My Father Took Me to Our First Game in 1987. Now I Can't Afford to Take My Son.

I was seven years old. My father had been saving for three months to buy us both tickets. We stood in the rain. We lost 2-0. I have never been happier in my life.

He took me eleven more times before he passed. Those games are the clearest memories I have of him — clearer than Christmas, clearer than holidays, clearer than anything.

My son is seven now. He has my father's eyes and my father's tendency to lean forward when something exciting is happening on the screen. He wants to go to a game more than anything in the world.

The cheapest ticket in our stadium this season for a category B match is £89. Category A is £140. There are no standing areas anymore. There are no working-class areas anymore. The club my father loved, that his father loved, has been repurposed as a luxury experience for corporate hospitality packages and visiting tourists checking things off a list.

I earn a reasonable wage. We are not poor. And I still cannot justify the cost without it meaning we cancel a family holiday or push back a car repair. That is what they have done to us.

When I tell people this they say "market forces." My father would have had something shorter to say about that.