A little strangely perhaps, the 2026-27 football season seems to me to have been a long time coming. Obviously, I hope, I don’t mean that in the context of the whole of time, because everything has been a long time coming if that’s our measure, but just since the end of the 2025-26 football season. As a result, this means I am both looking forward to this afternoon’s fixture versus Sunderland and not looking forward to it. Being mostly human (apart from a bit of bovine tissue in a couple of heart valves), I have adapted quite easily to the football-free regime of June, July and most of August, and having done so I’m buggered if I can now be bothered to change back, but of course I will.
The last time Ipswich Town played Sunderland at Portman Road on the opening day of the season was seven years ago, a one-all draw courtesy of a late defensive error by captain and all round “man’s man” Luke Chambers. Less than a week later I was in hospital in an induced coma (see ‘mostly human’ above), so I will prefer to recall the time before that, in August 1981. Remarkably, I vaguely remember that match from forty-five years ago and how disappointed I was that Town hadn’t won, despite having come back twice from two goals down to draw 3-3. But I was young, Town were the UEFA Cup holders and after finishing university, life had barely hinted at trying to run off in directions I didn’t want it to. In August 1981 I was about to start work or at least search for a permanent job; now at last I am about to retire.
This morning is fraught with concerns about getting into Portman Road using the new mobile phone-based ticket system. Foreseeing queues, I arrange with Gary to meet him on the train that leaves a whole hour earlier than the one we usually catch and after an unusually late breakfast I am soon changing my mind about whether or not to take a jumper and a light coat because the wind is in the north and there could be showers. At the local railway station, I resume my acquaintance with the fellow Town supporter who lives down the road from me but who I otherwise never see. We talk of the currently unknowable prospects for the new season and it’s a conversation which gets more or less repeated when Gary joins us at the next station stop along with his nephew and his nephew’s wife. Our conversation rattles along with the train, and I almost forget to look for polar bears as we pass through Wherstead; I do however remember to look, just in time to disappointingly not spot a single one. I hope it’s not a portent of future disappointment.
Ipswich is glorious, sunny and busy when we get there, and with the exception of the man who lives down the road from me, whom I wish ‘bon match’ as I bid him farewell, we all head off up Princes Street towards the Arb, where weirdly people are once again queuing at the bar instead of swarming around it like people did in pubs back in 1981 and probably even in 2019. Gary gets the drinks in whilst I claim the only vacant table and chairs in the already busy beer garden. Time passes amidst shared tales of organising tickets online and passing oneself off as an away supporter. I learn that Gary’s nephew has a ‘dream car’ and so does his wife, which I find surprises me as I don’t, although I’d quite like an open-top bus.
Because Gary’s nephew and his nephew’s wife have to meet someone at the ground at 2pm they leave shortly after I get a second round of drinks comprising just a pint of Estrella for Gary and one of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride for me (£10 something with Camra discount). Gary and I speculate as to when most people will leave for the match and by the time we finish doing so most people seem to have left. We question whether by leaving early we will not just join a queue and perhaps we should leave late to hopefully arrive after everyone else has gone into the stadium. But being cautious by nature we leave at about twenty past two.
At twenty-seven minutes to three I join a queue the back of which is within touching distance of Russell Road, which must be about 100 metres from the turnstiles. I am soon joined by Pat from Clacton who seems a bit puffed after walking from where the Clacton supporters’ bus is parked on Sir Alf Ramsey Way. Our queue is static, so we soon switch to one which is moving and looking ahead I see that there are minimal queues for the actual turnstiles, the delay is with everyone being checked for weapons, explosives and scrap metal. Fortunately, our queue seems to be leading to a couple of the more enlightened employees of Achilleus Security who are able to tell at a glance that whilst many of us are old enough to have been members of the Angry Brigade, the Baader Meinhoff gang, the Red Army Faction, Black September, the Weathermen, the Brigate Rosse, the Symbionese Liberation Army or even in a few cases the People’s Front of Judea and the Judean People’s Front (revisionist bastards), we are mostly only interested in football this afternoon, so just a cursory wave of their ‘wand’ and a smile is all that is needed to send us on our way towards the turnstiles. There is a blockage at my favoured turnstile 62 so I move to turnstile 60 and am amazed and impressed that the sorcery that is a football season ticket on a telephone (whoever heard of such a thing?) actually works. I run through the turnstile before it can change its mind, shouting “I’m in!” and waving my arms with excitement.
When I reach my seat next to Fiona and just behind ever-present Phil who never misses a game, and his son Elwood, it is four minutes to three. The man from Stowmarket (Paul) arrives soon afterwards and soon after that the excitable young stadium announcer, who now has the sort of haircut which suggests National Service might have been re-introduced, reads out the team and like a Frenchman at the Stade Marie-Marvingt in Le Mans or the Stade Felix Bolleart in Lens I bellow their surnames as they appear on the scoreboard.
The teams arrive amidst shooting balls of flame and the smell of sulphur affirming the Premier League’s deal with Satan, and once the roasted and badly singed seagulls have been collected up the game begins. It is Sunderland who get first go with the ball, which they try and aim mainly in the direction of the former Spiritualist church on Anglesea Road. Sunderland are sporting an un-necessary and rather boring looking change kit of all pink with black shoulders. The pink shirts look completely plain, but no doubt close-up it is possible to see that the fabric is woven with patterns depicting lumps of coal, ship rivets and Giro cheques to celebrate the north-east’s rich industrial heritage.
Ipswich Town are of course wearing our signature blue shirts and white shorts and within four minutes Leif Davis is blocking a shot from a big Dutch bloke called Brobbey, and Sunderland have the game’s first corner. But within sixty-seconds Town’s Enciso also has a shot blocked as it leaves his foot and Emersonn has a header comfortably saved by the diving Sunderland goalkeeper, whose name is Roefs. I need the action to slow down so that I can begin to get to grips with who is in the Town team. As I say to Fiona, it’s almost like coming to support a different club, with only four of last season’s players in today’s team.
I quickly decide I like that Town’s new team is mostly peopled with players from abroad, because if the Premier League has taught us anything it is that as a general rule Englishmen are not as good at football as South Americans, Africans and people from the Schengen Area, but at least we have our sovereignty, whatever that is. Sunderland it seems are having the majority of possession, possibly because they have not needed to sign a whole new team over the summer. I wonder to myself why Town’s Issa Diop appears to be wearing puttees and realise I have previously seen Sunderland’s Enzo Le Fee and Thomas Meunier playing in France for Lorient and Paris St Germain.
It’s the twenty-fourth minute and Enciso intercepts a poor pass, runs past the poor passer, runs easily past another bloke in pink and finally squares the ball well enough for Emersonn to be able to roll it into the empty goal and Town lead one-nil. Happiness ensues and Town’s first twenty-four minutes in the Premier League this season already seem better than the whole of the 2024/25 season in the Premier League. “Ipswich Town, Ipswich Town FC, the finest football team the world has ever seen” we all sing to the tune of The Wild Rover, as we collectively raid our folk memories.
Five minutes later and fortunately for Town one of the pinks heads the ball more or less straight at Town keeper Scherpen. “How many more games have we got left” asks Pat from Clacton anxiously. Five minutes later and Sunderland have another corner, but in the Sir Bobby Robson supporters chant “Ole, Ole, Ole” whilst they still feel able to do so. Six minutes later and Sunderland claim the season’s first yellow card at Portman Road for number five Ballard, which consequently makes me think of JG Ballard, his novel ‘High Rise’ and Ipswich’s Cumberland Towers. The bloke next to me is clearly hallucinating almost as much as I am as he then says to the bloke behind me “Imagine if we do get into Europe”. We must have inhaled something in the smoke from those balls of flame.
There are six minutes until half-time, and Sunderland have a free-kick following a foul by Issa Diop. Unexpectedly, a tall bloke in pink with bleached hair by the name Angulo steps up to curl the ball into the top left had corner of the Town goal just beyond the very outstretched figure of Scherpen, and the score is one all. To add to the disappointment, although celebrating the event as one might expect, the Sunderland supporters fail to break into a version of Brotherhood of Man’s 1977 number one record “Angelo”.
The now even first half trails off into the past with a Sunderland corner and an additional two-minutes, but the mood is still positive with Town having scored a goal and despite a bit less possession than Sunderland no evidence that the away team are more likely to score than the Town are. With the half-time whistle I remain where I am because Ray is still in hospital and his grandson Harrison and son Michael have moved seats.
The football returns at three minutes past four and most of the ensuing half suggests that another opening day draw might be the outcome as although Sunderland have the ball much of the time they don’t do very much with it and Town are tidy with Enciso playing a starring role and looking a better player than he did two years ago. Angulo is the second Sunderland player to be booked, for being obtuse perhaps and O’Nien the third; Sunderland are the first to make substitutions and Town win two corners before making substitutions of their own in the sixty-sixth minute.
Five minutes later, Enciso is sitting on the ground looking like he might have felt a twinge or an ache and he is replaced by Jack Clarke or as the excitable young stadium announcer calls him “Jack! Clarke!”. Town take a little while to adjust to the loss of Enciso and in the lull Pat from Clacton shares with us that today she is wearing a new pair of ‘Ipswich Town’ blue and white knickers. I check with her that they are definitely new, and not old, and ask if they’re comfortable. Apparently, they are. Pat goes on to say they’re sort of “silky” and I tell her I hope she doesn’t slide off her seat.
More substitutions follow for Town, with Abdoul Outtara and Eggy replacing Nunez and Daizen Maeda with less than fifteen minutes remaining, after another Town corner. The simmering noise of the crowd seems to ask if there is going to be a winning goal and helps erase memories of talk of Pat’s pants. The excitable young stadium announcer then tells that we are 29,669 and after Sunderland take the game’s final useless corner I tell myself that there’s little prospect of another goal.
The final minute of normal time arrives and as thoughts turn to the train home, Town’s Sasa Lukic intercepts another loose Sunderland pass and sets off Jack! Clarke! to run at the Sunderland defence. With his characteristic style Clarke! drops a shoulder and then curls the ball into the far side of the goal net with a low shot. Town are winning two-one and subject to surviving four minutes of added on time will make almost everyone who isn’t about to make a long journey up the A1 deliriously happy.
The four minutes are easily survived, there’s even some hope of a third Town goal, but it’s probably best we keep that in the bank for a day when it will make a difference. Pat from Clacton and Fiona are quickly away, Pat particularly so in her new, silky, free-moving pants, but I hang about to applaud and maximise my time spent learning what this new team look like. The new season might have felt like it’s been a while coming, but on the albeit slim evidence of today’s showing it’s been worth the wait.
trippingovertheball 