TERRA magazine: The Marshes Don't Care Who You Are

My mate Bobby Badger passes the silhouette test. Red socks worn lower than Jack Grealish, fading black-and-white striped shirt with a frankly ridiculous No.99 on the back, a missing front tooth, and a mop of dark hair that sways in the infamous and incessant Hackney Marshes wind.

Even at a distance of hundreds of yards, Bobby Badger cannot be missed. That’s why every Sunday morning, when I take a sharp left off Lea Bridge Road, swerve in and out of the joggers and dog walkers and arrive at grassroots football nirvana, it is always his trademark silhouette I am searching for to discover which of the 58 pitches my Bow Badgers are stationed for the day.

But right now, I am not looking at Bobby from a distance of hundreds of yards. He’s much closer, sat cross-legged (he does this all the time) by the corner flag midway through the first half. He’s waiting somewhat patiently for our opposition to make their subs before he takes the set piece. Once the change has been made, Bobby — in his own time, in his own world — nonchalantly clips a cross towards the back post.

In front of me, three men with soft physiques and hangovers of varying intensity jump into each other. By some quirk of fate and physics, the ball nestles perfectly on my right foot. I swing a black adidas boot at it, and the net, which I pegged down with some twigs from the nearby trees less than an hour earlier, (Alex forgot the pegs again you see) bulges. Bow Badgers 1-0 Absolute FC. I have scored. I have scored, and I do a kneeslide, punch the air, then sheepishly amble back to my more natural home at centre-back.

For days after, I thought about this moment, because scoring a goal in 11-a-side is brilliant, and thanks to my many sporting shortcomings, I can pretty much remember every time it’s happened. Out of all of them — the game-winning penalty on a bog in Wythenshawe, the time an attempted clearance cannoned off my face in a sports complex owned by the Bank of England, my delicate lob at the home of my beloved Gosport Borough — it is this one, a tap-in in Division Three of the Hackney & Leyton League I cherish the most.

Why? It’s because from the moment I found those Badgers and first stepped out onto the Marshes, it felt like home — a noisy, bobbly, shabby, joyous, and slightly dysfunctional home.

Even now, the sheer scale and claustrophobia of the place blows me away. On its busiest weekend over 100 amateur matches take place there. 200 teams, with pitches separated by a matter of yards. Maybe as many as 2,500 players, depending on how many dreaded, same-day dropouts the managers receive. These players are male and female, young and old, lifetime Londoners and those finding their place in an often unfriendly city. The Marshes don’t care who you are. If you’ve got the constitution to drag yourself out of bed on a Sunday, and take a plane, train or automobile to E9, someone will chuck you a smelly shirt and tell you you’re starting at left-back.

The Badgers’ frontline regularly features a 45-year-old who has lived in Hackney Downs their whole life, a 29-year-old from Liverpool who moved to east London for the flat whites, and either a 20-year-old Polish student surviving an eight-person houseshare or a 46-year-old businessman who lives in Canary Wharf.

When such a diverse cross-section of society meets up like this, interesting things happen. It’s cathartic to be a part of and fascinating to watch. To walk around the Marshes in full flow is to experience life itself, and I recommend everyone who has even a passing interest in football (or humans, for that matter) does it.

Jubilation and desolation in equal measure. Improvised humour and minor acts of violence playing out a stone’s throw from each other. The stresses of the week and world exorcised with every shanked clearance, misplaced pass, and brutal header. Across the planet this is what grassroots football gives us: a chance to clear your head, form connections, and (sometimes) produce a kind of magic you didn’t think you were capable of. At the Marshes, you can see it all in a single morning, and then come back for more again and again and again.

As I write this, the season is over. The Badgers finished midtable, lost a cup final, and Bobby is threatening to leave, like he does every summer. I always become slightly untethered at this time of year, and I’m sure at least some of the 2,000 players who attend Sunday service at the Marshes feel the same.

Soon though, we will be back. Back looking for sticks that can suitably replace net pegs, back at the post-game debrief down the pub, back with people who without football I would never have known, and back emerging from those trees, looking for a shaggy-haired silhouette.

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Words: Matt O'Connor-Simpson

Images: Paul Gilbey