Frank Wilson

It’s small comfort in the tedium of the COVID lockdown here in London that we can at least watch regular Premier League soccer. But even that joy is muted, literally, by the absence of fans in the stadiums. Games played in empty arenas lack the passion, controversy and ribald humor of the terraces that make football the fun theatre it should be. The emotion of either playing the game, which I did keenly in my youth, or collectively sharing the successes and failures of your team, is an integral part of the sport. This applied in great measure to the game in Hong Kong, where fans of football are as enthusiastic and partisan as anywhere.

I was fortunate enough to play at a high level in Hong Kong for a short while. One of the most thrilling highlights was performing in a cup final in front of thirty thousand enthusiastic fans at the old Hong Kong stadium in Soo Kun Poo back in the 1980s. OK! OK! The fans were there mainly to watch the more important cup final which followed ours, but nevertheless it was intensely exciting to test our physical limits while being energized by the collective cheering, groaning and sighing as the game progressed. At the end of it, when my team had won, and we were proudly showing the cup to the fans, I found it touching that we received only applause and appreciation, for we were a team of expatriate players who had just beaten the local favorites.

If that was an example of the finer sportsmanlike side of the beautiful game, which was indeed the norm, I also experienced the darker side. One breathtakingly hot afternoon we played against determined opponents on a rock-hard pitch in the middle of the race track in Happy Valley. Once again it was our mostly expat side against a team of local boys. From the beginning, the game was confrontational and bad-tempered and by half time the referee had already sent off a player from each team.

Then in the second half, a moment of foolishness initiated a descent into chaos. For some unknown reason, the wife of one of our players standing on the touchline decided to stretch out her leg and trip up an opposing player who was rushing past. He jumped up, incensed, and pushed the lady to the ground. She fell, ignominiously, flat on her backside. An expat male then decided to make matters even worse, by swinging a punch at the Chinese player. He naturally retaliated. Within seconds all mayhem had broken loose. Players on both sides and many spectators (there were more than a hundred there) entered a mass brawl. Not being much of a fighter I kept on the fringes, fending off some attempted kung fu kicks from opponents. It had rapidly descended into a serious riot with racial undertones.

Our coach had the good sense to call for a retreat and shouted for all of us to run back to the Hong Kong Football Club, then in Sports Road several hundred yards away at the end of Happy Valley. Now, I don’t wish to diminish the ugliness of the event, but in retrospect there was an element of complete farce as a couple of dozen expat players and spectators ran to the Club, being pursued by irate Chinese players and fans and several overwhelmed policemen who had been sucked into the fray. It was like one of those old silent movies with Charlie Chaplin or the Keystone Cops in full pursuit. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and it was a one-off happening that I never experienced again. But it did illustrate the fragile boundary between a hard-fought physical game played in a spirit of respect and sheer anarchy!

The emotions are even more intense at an international level, where national pride is at stake. I think back to May, 1985. A crowd of us huddled round the TV in a friend’s flat to watch Hong Kong’s national team take on mighty China in the Workers’ stadium, Beijing. Much was at stake, for the winner would reach the final qualifying round and a chance to play in the World Cup proper. It’s like Gibraltar playing England or Luxembourg taking on Germany. China only needed a draw, but Hong Kong had to win. It looked like a forgone conclusion. Hong Kong’s team, though, led by popular coach Kwok Ka Ming, had plenty of talent, and despite a baying crowd of eighty thousand highly charged Chinese fans, were not overawed. They pulled off a remarkable 2-1 victory against all the odds. The cheers were heard all over Hong Kong, but in Beijing the mood turned bitter. Disappointed fans rioted in the streets of Beijing for hours and the PLA were called in to restore order. Coaches and officials in China resigned in disgrace. It became known as the “May 19 Incident” and took on the significance of a diplomatic crisis.

Such is the power and glory of the beautiful game, which, at its best, is an inspiration and bringer of harmony, and at its worst, an outlet for the basest prejudices. I’ll focus on the positive, however, and I look forward to the irreverent crowds bringing the atmosphere back into the Premier League stadiums and the simple pleasure back into everyday life.

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