Take in the smell of the show

Football is a sport renowned for its sights and sounds.

It is the combination of its vivid, flowing, explosive optics and the raucous, spine-tingling noise it generates which make it such a peerlessly captivating spectator event.

Most of us will still be able to recall the feeling of undiluted wonder, an awe-inspiring moment no matter how many hours of television viewing we imagine will prepare us for it, the very first time we ascended a staircase and peered through a gangway at the pitch below: lush and verdant, the scenery of a superhero movie of which we have somehow become part. Similarly, we can never forget the shocking eruption of the first real, live goal celebration by which we were ever surrounded, terrifying yet exhilarating, a noise of war yet instinctively, intuitively, containing only love.

But rarely do we ever wax lyrical over, or have cause to dwell upon, the smells of football. That is, until recently, when the always-entertaining Steve Clarke described Greg Stewart’s transfer to Pittodrie in splendidly graphic terms which may have a few of the Kilmarnock players checking their soles and casting accusing glances at Angus when they play at Pittodrie.

All metaphorical of course; this afternoon’s match will not literally smell of manure, nor any of its participants. But that’s not to say it won’t smell of anything, or that its aroma will not form an integral, memorable part of the sensory brew which intoxicates the newcomer and converts him or her into a diehard.

Our olfactory faculties are greatly underestimated and play a far more significant role in our emotional wellbeing than many recognise. Right from birth, when a baby will attach itself to a blanket whose barely detectable scent provides the reassurance of familiarity, we go through life drawing comfort from the smells which remind us of places of happiness and belonging, even though we may not know it. And the smells of football can be every bit as evocative as what we see and hear, transporting us back to our earliest supporting experiences, when everything was new and marvellous and huge and exciting.

So what does football smell like? Were this Family Fortunes, it is likely the top answer would be Deep Heat and freshly cut grass, and that is certainly true on the Sunday league pitches and long summer evenings on village greens (perhaps in the latter case with a hint of what was in Clarke’s nostrils wafting in off the adjoining farmland). But that isn’t necessarily what our brains associate with the Premiership version of the game, and not only because anyone running a mower over the playing surface at Kilmarnock would be kicking up the odour of scorched tyres rather than lawn clippings.

Each of us will probably have our own individual definition and many of us might not even know exactly what it is, but whenever we encounter it in our daily lives we will instantly be back in our formative years, unwearied by the cynicism of hundreds of disappointments and unfulfilled dreams, simply falling in love with football all over again.

For me, it was many years before I came across in the real world what I naively presumed to be the specific smell of the football stadium, perhaps one you too will recognise. It was the smell of cigars: not lit ones, but those which had recently been smoked, the lingering aroma of which was always the first thing to greet entrants through the South Stand turnstiles as they emerge onto the dark side of Section Y, where mannies used to gather for a pre-match puff. Even now, walking through a rapidly dispersing cloud of cigar fumes is like travelling back in time to a misty Wednesday night against Clydebank.

So close your eyes, take a deep breath, and take in the smell of the show.