My father took me to see West Ham United for the first time in 1974. I was eight years old and shouldn't really have been there, for I was an Arsenal fan, something that always baffled him. I remember very little about the game, beyond that Derby County were the opponents, that it was a drab, goalless affair and that the Derby winger Alan Hinton (I think that was his name) wore white boots.
My father was born in Upton Park and much of his childhood was spent in Forest Gate, where the late-Victorian terraces of the East End give way to the open scrubland of Epping Forest. West Ham was his home team, his pride. Yet he was a reticent man, a child of the Blitz, and I was often …