In Chesterfield, Keeping Up With The 92

One thing about a passion turning into a profession is that a bit of the magic can be drained from it. So while it should be counted as a success, my goofy but fun idea turning into a way to earn a living, it can become less fun, as explorations give way to tasks and free time is transformed from a time to write or relax into … well, non-existence.

So, while few would label the streets of Chesterfield as a magical place, I did feel a bit of the old spirit as I dragged my carry-on from the station to the hotel, admiring views of the town’s famous leaning, twisted church steeple and the rolling green hills beyond.

A nice little town.

As English towns go, it is decidedly less depressing than many. Many of its stores are, in fact, open, and were actively being visited by people on this day. For me, though, that wasn’t the point: the point was, I had never before been to Chesterfield, and there was virtually no business reason for me to be there. I was just groundhopping!

Of course, I was there to see a game, but not at a place where my company sells tickets, and not for any discernible marketing reason beyond this: Chesterfield FC won the National League last season, which put them back into the Football League, and hence among “the 92,” and one of my quests in life at the moment is to maintain my membership in The 92 Club – which itself barely exists – and of which virtually none of our current or potential clients knows a damn thing. And I arrived in town at 91 clubs.

I suppose this still counts for some marketing something, making me an expert of a certain type, but really it’s just my own goofy thing, and on this day it brought me to Chesterfield and the Premier Inn. My last game was at Real Madrid, and the next will be at Chelsea. In my world, a game in Chesterfield counts as a throwback vacation.

I felt as if I was visiting old friends in town: the Poundland, the Wetherspoon, the William Hill, the other Wetherspoon, the guy smoking and having a pint outside the video-poker pub at 11 am, the big sign trumpeting the town’s revitalization plan, the Greggs, the chicken takeaway place, the old folks staring into shop windows, the 19^th-Century brick buildings, a few pubs with “Crown” in the name, and street names like Lower Pavement, Sheepton and Saltergate. Always lots of “gates” in these towns.

The One Thing in Town

Chesterfield is known for two things, neither of which is cigarettes or sofas by the way, but both of which could hardly be more English. One is its market, now three days a week around the 1857 Market Hall building, in which millennials buy mobile phones from men in turbans while pensioners sip tea because their grandparents sipped tea there. According to the town’s marketing materials, it’s a “traditional market” which makes the town a “shopper’s paradise.” No more information is given as to what these things mean, but sadly I was there on two of the other four market-free days. So outside the Market Hall it was just bare tables.

The other thing they are known for is that about 700 years ago they put a new wood-framed spire on the local parish church, and about 400 years ago they covered it in lead plating, and on at least one of those occasions they did something wrong. Somewhere along the way it began to lean and twist but not fall. I don’t know, but sincerely hope, there were old men about town who told the next generation that when they were mere lads, that spire were straight, and we loved it, but now it’s gone to shit. Of course, people eventually came to see this curiosity for themselves – the more lean and twist, the better – so at some point it became the town’s thing, and now I assume they spend many pounds not fixing it, heaven forbid, but keeping it up and just like it is, because it’s crooked and they love it.

You know you’re in League Two when …

Up at the football ground, there were more old friends. A guy selling collectible badges. Kids having their picture taken with the goofy mascot, Chester the Field Mouse. (Get it?) Wandering pods of away fans – in this case, of the soon-to-be-relegated Carlisle United – announcing their presence and intent by bellowing a song with lots of “lo”s and “la”s in it, then holding their arms up and yelling “Carlisle!” Middle-aged randos huddled together with beer in plastic cups, analyzing their position in the table and working out how they can get into those playoff positions. “Maybe Gillingham can do us a favor and beat Colchester?” A little kid was dressed up in full Spireite gear, being completely cursed by Dad or Grandad into supporting this lot forever.

When the game kicked off, I felt a rush of warmth come over me. Two teams with a total value of a backup Manchester City defender were nonetheless going to play a right game of football, and 7,000 of us were here to see it – for most of them, just like they are every other week. Carlisle made things easier by getting a red card in the first half, meaning the rest of the game was shooting practice for the home team – which clearly needed more shooting practice. Carlisle’s keeper did well, though, and was identified later by an away supporter at my hotel as the only decent player they’ve got. And he’ll be gone as soon as they go down.

Away we go!

Chesterfield banged and bashed and finally got a couple, by which point the away fans in the corner were singing “If Carlisle score, we’re on the pitch!” The home fans, meanwhile, were in full coaching mode, screaming at the players to do something other than what they were actually doing, usually some combination of going faster or forward, keeping it on the ground or out wide, getting into them or attacking, and of course doing the simple things. When the attendance was announced, the home fans, finding it easy I guess to be generous with a 2-0 lead, warmly applauded the 300-something Carlisle fans for making the long trip on a Tuesday night when they are “rooted to the bottom of the table.”

The home coach figured it was safe enough at 2-0 and a man up to send in some kids, and they promptly handed Carlisle a goal, which the away fans celebrated by singing “We scored a goal” in the exact tone you would expect from English fans whose team are about two months from dropping out of the Football League. But it threw the home fans into apoplexy, because as we all know, the worst thing in the world is seeing your team protect a late one-goal lead. Suddenly, Carlisle, who will be struggling to beat Boreham Wood next season, looked like Barcelona storming down the pitch, threatening to take a “smash-and-grab” point back north.

I got a pin badge, so it’s official!

They didn’t, in the end, so the Spireites ran out with three points and a touch more optimism about those playoff positions. Sadly, however, Colchester got a point (1-1) at Gillingham, and I thought to myself, “I’ve actually been to both of those places!”

The home fans sighed in relief, clapped their players off the pitch, slapped each other on the backs and said see you next week. The Carlisle fans applauded their keeper and seemed to tell the rest to take off that fucking shirt right now. And I went looking for a kebab, as one does in England at 10 pm.

And really, what better way to celebrate the goofy quest of re-finishing the 92 than by scarfing down a takeaway kebab with a Fanta tucked into your pocket while walking in view of a centuries-old screw-up now celebrated as a symbol of a town that isn’t whatever it used to be, but it’s better than a lot, and at least their football club is staying in the league for another season.