Proposals, tears and flying cakes: my life behind the bar in the football stadiums | American football

Yo I was 17 when I started working on soccer fields to earn some extra money on the weekends. As the youngest of three girls, I could have easily followed my older sisters to work on Saturdays at a local cafe. Instead, I signed over my life (and my social life) to a hospitality agency, in exchange for £10 an hour, flexible shifts and a variety of unflattering uniforms.

As a die-hard Hull City fan, I was no stranger to the concourse, but I was unprepared for the trials and tribulations of working on it. Of Millwall Until Manchester I have seen it all: proposals, tears (mainly mine) and flying cakes.

In a baptism of fire, I was thrown into the Lions' den (literally) when my first shift behind the bar was at Millwall. My attempts to strike up a conversation with the other teenagers lining up at the staff entrance were futile; They were the first team and I felt like the wide-eyed apprentice. Like a line of kids on a school trip, we snaked through the stadium, assigned to kiosks by a woman in high visibility armed with a clipboard.

I felt out of my depth, sweaty and embarrassingly overdressed; My patent leather school shoes literally shined among the sea of ​​Nike sneakers. I had no idea what to expect or what to do, but it became clear when the kiosk only had plastic cups, three Carlsberg taps and some Twix.

Until then, my only experience with Millwall fans had been when I put on my black and amber scarf at the end of the match and, understandably, didn't receive the warmest of welcomes. Despite his reputation, fans were polite. I even had a regular client propose to me on several occasions, but he wasn't convinced that 60-year-old toothless Steve and I were the best match. Another memorable encounter was when two blonde American women asked us if we sold mineral water. I gestured around my kiosk and responded, “What do you think?”

My proudest moment at Millwall came several shifts later, when some intimidating chasers praised my pint-pouring skills after I replaced a shaky 16-year-old producing 50% foam beers. “She's done this before,” echoed off the concrete walls of the concourse. I finished the shift with a sense of superiority knowing that, although I couldn't legally drink a pint, I certainly could have one.

I used my newfound confidence to secure league promotion at the swanky Emirates Stadium. Much to my disappointment, my way of getting a pint was made obsolete by the newly installed self-filling glasses. However, I felt very important when they searched me upon entering. and We left the stadium, only to find out that this was to “protect revenue,” because God forbid their teenage minimum wage workers steal a package of Tangfatics. But I didn't care, because I had reached the big leagues and the only way was to move up; or so I thought.

“Is everyone here okay with asbestos?” were the words my manager greeted me with on my first shift at Craven Cottage. For £12.95 an hour at 5pm there was only one answer, so, inhaler in hand, I faced the barrage of Fulham fans arriving for the west London derby. I learned an important lesson in that change: never ask the losing side the result.

Speaking of losing sides, with my move to Manchester for university at 18 came my move to Old Trafford. After familiarizing myself with the concept of streetcars, I would make the hour-long trip from my dingy student apartment to an even dingier 6-by-4-foot kiosk. It wasn't exactly the theater of my dreams, but the fans made up for the dilapidated concourse; The traveling Irish fans were lovely, polite and more patient waiting for a pint from me than waiting for their team's poor run to end. I was also impressed by the “minesweepers” who left the game five minutes early to knock down the abandoned remains of flat pints, demonstrating their true commitment to reducing waste. But the highlight of my stay at Old Trafford was a cheerful “Hello!” by Gary Pallister while dragging overfull trash bags to the dumpster.

I couldn't help but feel like a traitor to Gary and company as I headed east to the Etihad, swapping my red fleece for a blue “Team Leader” t-shirt. Still, someone has to pay for my student nights at 42's. My stay here was characterized by not one, but two pastry-related incidents… the first, when poor Nick, the chef, was ambushed by city ​​of manchester fans as he carried a tray of balti chicken pies from the kitchen to the kiosk. He returned: with the aluminum foil torn, his face ashen, the chef's hat in his hand and the tray empty. As the sole survivor of a zombie apocalypse movie, he refused to go out again. In another pie rage incident, I received a meat pie in the face after telling a customer we were out of ketchup; Wiping away the tears and the sauce bits at the same time was a first for me.

After four years of working in football stadiums, I've hung up my name badge as I begin a full-time career; It makes me a little sad to think that I may never have a pint on a football pitch again. Although fans can sometimes be impatient, I will always remember the thrill of being surrounded by hordes of them doing something they loved; We could all learn something from their infectious passion and hope. And Steve from Millwall, if you're reading this, I'm still single.