Note: This piece has since been reproduced in “A Kick Up the Rs”

Once upon a time, on a rainy Saturday afternoon in 2006, I went to see QPR play in an uneventful 0-1 loss to Wolverhampton Wanderers. I didn’t take to it at all, and could count on one hand the number of times I went back in the following decade.

Twelve years later, though, I was back at Loftus Road to witness a similarly dull 0-1 game against Norwich City. This time, I loved it. What changed?

I was never a sporty kid. My parents’ attempts to encourage me to get up and run around for a bit via an after-school football club were very well-intentioned but totally fruitless. I’m told they once had me medically assessed as I started walking at an abnormally late age, resulting in a diagnosis that I was literally just lazy. Didn’t stop me learning to talk weirdly early, though.

Me failing to understand that whole “kick the ball” thing, pictured here on the pitch with my Dad’s old Sunday League side, the illustrious Temple Fortune FC.

As a result of this, I never really got into football in any way. When my friends came over, they’d bring their football shirts and pretend to be David Beckham or Peter Crouch, whilst I was in the corner dressed as Mike Wazowski (for the record, not a decision I regret one bit – but one I’m glad there’s little photo evidence of).

Not playing had led to not caring. The great irony of this was that I came from strong West London stock, with relatives and family friends alike making the trip to Loftus Road every weekend – whilst some of the other kids at school picked whatever team was at the top of the table, I ignored the team right under my nose. For what it’s worth, being from North London myself did nothing to make me a Spurs or Arsenal fan either, so we’ll count our blessings there.

The point is, the connections were there, with a pre-made loyalty to a club, attempts to get me playing myself, even the full QPR kit, courtesy of Dad. Either way, I never got into it. Over the years, I considered giving it another look, but at that point it had become intimidating – people who knew things about football seemed to have this encyclopaedic knowledge of the game, saying stuff like “oh yeah, he played for us in 2009,” without even having to think. I just didn’t get it, and was scared off by it. Whenever I heard any football patter it just sounded like that overplayed bit from The IT Crowd.

I even had the socks. Sorry for the wasted investment Dad, they probably don’t fit anymore.

Unsurprisingly, I got really into the 2018 World Cup. Everyone did. Football was coming home, everyone was down the pub, and we all suddenly became world-class experts on Gareth Southgate’s approach to set pieces. I was annoyingly busy for all of the early matches – out to dinner with no signal for the nail-biting Colombia penalty shoot-out, and on an aeroplane for the 2-0 triumph against Sweden (where the result was announced to rapturous cheering as we touched down on the runway). Yeah, we didn’t make it past the semi-final, but I finally understood what it was that swept people up in this shared passion, and what made it more than kicking a ball about.

At risk of a cliche, the rest is history. I tentatively dipped my toe into club football for one or two games, and slowly but surely caught the bug. I finally felt the excitement of rallying behind the team, clad in blue-and-white hoops, on a rainy West London matchday. A huge part of this was down to the turbulent summer the club had – with the departure of Steve McClaren, and a tight financial situation putting a strain on the transfer budget, it was all change. Top scorers went off to sit on the bench of Premier League clubs, and new talent was brought in from elsewhere, as well as drawn from our own bench.

The faces on the pitch were new to everyone, so I’ve been party to the shared joy of Rs fans at watching young, talented players like Ebere Eze, Ilias Chair and Bright Osayi-Samuel cut about the pitch with genuine talent and real enthusiasm for the club. I didn’t have to be a QPR loyal to hear fans’ opinions on Joey Barton, and everyone I talk to tells me this era is different. I might not have been swept up by the club in its recent era of glitzy, expensive posturing, but I’ve joined it at a time where its storied past is celebrated and the youth in the squad shows huge promise for the future.

There have been a few knock-on effects of this rapid love affair with QPR. I’ve given football a go myself, facing a years-old fear dating back to the intimidation of the after-school club. I’m crap, but that’s kind of the point, and it’s so much fun. I feel like I’ve been let in on a secret, but really I’d just been denying it to myself for years. My Dad probably can’t believe his luck at the fact that my sister and I are now fighting over the spare season ticket he’d kept vacant for most of a decade, and the three of us have vowed to go for a kickabout when I’m next home. I’ve also gradually started getting an idea of how professional football works outside of the mid-table Championship, meaning I’ve been able to hold my own and throw some shade back at my Southampton and Arsenal-supporting friends when they poke fun at some of QPR’s recent defensive catastrophes.

All in all, I’ve discovered what I had failed to see all along. I’m not going to go full “it’s not a club, it’s a family, it’s a way of life,” – I’m never going to become one of the hoops-clad ultras like the infamous Sombrero Man. It’s just that it really should’ve been obvious to me that there’s a reason people support the clubs that don’t top the league tables every year. Whether it’s a family history of supporters, the likeability of a few players, or even the colour of the kit – people want to be part of a tribe.

Sombrero Man pictured here in my current seat, a few years before I got my hands on it. People laugh, but he’s a bit of a folk legend.

It’s helped that there’s a real (slightly bizarre, slightly old-fashioned) magic to the club. There’s no need for me to go into it when it’s been put so well by so many people already. Suffice it to say that QPR has shrunk back from its over-the-top money-drenched Premier League days to shine on the appeal it’s always had – a smaller club in the heart of its community, bringing up exciting local youth prospects and playing attractive, interesting football. There’s a familiar, comforting feel to Loftus Road (or rather, the Kiyan Prince Foundation Stadium), and everyone who turns up every week through thick and (usually) thin knows it.

Of course, I’ve had some catching up to do – I’ve had to fit a whole missed decade of enthusiasm into a few months. I’ve bought the shirt, ranted about Mark Warburton’s master plan to friends who truly couldn’t care less, and lapsed into some QPR chants at a few house parties. This has all understandably led to some schtick at my expense, including the recent Secret Santa present pictured below.

Yeah, it’s a children’s book – but you won’t be laughing once your yearly Goodreads target is one closer to being reached.

I’ll take it on the chin, though – I do probably look like a bit of a prat, but I think I owe myself a bit of childish enthusiasm, having missed out on it while I was an actual child. Everyone looks back at their first season supporting their club, the first kit they bought, the players of “their” era. In that case, I might as well get stuck right in.

After all, I never put that 2007-8 season ticket to good use – but I’m sure there’ll be more in the future.

Twitter: @bm_summer