I was reminded of my job by a cabbie.
“When we score a goal, I jump across seats to hug a bloke I’ve never met before.”
I was in a London cab, and my driver, Paul, was a lifelong Millwall fan.
He raised his 17-year old son to be a Millwall fan.
When Paul’s son was going through bullying in middle school, Paul took his son to every home and away match for Millwall.
“It was expensive to travel across the country to go to every game, but to see my son’s face and to do this with him, it was worth it.”
He figured that the best way to cheer his son up, was to take him every week for an entire season of Millwall football—home and away games.
He chuckled, “His class had to do a presentation about their carbon footprint, and my son’s was the worst that season. He came home so proud of it. He didn’t mind the bad grades. He had gone to every Millwall game. It was a badge of honor for him.”
To this day, Paul sees every Millwall match as a gift. It’s his special day out, something he looks forward to all week. He leaves home early morning, spends all day hanging out with his friends at the pub, laughing, singing, reminiscing over glorious times, reliving great goals, dissecting old plays, bemoaning bad referee calls, and debating hypothetical player trades.
Football is a sense of connectedness with the universe for Paul. Specifically, Millwall football. He was proud that he had raised his son to be a Millwall fan. And prouder still that his son had remained true to Millwall, in the midst of all the clubs he could have chosen to be a fan of.
Paul reminded me of why we do what we do. It’s not about technology. It’s not about devices. It’s not about convenience. It’s not about 3-second attention spans.
It’s about the connectedness that people feel to each other through the power of sport. It’s about the yearning to belong, to feel a part of something bigger, to be carried in a tide of pure, unspeakable, communal emotion in a beautiful sport. Paul saw “his people” in every stranger who wore a Millwall shirt. Paul ate and drank with his people. Paul sang with them, laughed with them, walked miles with them, called them his best mates, and introduced his kid to them. He talked about hugging them with boyish enthusiasm in moments of delirious joy. He talked about shouting with them in moments of raucous frustration. He felt emotionally connected to them, at a primal level, through their shared love for Millwall.
“If we get a win, it’s a bonus. But, it’s really a day out for me with me mates. I told my son that we always make it a day out for football.”
For Paul, winning was not Millwall winning the game—that was a bonus. For Paul, winning was a day out basking in Millwall togetherness. With his willing son in tow, basking alongside him.
Our job should not be to build gimmicks to enhance the fan experience, or to foist the next new breakthrough technology onto fans.
Rather, it’s to not forget Paul, when we do what we do, when we build what we build. It’s to design for Paul, and to remove barriers between Paul and his passion, between Paul and his people.
Our mission should be to serve the millions of Pauls out there—each of them meticulously planning their special days out—to deepen their togetherness and connectedness through their love of the game.
Paul of Millwall, I salute your fandom.
And, I thank you for reminding me of my job.
