"I moved back to Kenya in 2008. My mother was ill. I ca ho to be with her. But I couldn’t stop watching Palace. I’d been a fan since I was nine, growing up in Croydon. My dad took . Sa story as everyone. Once you’re in, you’re in."
He smiled. "I started streaming the matches at the bar. Just , at first. Watching alone at one in the morning with the sound turned low because the neighbours complained. Then a friend ca. Then his friend. Then a stranger who saw the light on and knocked on the door and said: ’Is that Palace?’"
Elena: "Three hundred and forty mbers now?"
"Three hundred and forty-two as of this morning. Two new mbers joined after the Chelsea match. One of them is from Mombasa. He drove six hours to watch the Arsenal semi-final here. He slept on my sofa. He’s been a Palace fan for three years. He says he discovered us on YouTube, watched a compilation of Zaha goals, and decided this was his club."
Elena: "What does Crystal Palace an to people in Nairobi?"
Jas was quiet for a mont. The bar was quiet behind him. The Palace scarves hung on the wall. A photograph of Danny Walsh, printed on A4 paper and taped to the mirror behind the bar, was visible over his left shoulder.
"It ans belonging," he said.
"Most of the mbers here have never been to Selhurst Park. Most of them will never go. But they watch every match. They know every player. They argue about the tactics in the WhatsApp group at two in the morning. They celebrate goals as if they were in the Holsdale." He paused.
"In Kenya, people support the big clubs. Manchester United. Arsenal. Chelsea. Real Madrid. Those are the clubs you see on the shirts in the street. Nobody supports Crystal Palace. Nobody. And that’s what makes it special. Because the people who do support Palace here didn’t choose it because it was easy, famous, or fashionable. They chose it because sothing about the story spoke to them. A small club, fighting, refusing to accept its place. That’s a story that makes sense in Nairobi. That’s a story that makes sense everywhere."
Elena: "And Danny Walsh?"
"Danny Walsh is the reason half of my mbers joined. They see a young man from nothing, building sothing from scratch, fighting the big clubs, giving academy kids a chance. That’s not just football. That’s life. That’s what everyone in this bar is trying to do. Build sothing. From nothing. Against the odds."
He leaned towards the cara. "Tell Danny Walsh that three hundred and forty-two people in Nairobi are watching. Tell him we stay up until three in the morning for his team. Tell him that when the Champions League anthem plays at Selhurst Park, we will hear it in Westlands. And we will sing along."
I watched that footage in Elena’s office, and I did not speak for a long ti. Three hundred and forty-two people. In Nairobi. Staying up until three in the morning. Singing "Glad All Over" in a sports bar in Kenya. Because a football club in South London had given them sothing to belong to.
Elena fild other people that week. Dennis, the security guard at the Beckenham gates, talking about his thirty-one years and Arthur Briggs and the pride of going to work at a club that mattered.
A teenager nad Marcus (another Marcus, the third in the docuntary’s orbit, which made Elena laugh until she cried) who ran a Palace fan account from his bedroom in Norwood with three hundred and forty thousand followers, his mother sitting beside him during the interview, baffled by the scale of what her son had built but proud in the specific, bewildered way that parents are proud when their child does sothing they don’t fully understand.
The barber on Whitehorse Lane who gave free haircuts to under-tens on matchdays because his father had done it and his father before him, three generations of barbers and three generations of Palace fans, the scissors and the scarf, the two inheritances that defined his family.
A newsagent on the Selhurst Road who had kept a Palace scarf in his window since 1987. Faded. Sun-bleached. The red turned to pink, the blue turned to grey. "My wife says take it down. I tell her it stays until we win a trophy. It’s been thirty years. The scarf and I have an agreent."
Each person was a world. Each interview was a story that could have been its own docuntary. Elena understood this. She was not making a highlight reel. She was making a portrait of a community that had existed for a hundred and twelve years and was now, for the first ti, being seen by the rest of the world.
On January 15th, the sa day Elena’s crew was filming in Thornton Heath, Emma’s podcast launched.
I listened in the car on the way to training. "The Terrace," Episode 1. Her voice in my earphones, warm, intelligent, specific, the writing tight, the delivery natural. She opened with the question she had underlined twice on her notepad: "What does belonging an in football?"
And then she spent forty-two minutes answering it, using Palace as the case study, weaving together fan voices (she had done her own interviews, separate from Elena’s, because Emma was a journalist and not a docuntary subject and the distinction mattered), tactical analysis (she explained Danny Walsh’s system in terms that non-football fans could understand, which was harder than it sounded), and personal reflection (she talked about watching the West Brom match from the away end, about holding Danny’s mother’s hand, about the sound the ground made when Dann scored, without ever making the story about herself).
She was brilliant. The podcast was brilliant. She had built sothing that was unmistakably hers, that existed beside the football without being consud by it, that honoured the club without flattering the manager.
I pulled into the Beckenham car park, turned off the engine, and texted her.
"You were brilliant."
Her reply, thirty seconds later: "I know. Episode three. You owe . Non-negotiable."
I smiled. Then I walked into the training ground, past Dennis at the gate, past Anita at reception, past the corridor with the photographs, and into the office where Sarah was already at her whiteboard, preparing for Saturday’s match, the fixture list stretching ahead, the Arsenal second leg approaching, the Milan tie waiting in February, the second half of the season accelerating.
That afternoon, I did sothing I had not done since August.
I drove to Selhurst Park. Alone. No staff. No players. No caras.
The ground was empty. The January light was thin, the floodlights off, the stands casting long shadows across the pitch. Terry’s lines were perfect, the grass a deep, luminous green that looked almost artificial in the winter afternoon.
The Holsdale was silent. The Arthur Wait was silent. The Whitehorse Lane end was silent. Twenty-five thousand, four hundred and eighty-six seats, all of them empty, the ground waiting the way grounds wait between matches, patient and hollow and full of echoes.
I walked onto the pitch. I stood in the centre circle. I turned, slowly, taking in all four stands. The old corrugated iron of the Arthur Wait. The wooden seats of the Whitehorse Lane end. The executive boxes.
And the Holsdale, the stand that had been the heartbeat of the club for decades, the stand where George Elphick had first stood as a seven-year-old in 1972, where his father Arthur had stood before him, where the drum beat and the songs rolled and the noise made Selhurst Park the hardest ground in London.
I closed my eyes. I listened. The ground was silent. The traffic on Holsdale Road was a distant hum. A pigeon was roosting in the Arthur Wait stand, its cooing the only sound.
And in the silence, I heard it. Not with my ears. With sothing deeper. The sound that would co. The anthem. The Champions League anthem. The strings rising, the chorus building, the lody that ant the biggest football in the world was about to be played in this stadium. In South London. At a ground that held twenty-five thousand people. At a club that had been in a relegation battle twelve months ago.
Zaha had talked about it in Elena’s interview. The anthem at Selhurst Park. "Can you imagine what that would sound like?"
George Elphick had talked about it at his kitchen table. "My dad would have loved Danny Walsh." Jas Ochieng had talked about it from a sports bar in Nairobi. "When the Champions League anthem plays at Selhurst Park, we will hear it in Westlands."
I stood in the centre circle of the empty ground and I imagined it. Not if. When.
Then I walked off the pitch, got in my car, and drove ho.
The second half of the season was here. Arsenal in ten days. Milan in five weeks. The story was not a fairytale. It was a community. And the community was everywhere.
From Thornton Heath to Nairobi. From a broken-down minibus in Peckham to a sports bar in Westlands. From a seven-year-old boy in the Holsdale in 1972 to a seventeen-year-old who scored against Chelsea in 2018.
From a newsagent’s faded scarf to a barber’s free haircuts. From a woman who refused to give money to anyone connected to Brighton to a man who drove six hours from Mombasa to watch a match on a screen.
Crystal Palace. South London. Ours.
[January 15th, 2018.]
[Netflix: Elena Vasquez filming outside Beckenham. Fan interviews: George Elphick (Holsdale, 3 generations), Lorraine (supporters’ bus, Peckham, 14 years), Dennis (security, 31 years), Marcus (fan account, 340K followers), newsagent (scarf since 1987), barber (free haircuts, 3 generations).]
[Nairobi supporters’ club: grown from 200 (December) to 342 (January). Owner Jas Ochieng (Croydon-born, emigrated 2008). New mbers from Mombasa, Nakuru, Kisumu, Eldoret. "Tell Danny Walsh that 342 people in Nairobi are watching."]
[Emma Hartley: "The Terrace" Episode 1 launched. 42 minutes. "What does belonging an in football?" Brilliant.]
[Danny at Selhurst Park, alone, centre circle. The anthem. Not if. When.]
[South London is ours.]
***
Thank you to Sir nayelus for the support.
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