The Ticket Man
The job was complete.
Sorted.
You knew it was a success when an Argentine with limited English started stuttering, trying to find the words to say thank you, every attempt accompanied by an ever-growing smile. In the end, he gave up and threw his arms around me.
“Thank you, my friend.”
The smile grew even bigger.
“Thank you so much.”
I had made this man so happy, and that made me happy too.
Two happy men.
It took a bit of work, but two happy, contented men.
I’d found him the rocking horse shit people hunt for without success. I’d shown him the end of the rainbow. It was sitting in his email account.
A Wrexham AFC ticket.
He had finally made it to a game.
It all started two years ago.
I was helping Wendy Hett organise and photograph the Terry Fox weekend. It was organised during an international break, meaning the Wrexham game had been postponed, but the football club allowed our Canadian friends a tour of the ground and there was poutine available at The Turf.
At the pub we noticed a mop of grey hair with a massive smile underneath.
We found out his name was Jaco. He spoke in pidgin English and explained he was touring Europe with his son, trying to watch as many football matches as possible. He was gutted the Wrexham game was off.
He was a ball of energy, moving from person to person, constantly searching for his son to help translate. Then, when he saw Scoot, after following his story on Welcome to Wrexham, he went up another gear. He kept singing Scoot’s famous line from his song.
Like thousands of people across the world, Jaco had discovered Wrexham through Welcome to Wrexham. This wasn’t just another football match for him.
It was a pilgrimage.
He wanted to stand where he’d watched so many others stand. To experience the place he’d seen on his television back home in Argentina.
I spoke to Jaco about my love of fellow Argentine Marcelo Bielsa and that was it.
We’ve kept in touch ever since.
Mainly through Instagram. Just the odd message every few weeks.
Exactly how I like my friendships. 🤣
All was fine until a few months ago.
I received a message from our mutual friend David.
“Can you help get my friend a ticket for the Wrexham v Birmingham game?”
It was Jaco, who was coming over again, this time with his daughter.
I made the statement...
“At the end of the day, if he can’t find a ticket, he can use mine.”
I was offering him a guarantee.
Little did I know this would cause me so much anguish.
“Thank you for your ticket, my friend,” came the reply from Jaco.
“No problem, but try and get another one. This is a last resort.”
“No, no. I’m happy with your ticket. Thank you.”
“No, you don’t understand. I really want to go too, but if you can’t get a ticket, you can have mine.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to have your ticket.”
It was getting lost in translation.
I resigned myself to the fact that my good deed had resulted in me missing the Birmingham game.
Ah well.
I’ll take some pictures around the ground, I thought.
Think of the content, I thought.
Write a blog, I thought.
And then...
Joe, a friend of my son who sits next to us, announced he was working on the night of the Birmingham game.
Magic.
A solution had presented itself.
I explained the situation to Jaco. He sent me his membership number. I explained that he’d have to pay for the upgrade because Joe was in a different age category.
A week before the game, I thought we’d finally got it sorted.
Or so I thought.
Joe had problems upgrading the ticket, so he couldn’t send it over.
So close.
Yet so far.
On the morning of the game, we were still having problems.
It was just our luck that Wrexham had chosen the same week to introduce a new ticketing system.
I’d arranged to meet Joe at the ground to sort it out, but just as he checked his account, an upgrade button suddenly appeared.
He rang me.
The fact I was already standing outside the ticket office was now irrelevant.
Problem solved.
Or so we thought.
I immediately messaged Jaco.
“Check your account for your ticket.”
We were so close.
He’d just arrived in Wrexham, so I arranged to meet him at The Turf. He was also meeting Paul Jones, who I’d come to know through the Patagonia Reds page.
Now, Jaco is unforgettable with his floppy grey hair and bubbly demeanour.
I was just another face in thousands.
Because Jaco followed my gig photography Instagram page — a page that rarely features me — he had absolutely no idea what I looked like.
I stood right in front of him while he chatted to Paul and his daughter.
Every so often he looked up, smiled politely, then carried on talking.
Paul realised what was happening and burst out laughing.
Jaco looked completely confused.
“Do you know who this is?” Paul asked.
“No.”
“This is the bloke sorting your ticket.”
“Colin?????”
You could almost see the cogs turning.
“You’re the ticket man!”
Everyone laughed.
Everyone hugged.
We’d finally met.
Then I delivered the killer line.
“Go to your Wrexham account. Your ticket should be there.”
It was.
Almost.
He just needed to pay the £6 upgrade.
He found his bank card and tried to pay.
Another problem.
It wouldn’t work.
I tried to help.
The fact the Wrexham website was displaying everything in Spanish didn’t exactly make life easier, but between us we still couldn’t get the payment through.
I offered to use my card.
That didn’t work either.
Again...
So near.
Yet so far.
The ticket office was only a short walk away, so off we went.
On the way we talked about music, Argentine football, his trip and everything we’d chatted about over Instagram.
It was like our Instagram conversation had suddenly come to life.
As luck would have it, the girl behind the counter had only started that week.
To be fair to her, she did brilliantly.
Eventually a supervisor came over.
The problem turned out to be the website refusing an Argentinian bank card.
So I paid the £6 on mine.
Problem solved.
I thanked the staff and walked away.
Then I realised Jaco hadn’t understood.
“Check your emails,” I told him.
The look on his face when he saw the ticket...
I’ll never forget it.
He hugged me.
He got his phone out and excitedly started telling everyone.
I just stood there with a warm glow of achievement.
I’d helped create that happiness.
And somehow, his happiness had made me even happier.
We wandered back to The Turf.
Jaco was still telling people.
He was made up.
I was made up.
I left him to explore the town before heading off to photograph the players arriving.
And who was standing by the barriers with an Argentinian flag?
Jaco.
Still smiling.
Still beaming.
I took his picture.
His daughter stayed in The Turf during the match.
She wasn’t that bothered about the football.
He certainly was.
Unfortunately, the game itself never quite lived up to the story.
Wrexham weren’t at their best.
And if I’m honest, I don’t think the Wrexham Lager Stand is quite as excitable as the Argentinian crowds Jaco is used to.
But none of that mattered.
He’d got into the ground.
He’d seen Wrexham play.
And he even heard Wrexham fans singing “Argentina, Argentina” at the Birmingham supporters.
That confused him more than anything.
I walked out of the ground with Jaco.
We reached Crispin Lane, where we had to go our separate ways.
“I thank you,” he said, before giving me one last hug.
“Keep in touch,” I replied.
“I will, my friend.”
As he disappeared into the evening, I realised something.
Sometimes football isn’t about ninety minutes.
Sometimes it’s about the people it brings together.
