly being the same brand, but I wouldn’t put it past a club like Boston to be serving a cheaper ale masquerading as a more expensive brand. I suppose at under two quid a pint it really didn’t matter too much.

Most bars at Football clubs have shirts of bigger teams they’ve played hung on the walls, but as Boston hadn’t actually played many teams bigger than us they had hung a random selection of club shirts around the room just below the ceiling to form a topical border. Even this had been done on the cheap as I noted an early eighties Wolves shirt and a rare Chelsea away shirt that suggested a large bag of old shirts had been bought at a car boot sale and hung up. By the time we’d supped up and were making our way from the bar I felt like I’d walked out of a Sunday League club house after a mud soaked early morning amateur game. It may have been a pleasant pint but it wasn’t a clean one nor was it consumed in affluent surroundings. I should have taken note and not bothered entering the ground.

Once we’d collected the suit I met up with a young lad known to me as ‘The Boston Panther’. Most mascots are at least of official drinking age as we have to display a degree of common sense as well as exhibiting our own brand of entertainment, but as I started the job as a youngster I gave their lad the benefit of the doubt. He took us into the ground and along to the mascots changing room. I’d been in quite a few football grounds and sampled a lot of differing rooms for me to change in, but I have never seen anything quite like the Boston back room area. Once through the directors and players entrance a long corridor carpeted in something akin to the green cloth on a pool table stretches the length of the stadium. At no point did the corridor become any wider than the doorway and I had difficulty in manoeuvring the bag containing my suit along the walkway. On the left hand side of the corridor there were a number of open doors revealing a couple of cubicles containing a single toilet pan, two pokey dressing rooms and an even pokier boot room. Standing in the doorway of the Boston changing room was striker Julian Joachim, and I banged into him hard with the suit (purely by accident) on the way to my sumptuous changing area.

My changing area turned out to be the laundry room that contained three washing machines, a two by four square area of floor and walls. Small normally describes a room that is adequate but uncomfortable, and the room I was to change in was neither comfortable nor in any way adequate for two grown adults to put on large mascot suits. You have to sympathise a bit with a team who have surprised even themselves to be playing league football, but if you don’t have room for the players and officials to do their job you really shouldn’t go and invite the clubs mascot along as well. My Dad had to stand outside the room as you couldn’t stand three in our area and I became worried that we’d been sussed bagging a free ticket. It didn’t really matter, the two or three Boston officials seemed much more worried about making sure the players were okay to wonder why the tattooed figure of my Dad was loitering in their corridor. Whilst we were unpacking our suits I asked their guy if he knew anything about the letters warning Boston about me. I was told he hadn’t and that he’d spoken to John Blackwell who assured him I was welcome and the mystery letter writer hadn’t taken the calls Boston made to check the validity of his claim. The panther (I still don’t know his real name) then started to explain how he was behind the Boston chairman’s fight to relocate the club to a site out of town and selling off York Street for development. Most City fans sneered at property developer and Chairman Jon Sotnicks plans as it seemed he had more than a vested interest in the land and a less the enthusiastic interest in the club. As a gracious visitor though I listened intently to the argument for the move and against staying put and it didn’t change my opinion one bit. After a bit of banter I asked about the format of the afternoon. It appeared there was little planned for before the game, with a penalty shoot out going on at half time between four representatives from each club. It was suggested we have a play fight before the game but sensibly I refused, as I didn’t want to hurt the lad! He seemed a bit put out that I wouldn’t indulge his wish but I explained the politics and also that unlike him I had done the job for a while and experienced my first taste of crowd trouble and negative reactions whilst he was still at primary school. It may have come across a bit big headed but in truth I did know better and besides I enjoy the job, why would I put it at risk? We finished changing, and I followed the host’s lead by heading out to the playing area, hugging my old man as I passed. I know he’s kind of proud of what I do but as a no nonsense practical man I’m also sure he’s a little embarrassed when the furry Imp hugs him.

The pitch was separated from the changing room area by way of a large lockable caged entrance, which had to be opened and closed whenever somebody wanted to pass through. As we waited for the gates to be unlocked I got a strange sensation of being in prison. The guys with dark, ill matching suits stared at me menacingly as I pushed along the caged tunnel and then waited patiently for my jailer to allow me to run out past the corner flag and from behind the goal onto the York Street turf. The gate fell open, my host rushed to the home fans and I took a second to take in the view. The famous ‘Boston Stump’ church tower was visible over the top of the stand away to the other end of the pitch like a poor mans Lincoln Cathedral, the stand being filled convincingly by a mass of Red and White stripe shirts. Around the other three sides of the ground there was a mix of home fans and empty seats. The travelling faithful numbered roughly equal to the home fans and were therefore more vociferous and animated. The omens felt good.

I went through the usual routine of getting our fans going and generally acting about. The reception from the City fans was great and the sight of a Lincoln representative soon had them singing even if it was only me. I went over to them and shook a few hands. Most of the usual faces from the home games were there, from Fat Kid to the City mad woman who always hands me inflatables before big games. When we played Swansea she passed me a sheep to parade with, against Cardiff it was a leek and today she handed me a two-foot blow up carrot. Boston are known as inbred and carrot crunchers and taking the item was a little inflammatory without being completely offensive so I grabbed it and made off. It went down very well with the amused City fans but wasn’t universally welcomed by the locals. The home mascot obviously felt I was stealing his thunder and offered me another play fight in the goalmouth, to which I refused. I had that letter they received in the back of my mind and didn’t fancy being escorted from the ground by a couple of stewards. Their mascot also considered it an unwritten rule that he had to win the fight to keep the natives happy and I had no intention of losing a fight to a seventeen-year-old kid in front of 2,200 Imps fans. Had I tried to scrap with him he would definitely get aggressive and that wouldn’t be good. He’d twice tried it at our place three months before and both times I’d come out on top. He twice tried to take me down from behind and both times I stayed on my feet and ended up with him laid on the floor with one of my feet on his head. The home fans loved it but his non-appearance at half time of that game suggested he didn’t. Indeed I may have worsened our rivalry by pinching his Boston scarf from his suit at half time of our home clash then pulling it out of the rear of my shorts in front of our fans. I think he was put out but I don’t know if it was because I’d suggested Boston came out of Gods arse or because I helped myself to some of his kit in order to illustrate my point.

We had a penalty shoot out with a little kid from each team before kick off which wasn’t planned. The goalmouths were in use so we used a couple of jumpers for goalposts, which you have to laugh at. I know I keep banging on about the amateur feeling to the day but seriously jumpers for goalposts in league two? It occurred to me to use my carrot as a goalpost so I stuck it on a jumper and let the penalties commence. The Panther went in goal and I took up a position near him and received quite a verbal battering from the natives. Its usual to get a few gestures but it did shock me that more than colourful language was being used whilst I participated in a game involving another mascots and two five or six year old children. I went in goal listening to the same abuse and did my usual trick of saving the Boston kids penalty and letting in our kid’s attempt, which is a little childish but gives me great satisfaction! I turned to acknowledge the natives and thank them for their colourful support when the unthinkable happened; the Panther launched an attack on me.

You’d have thought he’d learnt his lesson at Sincil Bank, but as I turned around he came up behind me and tried to kick me square in the crown jewels. Before his foot even had the chance to make it between my legs I instinctively closed them and trapped his foot. Full of indignation at being attacked despite refusing to be drawn into his games twice I ripped off his boot and drop kicked it up the pitch. He moved his leg and I skipped off to lap up the cheers of the few away fans that’d witnessed the incident.

The Panther was absent for about five minutes because I’d apparently ripped his sock as I tore his boot off, and my carrot disappeared but it didn’t matter to me as I climbed into the crowd and gave out a few handshakes and hugs. I was under a close watchful eye of three or four beefy looking security guys before I climbed back out, but nothing came of it and the teams were soon out for kick off. After a few pre match photos and the torrent of abuse from home fans I made my way back towards the laundry room. Outside of it the Panther was on the end of a telling off from an official looking fella regarding his conduct. As we changed I found out he’d been reprimanded for entering the crowd and for generally acting irresponsibly. It seemed a bit unfair not to take it up with me too, and I wondered if some jobsworth was trying to score points over the youngster. I have to admit feeling a bit sorry for him after all he didn’t get paid either and was doing the job voluntarily.  He told me he wouldn’t be out at half time and some other guy who coveted his job would do it because ‘if he f*cking wants to do it he f*cking can’. He stormed off mumbling something about Boston sticking their job somewhere.

Once out and back in normal dress I asked to be escorted to the away fans with my Dad. We were made to wait as the jailer unlocked one cage and locked it behind him, then another and then a small gate. We were led along the front of the terracing housing the same fans that’d hurled the abuse at me earlier. I wore a wry knowing smile as we got through into our fans safe in the knowledge that the meatheads who’d sworn in front of youngsters had no clue who I was. It wouldn’t take Einstein to figure out who I was when I went back for the second half, but with three pints of beer and a lorry load of adrenalin I wasn’t too fussed.

On the pitch Lincoln were frankly rubbish giving possession away all over the pitch and conceding a sloppy goal from Julian Joachim, and before long I’d been escorted back to the prison gate to be changed.  The same kid had come back to do the second half having had a dramatic change of heart after seeing his side go in one up at the break. We changed and waited for the players to come off the pitch. It seemed strange having to wait in the corridor whilst everyone departed but there wasn’t room pitch side for a bike to pass so we couldn’t really stand anywhere else. The players came off, Boston ones smiling and Lincoln ones swearing especially goalkeeper Alan Marriott who was informing his team-mates they weren’t up to standard in a language I’ve heard my mother speak which she informs me is French.

Out on the pitch we were only really meant to be taking the penalties. Ex Imps player Warren Ward brought along an inflatable goal with a couple of labelled holes. Each hole was a different size and worth an amount of points. The idea was that the smaller holes were worth more points, and if the ball went through that hole you score that many points. Its something he does around the grounds and at Sincil Bank there’s prizes given away to the highest scorers. I was due to take the first penalty so I blindly stepped up and belted the ball as hard as I could. There was a small cheer before Alan Long tapped me on the shoulder and whispered ‘You’ve only got the hundred mate’, a feat which may have won me a holiday or free tickets at a City game. Today it meant we won the shoot out by 100 points to 10 and once again I’d got the better of my Boston counterpart, which was worth more than some holiday! We were given a medal each, as were the kiddies and the match day announcers who all took part. I went down towards the Imps fans to show them the prize, still down hearted that despite my win we were losing on the pitch.

This fact was one several Boston fans reminded me of as I headed towards our fans. As I mentioned before I’m a fan first and a mascot second, so when one of their guys got particularly heated I unfortunately lost control. I went over to him, pushed open the mouth of my suit so he could see my face and screamed ‘How did you get on last week? Five nil you ****, five  ******* nil ‘. They’d lost by five at Mansfield the week before but as soon as I’d done it I regretted it. I had let my status as a fan belittle my duty as a mascot, and I cut short my trip to our fans and headed back into the laundry room feeling a little shameful.

I went through the routine of getting changed, packing my kit away and went out through the prison gates for the last time. Again I was led through the home terracing, but this time a couple of the natives had sussed I was a Lincoln representative and hurled their abuse at me again. There’s a distinct difference between being abused in the suit and being abuse in your normal clothes, somehow its much more threatening when the aggressors can see you. As I made it into our fans I wondered if the guy I’d argued with had recognised my face. It soon became clear someone had because one of our fans pointed out I had a large blob of spit on my shoulder. I cleaned it off and tried to put it out of my mind. Nobody likes being spit on and in everyday life I’d probably have remonstrated with the stewards, but today too many people knew who I was. Had I caused a scene it may have meant me being ejected from the ground and that wouldn’t have looked good for someone in my position.

On the pitch the action soon heated up and City launched a number of raids on the Boston goal in front of us. Our enigmatic winger Simon Yeo broke free and was hauled down by a cynical challenge from a skinhead youngster called Gary Silk. Free kick, and on came the stretcher for Simon. In obvious agony he was lifted up and off the pitch. Silk got away with the challenge and as the free kick was lined up Simon was carried in front of the same Boston fans I’d just come through. As he was carried along a large number of those ‘fans’ lent over the wall and spat on him. He was in agony and dazed but these people continued to spit and cheer as he was carried off. Disgraceful scene unfortunately mirrored by our own fans as Gary Silk lined up to take the free kick. Both players were spat and and verbally abused, only one was laid on a stretcher and the other was on his feet guilty of causing the other mans pain. Which would you think deserved it?

Yeo’s replacement Marvin Robinson netted with his first touch and for a while it seemed like we might go on and win the game. However after forty-five minutes of constant Lincoln pressure Boston broke away up front and scored the winner in the last minute thanks to ex Lincoln player Lawrie Dudfield. A defeat snatched from the jaws of a draw and our first defeat in thirteen games. It was to be a miserable drive back up north with chants of ‘that’s why your staying down’ ringing in our ears.

After the game I wasn’t allowed back to collect my suit until the ground had emptied which seemed to take forever. Our car park ticket ran out at five and we were still there at quarter past waiting for one man and his sister to leave the ground in the far end. I witnessed some pretty nasty scenes, as a couple of Lincoln thugs tried to pick a fight with a St Johns Ambulance worker they thought was a steward. I think they said something along the lines of ‘you’re scum, you’re fans are scum, take that coat off and fight me you scum’ interspersed with the odd expletive. As the bully moved on the St Johns mans female co-worker turned to him and whispered ‘at least if he collapses you can save his life’. Priceless.

I got the suit and was escorted from the ground in the only acceptable way, which was out of the players and directors door. A few disgruntled City subs milled around in my way and had to breath in as I squeezed past them. ‘Better Luck next week’ I told Luke Foster as I left with a deep sense of foreboding that promotion chasers and real county rivals Grimsby Town would take us apart in a week’s time. I was still debating this point as we put my suit back on the team bus. I opened my bag to take out my damp towel and t-shirt, only to find two rolled up Boston Utd shirts in with my kit. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the vile Amber and Black shirt fell out onto the ground along with a soiled white away shirt. Before I could say ‘what’s this in my kit’, the Boston Panther appeared at the side of the team bus with my missing inflatable carrot! Due to a combination of embarrassment and suspicion I thrust the garments into his hands and muttered ‘ I must have picked these up by mistake’. I knew I hadn’t and I didn’t even begin to think who had put them there but even I have to admit it looked dodgy. The Panther turned to leave without so much as a cheers so I shouted him and shook his hand mentioning that I’d see him next season. With us on the cusp of the play offs and him holding two shirts I’d almost accidentally stolen I didn’t think the chances of a visit next year were very likely. Thankfully.