As a kid, my uncle played for our local soccer team. He even
helped coach, I think. I’d tag along to matches when I could. For a while, I trained with one of the junior
teams, but circumstances beyond my control meant I couldn’t continue. Slowly,
my interest in soccer faded.
But football, Aussie Rules, was
different. I fell in love with it around the age of five. I chose Essendon, the Bombers - my uncle and
aunt’s team - as my own, and sometimes he’d take me to matches. Those outings
were wonderful, and they’ve stayed with me. Years later, I
bought a season membership and went to every home game for a few seasons. It
was a ritual, a rhythm.
Eventually, though, commitments made it difficult to attend. AFL games are
long, and the travel to and from the stadium made each match a five-hour
affair. It became harder to justify, even though the love never left.
I visited Lincoln a few years before I moved here, and went to a local derby. It was cold and damp, and about 1,500 people turned
up to watch a draw. I enjoyed it, but the mood was subdued. It was the kind of grey afternoon that leaves its mark long after the final whistle.
After relocating to the UK, I started following Lincoln City
more seriously. I read match reports, kept up with club news, and went to a few
games. It turned out to be a good time to get involved. New managers arrived,
the club reconnected with the city, and results began to improve. The energy
shifted. Attendance grew. Optimism returned.
I didn’t have anyone to go with, but I started going anyway. At first
occasionally, then more regularly. Last season I went to quite a few matches.
This year, I splurged and bought a season ticket.
Lincoln is a small city, tucked among farmland and often overlooked. Getting here isn’t always straightforward, though the new direct trains to London help. It’s not a place people pass through, you come here on purpose. But that’s part of its charm. It’s a place with its own pace, its own pride. That distance also fosters a kind of fierce local pride. The football club is more than just a team; it’s a symbol of the city’s identity. The fans don’t just support Lincoln City. They defend it. There’s a territorial edge to the loyalty, a feeling that the club belongs to the people in a way that’s deeply personal.
Match day has its rituals. A sausage in a bun. A quiet ale. A chat with fellow fans. And then, inside the ground, something shifts. I become part of something larger. The chants, the songs, the shared celebrations - and, as I said, football here is deeply tribal. It's us against them, the home fans against the visiting fans. It’s not just about the game; it’s also about belonging.
There’s something else, something oddly poetic. Lincolnshire is known as Bomber County, a legacy of the many RAF bomber squadrons based here during the Second World War. Lincoln itself is closely tied to that history, especially the legendary 617 Squadron, the Dambusters. On match day, that legacy comes alive. When Lincoln score, fans stretch out their arms like Lancaster bombers and sing the Dambusters theme. For corners, they wind up an air raid siren. The ultras call themselves the 617, and the stand bears a mural of bombers in flight, along with the slogan “After me, the deluge” in both English and French.
It’s tribal, yes, but it’s also mythic.
And strangely, it echoes my other footballing love. Back in Melbourne, my Essendon Bombers also play the sound of aircraft engines and an air raid siren before matches. It’s theatrical, stirring, and deeply rooted in identity. Two cities, two sports, two teams - half a world apart, both shaped by aviation history, both rallying behind teams associated with Bombers. It’s a coincidence, but one that feels meaningful - a thread running through my sporting life, tying together past and present, Australia and England, memory and belonging.
I still love my AFL, my beloved Essendon Bombers. That will never change. I stream as many Essendon matches as I can. But there’s something irreplaceable about live sport, about watching two teams battle it out, surrounded by people who care just as much as you do. It’s a connection to the city, to the crowd, to something bigger than yourself, and to the person you’ve always been, shaped by sport, place, and the people who shared it with you.
