Roger Moore scores: Saints' generation gap

Last updated : 15 February 2007 By Roger Moore

Forget that the Puritans stocked the bar, or that Easyjet installed the seats, or that corrugated iron was once a design choice for the Irish navvy. It is impossible not to love the home of Queens Park Rangers; the very idea that beyond the bit of sparse turf and the shed at the bottom of your South Africa Road garden is another shed and bit of sparse turf on which dreams unfold.

And if Old Trafford is a theatre, then this little shed in the shadow of the BBC, is the perfect stage on which to remember life before television ripped so much heart from the game we love.

Looking around Loftus Road (which unlike the goal, was not obstructed from my ‘Restricted View' seat) you could see instantly how football moved the masses, how it became the people's game; rows of battle-weary fans a literal stones-throw from the players, not so much watching but immersed in the game.

It's not been the easiest of times for Rangers fans of late, but even so, a minute before three it's possible to see the sparkle in the eyes of the young followers in the front row, eager for a glimpse of their heroes, close enough to touch them, near enough to tell them when and where to shoot.

This tight, family ground reminds me of just how my club was when I started supporting. I'm not so old, but even I remember players who recognised the old boys beside me and came over not to give autographs but simply to pass the time, or apologise for missing a sitter the week before.

Sitting on top of the goal at QPR, I was glad to take my uncomfortable seat half an hour before kick-off. For the first time in years (well probably since last season at Loftus Road), my team was my team again – up close and personal.

Suddenly it was possible to make out the smiles and grimaces in the warm-up, to watch the hapless Ostlund bib-less, chase any luminous lost cause (who exactly is playing whom in that strange game that seems to involve orange bibs versus green bibs, while ‘skins' seem to play for whomever they fancy?).

Little Bradley-Wright Philips was exactly that, Adam Lallana a mere slip of a boy and Gareth Bale a happy-go-lucky lad with a ball at his feet.

In the days before television and the corporate stadium, of course, this is how we all consumed the game. If you lived in Southampton and wanted to watch football you came to The Dell. What other choice was there?

You could support the all conquering reds, as some of my friends did, but frankly, you would never see them play – well, not more than once a season anyway, and then they wouldn't be wearing red.

You didn't support Arsenal unless you lived in North London; in 1982 they finished 10th to our 12th! As for Chelsea, forget it. In my first season at Southampton, the kings of the King's Road were struggling among the paupers of Division Two, finishing 18th and narrowly avoiding relegation to obscurity.

No, before live televised football, the Panini album was generally as close as you came to witnessing ‘galacticos' of any description with any measure of frequency.

While we were raised on that lean fortnightly diet of live football, today's child is obese on the surfeit of the televised game. There are at least half a dozen games screened live every week, together with extended highlights after tea on a Saturday (from every Premiership game), and more goals on Sunday than can be found on any marsh from Hackney to Farlington, where I played after a hearty breakfast on the Sabbath.

Awash with money, as a result of all the televised games, the big clubs have forced the smaller to chase their tails in a desperate attempt not to compete but simply to survive.

And so the old fashioned football ground is slowly dying. In its place are a myriad stadiums exactly like ours, only the colours change. Yes, they're safer. Yes, the are more places to buy beer and more places to return it. Yes, there are completely unobstructed views. But frankly they are views from afar. Not from up close and personal like Loftus Road and our very own Dell used to be.

And here is a great problem facing clubs like ours. While our children sit remote from our players by virtue of our Premiership standard ground, they are closer than ever to alternate heroes from all-consuming Premiership television coverage.

They can watch them in microscopic detail, from any angle they choose, as often as they wish. They can see them on Saturday, Sunday and every evening on Sky Sports News and their own web-sites in between.

That's why just bringing your son or daughter to the game is no longer enough. If you want them to consume their heroes the way you and I worshipped ours, you must bring those kids to the ground early.

You must station them outside and watch the players arrive. Make sure they autograph your programmes and shirts. Take them pitch-side for the warm-up, point out the heroes, witness the training and catch the wayward ball.

Give them an experience that the media, however multiple, simply cannot.

There is no going back to the Loftus Road life. The immersive football experience we once enjoyed is sadly now only available via digital download.

Against this background, only real footballers can inspire our next generation to follow the Saints. Make sure you make it happen!