Frankfurt Away

My first ever away day was at Selhurst Park when I was about 10.

Klinsmann scored four, Nicola Berti was in our XI, and the away end was still tucked into the corner by the Holmesdale.

A lot has changed in the nearly 30 years since — players have come and gone, we left the Lane, I became a dad — but one thing remains the same: few things match that away day feeling. Especially the international ones.

There’s the buzz of catching an early train, tins in a blue bag, off to a new city — or even a different country. New pubs to find, local beers to drink, hoping to come home with three points. There’s nothing quite like it.

You see people you only know through Spurs — maybe just their first name — then suddenly you’re on flights together, sharing hotel rooms. Drinking foreign lagers in sunlit squares, serenading confused locals with the full back catalogue, some only sung on European nights.

We’ve got rules for away days, the main one being: treat them like a holiday, soak up every moment until kick-off — and then let it go. It isn’t yours anymore; it’s out of your hands.

On this trip, we were lucky — a few Frankfurt lads showed us their local spots and pre-game rituals. Traditional Apfelwein from Bembel jugs, schnitzel with green sauce, Eintracht supporters’ clubs where you can still smoke inside. In hindsight, it hardly seems a fair trade for dragging them down a few pubs on the Seven Sisters Road before the first leg.

Frankfurt’s home fans are something else — choreographed, coordinated in a way our fanbase isn’t. They’re loud, relentless. But for me, something gets lost in that constant din. Our support is reactive. We don’t follow a set list, led by a conductor with a megaphone. We feel the game — we scream at tackles, groan at misses, rise to moments.

After a day of food and drink, we’re on trams to the stadium. We’re the only Spurs on board, swapping predictions with the locals. The ground is nestled in woods, and as we approach the away end, the red glow of the stadium starts to bleed through the trees.

We carve out our space in the unreserved standing section — making friends with new neighbours, reuniting with old Spurs mates, sharing predictions, fears, pints, and cigarettes.

It was a strange game for me. Even at 1-0, I never felt nervous. I just had a feeling we were due something — a result, a performance.

Afterwards, we trudge through mud and rain in the dark, watching missed penalties in Rome on dodgy 5G, overhearing conversations “I thought Bodo/Glimt was two teams.” 

We’re shepherded past frustrated locals, crammed onto trains. There’s a vague threat of violence hanging in the air back at the central station.

When I look at the analogue photography of football that I love — shot by fans across the world — it always seems to be in this warm, golden-hour light. But that’s not how I experience matches. For me, they’re dark, gloomy, shadowy events. And I want that mood to come through in my photos. I try to embrace the blur, the soft focus, the lack of control — because that’s what it’s like at the game. 

Frankfurt was a special one. A bright moment in a tough season. A night that made up for the no-shows and the long away trips that led nowhere.

Every now and then, this team reminds you why you do it.

Up the Spurs.