Extract from Heartfelt

Convinced that Hibs are from Mars and Hearts are from Uranus, Aidan Smith embarks on the seemingly straightforward task of proving that Hibs are superior in every department - passing game, pies, cultural references, and the view beyond the stands when games are rubbish. And, at first, looking at the world through maroon-tinted specs shocks him...

The extract below is taking from the first chapter of Heartfelt by Aidan Smith.

August

14 August. Opening Day
A scorching hot day, fans in short-sleeves, many sporting this-year's-model replica strips, lots of them hand-in-hand with their sons. The boys are skipping - they're too young to know the hurt caused by football - but even the dads have a spring in their step. It's the first home game of the new season and optimism abounds. Past failures are forgotten, hope springs eternal, dreams begin anew, let's go round again, baby we'll turn back the hands of time. And the shuffling mass of XX-Large polyester fairly crackles and shimmers in the sun.

Admittedly, the dreams can be dead by the end of August, after three straight defeats that include a tanking by your hated local rivals. But there is nothing quite like the shiny, scrubbed, clean-pants expectancy of the opening day. As a boy, yearning for the new season, I counded the sleeps like it was the build-up to Christmas. I checked the pools forecasts... week after week of Wogga Wogga Wanderers in the Australian Leagues then... uh-oh, what's this?... Glentoran vs Dundee! Forres Mechanics vs Partrick Thistle! Pre-season tours of Ireland and the Highlands were a sure sign that football - real, proper Scottish football - wasn't far away.
Real, proper Scottish football is not what it was. Only two teams, Celtic and Rangers, can realistically win the Premier League but still fans of the others pledge themselves to their clubs with season tickets, the complete, club-crested wardrobe and a conveyor belt of accessories (including cuddly toys). And a loyalty that borders on lunacy.

It's an impressive sight, punters in motion. The crowd surges towards the stadium and swells in number every time a side-street links up to the main drag. We pass a chip shop, then a church, then a crossroads where three routes syphon more of the faithful into the throng. Everyone is united in purpose: they're going to the match. Except for a wee woman who's chosen this moment to wheel a pram in the opposite direction, cursing as she pushes against the tide.

It's a scenario I know well, I've been down this road many times. But this particular road is Edinburgh's Gorgie Road and everyone else here is a Jambo, the Saturday name of the Jam Tarts, Hearts, whose Sunday name is Heart of Midlothian. I follow my hated city rivals Hibs, Hibernian. I am a Hibby, my team are the Hibees.

'If you hate the fuckin' Hibees clap your hands' chant the Jambos.

I'm the only fuckin' Hibee here and I feel physically sick. For I am about to sup Bovril from the Devil's cup.

A man can change his house, job, car, religion, political affiliations, socks and even his wife, but his football team is supposed to be one of life's constants. Could he, though, for an experiment swap sides for a season? Could he support the other lot, the dreaded enemy from the far side? And would the experience teach hum anything about football, loyalty and, most of all, himself?

...

At the turnstiles, I notice the price above the entrance - £18. That's two quid cheaper than an equivalent match at Easter Road, so much as today might pain me, and in lots of different ways, I console myself that it won't hurt me in the pocket. But when I reach the gate the attendant doesn't have change of a £20 note. Her supervisor has been informed, but as I wait for my measly two quid, she ushers the rest of the queue through. As they squeeze past me, cheerfully informing the attendant they're happy to pay more if it will guarantee Hearts' future, it must be crashingly obvious, if it wasn't before, that I'm not One Of Them. Eventually, my pathetic two quid arrives and the turnstile clicks to grant me entry into Tynecastle. It is like the sound of a rifle being cocked.