Wrexham secures promotion in front of jubilant owners Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney
This weekend, the world witnessed a feel good story play out in a small Welsh town. Writers all over have used the moniker “Hollywood Ending” due in large part to Ryan Reynolds and Rob McElhenney’s involvement in the team from Wrexham. It’s a very good story, even if you don’t like football (for you Americans, soccer).
I was privileged enough to visit Wrexham this past February. My family traveled to Europe over the kids’ winter break to see 4 European matches in 6 days. And a jaunt over to Wrexham was something I insisted upon.
The documentary series produced for the team’s first season under the Hollywood stars’ reign intrigued me. Well-produced and beautiful. It achieved its goal of making me relate to this town, these people, and this team. It sparked a longing to follow this story further (as any true-to-life documentary would).
What I’ll describe here are my impressions of the game we attended on February 21, 2023, when the hometown Wrexham Red Dragons took on Scunthorpe United FC in a National League showdown. (Don’t worry, that’s the last of the sports announcer voice.)
My first impression was one of a minor league baseball feel. For those of you who haven’t experienced that, you should. Make it a point to visit your closest minor league team and take in a game. It’s small. It’s quaint. And it’s baseball at is purest.
As we walked through the gates into The Racecourse Ground, the stands were so close to the pitch, you could see individual blades of grass. Not at all like our hometown Atlanta United at Mercedes Benz Stadium, where the stands sit quite high off the pitch. Here, we could see players up close. They looked bigger. Taller. Stronger. You could see the detail of their faces. The color variations in their tattoos.
Game time approached, and I was struck with the realization that this was a small town. The fans that filled the stands were all here. They were not strangers. They were (and are) a community. The person walking by you is not some guy. It’s John that you have a drink with on Thursday nights at the pub. Conversations from days ago continue as they squeeze past others to find their seat. They laugh and ask about John’s kids. They are part of this small town family.
I gazed across the stands, and realized the entire town is just…here. Like this is what they do on a Tuesday night, match night. It was cold (44 degrees) at kickoff, and they came prepared. Jackets and scarves all around. They brought their coffee in the same tumbler that they pack in their lunch pail for work. This is normal. This is what’s done.
Halftime came, and most of the 9,915 fans filed out below the stands for a bathroom break. Or to grab some food. Or just to grab a quick smoke. Just out of curiosity, I joined the throng. Found the lines for the bathroom (10-15 people in single file) and the massive wall of smoke just beyond the tunnel. 30-40 people deep trying to get themselves through the 2nd half.
One of the most endearing sights was watching a pair of boys waiting at the railing. They couldn’t have been more than 7 or 8 years old. While decidedly Wrexham hometown kids, they would watch players warm up along the side of the pitch. Didn’t really matter which team they played for, the boys lit up. They even jumped up and down when the players would come and give them a fist bump. Their little faces would turn around to catch a glimpse of their parents, almost saying “Look what just happened, dad! Mom, did you see that?”.
That is what this game, this town, is about. Seeing the smiles on those kids’ faces and understanding that they will be talking about that experience for a long time. It made me smile.
I also realized that the vast majority of fans in attendance were men. Much like American football games, these were big men. Gruff men. Men who drink and smoke. Men who have calloused hands from labor-intensive jobs. But attending tonight’s match, they were more than that.
Their inner boyhood shone through watching the game that they loved. The team they loved from the city they call home. They had a child-like quality to them that I can only describe as nostalgic. They were transformed by the boys (to them, at least) on the pitch as if those boys were their own.
It was then that Coach Parkinson made a substitution that almost brought the house down. If you watch the first season of the documentary, you will learn about a hometown kid named Jordan Davies. By the end of that first season, you are rooting for him with a full heart. And as he walked onto that pitch that night, all 9,915 people stood and chanted in unison “he’s ours”.
And they meant it. While the team had changed (and will continue to change as they move up in leagues), a slice of the town itself was still kicking and Jordan served as the living embodiment of that dream. They chanted with vigor and with pride. And if you were sitting amongst these people, hearing them collectively chant and cheer, and didn’t smile (or cry), you “ain’t made right”, as they would say where I come from.
That night was magical to me. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. Sure, watching Messi and Mbappe play in Paris days before was exciting. But this. This was an experience. This felt more “real” than that PSG game ever could. And it is something I will take with me forever.
I guess I’m a small-town homer at heart.
Let’s go Wrexham!
