Internationalists.

Wrexham vs. Real Zaragoza in 1986.

I was 11 years old; sporting Farah slacks, a pair of Adidas Samba trainers and my beloved Nike windcheater.

The old man had elected to take me instead of going on the ale with his pals from work, probably due to the fact that I’d given him incessant earache since Wales against Spain the previous year. Yes i missed it because the old man was on the pop.

And so, there we were; Father and Son, travelling headlong into the night, back to the Motherland, hyped up and ready;his Nissan Micra straining at the leash as we pulled away from the Gledrid.I was 11 years old, just a year younger than my Taid when he went down the pit.

In the Cup Winners’ Cup first round we’d beaten Maltese minnows FC Zurrieq 7–0 on aggregate to earn a ‘glamour’ tie with Real Zaragoza. The first leg was played over at La Romareda where we drew 0-0 with them; Big Jim Steel clacking one against the crossbar. This was an era when most footballers looked like your Dad’s mate (especially the further down the leagues you went) and Big Jim was no exception, resplendent with moustache and bubble perm.

And so, on 5 November 1986, European football was set to return to the home of the Welsh game – at the oldest international ground in the world – for the second year on the bounce. The previous season we had beaten FC Porto and then been knocked out by AS Roma who were, at the time,managed by a younger, less tabloid-friendly Sven Goran Eriksson.

The night was the ideal bonding opportunity for a Father and his sulky, adolescent offspring.The journey to Cae Ras from where we lived took us through all the local villages, including where my Dad was brought up. As we approached the Rhos, he started to tell me about a local miner

who worked in local collieries and had gone to fight in the Spanish Civil War. Of course, this very experience was fertile ground for the burgeoning Socialist movement a hundred years ago. You don’t have to be a brain surgeon to understand the passion that working class people had for political reform; for socialism; for solidarity and internationalism. These things buzzed around in my head as the old man told me about Taid taking the ponies down the mine and walking from the Glyn to Black Park (was there ever a more fitting name?).

I remembered a few years earlier when Taido shouted through from the kitchen: “D’you still shout for the Reds?” I gave our mam a puzzled look and she said, “Dad wants to know if you still support Wrexham.” I replied in the affirmative and he brought through a funny little silk scarf for me that had been tucked away in a drawer for years.
Evening games are always special: the floodlights illuminating Cae ras, lighting the way for disciples from far and wide. We parked in our usual spot by Belle Vue Park and walked down Bradley Road, past the Fire Station, the brewery and onto the Mold Road by the Art school where the road was usually closed.The anticipation grew inside me as I inhaled the smells of the brewery hops and burgers; the sounds of the tannoy and the crowd milling around. As we turned onto the Mold Road you could really appreciate this corner of north east Wales being bathed in a brilliant light and poised in expectation.

In 1937 a collier from Rhosllanerchrugog near Wrexham joined the International Brigade to fight against fascism in Spain. That young man and subject of my Dad’s story was Twm Sbaen (Tom Spain although his real name was Tom Jones). He had worked locally in the Hafod, Vauxhall and Bersham collieries. His view of the world was shaped by his experience as a working class miner. This led to him joining the Labour and Communist parties and eventually would see him going to

Spain where he would be badly injured in Aragon at the final battle on the River Ebro in July 1938. Twm Sbaen was captured and held captive by Franco’s fascists. Twm was actually kept in prison in Zaragoza andBurgos and was sentenced to death at one point although this was later commuted to 30 years imprisonment. Twm Sbaen was released in 1940 and became a well–respected trade union official until his retirement in 1973.

The evening of the Wrexham v Zaragoza game would impact on me forever. I’d watched Wrexham take on the might of Real Zaragoza and found out that a young man who worked in the same pits as my Taid (at the same time) felt so strongly about internationalism and socialism that he put his life on the line, leaving home to go and fight against an ideology he totally rejected, in another country. In just a few hours I’d gone from local boy to a new European.

The word ‘Wales’ is English and means foreigner. The word that we in Wales use to describe our little patch is ‘Cymru’ which comes from the Brythonic word ‘Combrogi’ meaning fellow countrymen. One implies an otherness, a strangeness; and the other a certain camaraderie, a unity and trust.The very essence of internationalism.

Wrexham AFC no longer play in European competition because we can’t enter the Welsh Cup due to the fact that we play our football in the English league pyramid.

For me though, we’ll always be CPD Wrecsam Internationalists.