THIS PIECE FIRST APPEARED IN THE NON-LEAGUE PAPER

There comes a time in every football-supporting life when you turn to non-League.

Just as you can judge a person’s maturity by the coming-of-age movie that coloured their late teens (Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in my case), you can assess their wearying-with-age attitude to the latest Premier League hype-fest when they decide to ‘go local’.

My obsession with football journalism had started by watching Arsenal with my father and writing up reports on a light brown Woolworth’s typewriter with a dodgy E. Then at university in the 90s, a time when ‘a dodgy E’ meant something entirely different, I branched into fanzine writing. Degree done, I wrote to 50 newspapers looking for a sports job. Half did not reply, half said they would keep me on file if something cropped up. Luckily enough, something did.

So, five years after the demise of Aldershot FC, I started my career covering their phoenix club in the old Isthmian Division One. The crowds and interest were still that of a fourth division side so, in retrospect, it was an excellent greenhouse for my budding skills. Actually, ‘hothouse’ might be a better word given the aggravation surrounding the club in those days, not that it was all of their own making. By the time George Borg finally won promotion to the Premier Division I had moved on. My career in the following 25 years has taken me all over England with the Telegraph, all over Europe with Arsenal, all over the US with Major League Soccer and, in the last three years, to every top-flight club in the UAE and Indonesia.

Like everyone, lockdown stalled my travelling, my work and my ability to watch football. But it has also crystallised a change in my thinking. Decades earlier, my spectating decisions would be based on questions such as: can I get a ticket, will the atmosphere be tasty and what is the gravity of the game?

Now, in my early 50s, the main question is ‘can I be arsed?’. The key criteria are easy access, expense, quality of pint and conviviality.

That’s why, three weeks ago, I attended a game of non-League football for the first time in over 25 years.

It came about by accident. I had been walking my dog around Potters Bar one August Saturday and ventured near to the town’s Isthmian Premier Division club. It was about 4.30pm, the doors were open for early leavers and only responsibility for a yappy Yorkshire terrier stopped me sneaking in.

I noticed advertisements for ‘free’ season tickets around my neighbourhood in the following days. There was a £30 admin charge but if I only went twice I would nearly make up my money so I took the plunge.

Non-League being non-League there was no follow-up to the online transaction but, after a little email chasing and a polite apology, I was told to turn up at the gate and collect my season ticket.

“Ah, you’re Richard Clarke,” said the club official as he let me in. “We’ve heard about you.

“Welcome to our club,” he added as he put his arm around me.

Even in my time covering non-League a quarter of a century ago, finances were always held up by bar takings. But these were dingy, spit-and-sawdust drinking holes with low roofs tacked onto football pitches. Potters Bar Town’s facilities were modern and open plan with about 20 steps taking you from barside to pitchside. In between, there were pub-style benches and a food van selling something that looked eminently edible. This may seem damning with faint praise but, trust me, it was not always the case 25 years ago.

The stands were small but satisfactory and I was close enough to hear every swear word the players uttered. No-one was apologising, no-one held their hand over their mouth when they spoke. I could stroll around the pitch, unrestrained by stewards or the unreasonable end of Health and Safety regulations.

On one such ramble I passed a small chap in a black suit and curly white hair. I stopped, grabbed my iPhone and looked up Bognor Regis Town on Twitter. These inventions had been a good decade from existence the last time I went to a non-League game. I had enjoyed a few chats with Jack Pearce when Bognor Regis played against Aldershot Town 25 years ago. Incredibly, he was team manager again. Clearly, I was destined to return to the bosom of the lower level game.

Two weeks later, I was at a loose end again and, because this was non-League, had the luxury of making a ten-to-three decision. Yes, it was hammering down but Kingstonian were the league leaders.

The Bar grabbed a surprise lead midway through the second half only for the referee to call it off 15 minutes from time. Despite the driving rain, there had been little warning and he not asked for any remedial work on the admittedly sopping pitch.

Cue the sort of angry storm in a footballing tea-cup in which non-League football has always specialised.

A lot of things have progressed in the last quarter of a century but the ability of a largely unnoticed local game to arouse the emotions of a couple of hundred people in a small stadium on a Saturday afternoon remains undimmed.

Never change non-League, never change.