Inside Brisbane Road, the Beating Heart of English Football

A (sort of) tautology: The English love their football. This is more than well known, but the true nature of England's love for the game cannot be known by those who do not live it. From the outside looking in, the vaunted Premier League would appear to be the defining representation of the country's defining love affair. However, within the tiered system of English football, it is the love afforded to teams on the lower levels wherein the real passions of the island can be found.

James Masters, a writer for The Times and CNN, has supported Leyton Orient F.C.—a member of England's third-tier Football League One—since the age of four. "I can only speak for myself, but my support for Leyton Orient is ingrained within my family and in my heart," Masters wrote to me. "Orient is one of the smallest league clubs in London, perhaps in the country. Yet it is my belief that you should only be measured by your ambition. What Orient gives me is a sense of belonging, a feeling that I somehow matter and a sense of family which fans of lower league football will attest to."

The Premier League, playground of Russian oligarchs and mother of primo uomo footballers, can, according to Masters, have a dissociative relationship for those whose teams do not currently share its august climes. "It is difficult for the ordinary person to relate to a modern day footballer," Masters wrote. "For most of us, a man being paid £100,000 every week and driving around in a Ferrari is not someone we can empathize with…In the lower leagues, there is no such problem. Fans are part of the community, they are the lifeblood on which the club is run and an integral part of the way it is represented."

And deep in the fan's heart, there is the knowledge that one day, with enough love and luck, their little team, their local boys, could one day slug it out with the oligarchs and Ferrari drivers.

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All conjecture and sociopolitical considerations aside, the best way to experience sport is to witness the damn thing. Masters put me in touch with Chris, a final year university student and Orient supporter whose abiding love for the O's—he has only missed five games since 2005—would make him a perfect guide. With a mop of hair, square framed glasses, and friendly nature, Chris met me at the Leyton tube stop on the Central Line, walking distance from Matchroom Stadium, a sponsored name that locals refuse in favor of its original moniker, Brisbane Road.

Orient's home ground rises abruptly from the neighborhood; the stadium strikes a dualistic balance between the newer apartment buildings and the late 19th century homes surrounding it. Chris and I stood beneath the western facade, its stark modernity in juxtaposition with the comparably ancient looking team crest of red wyverns attached to its front. We moved to the Supporter's Club before the game, where I met Sam and Lee, who adopted me into their fold as Chris had and others soon would.

The atmosphere was congenial, aided by the segregation of those faithful to Gillingham's opposing side, leaving no doubt as to my borrowed allegiances. I was invited to stand upon the wyverns, drain a 1664 lager, and join in supporting the O's, and even in this brief exposure I felt less an observer and more a part of some wonderfully delirious family.

Dickie, an Orient supporter with a voice which rattles low like anchor chains on the Thames, pointed out to me a woman who was celebrating her birthday, and warned me that if I did not look out for her, my "bollocks would go back to Chicago in a bag." He was joking, of course, flashing a little bit of that terrace-style menace for the visitor.

And so the game began with the Gillingham fans looking like Rothko's "No 1 (Royal Red and Blue)" and serving as the predominant source of noise. They sang songs and chanted, unopposed save the occasional seagull. Watching from the West Stands, I was fully prepared to suffer what author Bill Buford described as a "physical appetite" for a goal, even with the knowledge that Orient was considered to be a rather high-scoring club. As it turns out, I did not need to steel myself.

The O's scored early and often, David Mooney putting Orient on the board—figuratively, there is no scoreboard or clock at Brisbane Road—at the fourth minute and Dean Cox adding another just four minutes later. The Orient fans took their chance to drown out control of the stadium, singing their own songs.

Orient horsewhipped the Gills 5-1, an especially thrilling, if atypical, introduction to English football. After the game, Chris, Dickie, and the other supporters watched the various league tables as results poured in from around the country, excitedly dissecting the promotion/relegation implications as all of English football moved towards its conclusion.

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About a week later, I sat outside gate E11 at Philadelphia International, feverishly refreshing my phone to keep up as Orient took on the League One leading Wolverhampton. A man who had no real connection to soccer now with a ruling affection more esoteric than any Manchester City convert could comprehend. "Look around the country and whether it be at Portsmouth, currently in the bottom tier with crowds of over 16,000, or Yeovil, a club fighting way above its station in the Championship, local clubs give a sense of community and togetherness," Masters wrote to me. "It is the air we breathe, the incentive which gets us through the week, and because we don't have to share it with thousands across the country, it feels so very personal. It is ours."

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