THE PROBLEM WITH HOUSTON

Hurricane season is always a worrying time here in Southern Louisiana. You keep your fingers crossed, bite your nails, and hope your home defences aren’t breached. Much like injury time when you are 1-0 ahead against Stoke actually, although storm season lasts a lot longer than the five minutes added onto Saturday’s game.

This year Hurricane Isaac hit New Orleans exactly seven years to the day after Hurricane Katrina barrelled ashore. It was “just” a Category One storm – in comparison Katrina was a Category Five in the Gulf of Mexico and a Three by the time she slammed the Big Easy – so most residents did not evacuate but rode it out. You protect yourself as best as you can, hunker down, and hope your preparation will see you through the tempest roaring all around you. It reminded me of our game in the Nou Camp in last year’s semifinal.

But lighthearted and laboured football metaphors aside, to have another hurricane strike the region on the anniversary of the nation’s most costliest natural disaster did ratchet up the emotions of us locals, and you couldn’t help but think back to the events of seven years ago. This time around we lost power for three days. In 2005 we had to abandon our home for three months and live in Texas.

That year my wife and I were forced to live on the outskirts of Houston, America’s fourth largest city, until the end of November. Much of my book was written there and, as any of you who read it will know, I’m not a big fan of this particular urban conurbation. I found it sprawling, soulless and sanitised, although with the benefit of hindsight I’m sure this was influenced to perhaps an unfair degree because of the trauma of our enforced prolong exile. Living there was in marked contrast to the unique and intoxicating vibe pulsating through New Orleans, and maybe I was a touch unfair. Maybe.

One of my beefs with the city – again, my grumpiness was undoubtedly exacerbated because I was missing my friends and my local pub Finn McCool’s – was how hard it was to watch Chelsea. Finding a bar showing any English football was tough enough, and then convincing them to show the Blues match became a marathon ordeal. Thankfully, seven years down the line, that’s changed.

In yet another example of our increasing US fan-base, examples incidentally which I’m always delighted to highlight, the city now has its own brand new supporters’ club – the Bayou City Blues based in The Brewery Tap bar in downtown Houston. A new gathering spot, a new generation of fans, and new blue blood running through the veins of a Texas region dominated by American football.

On a recent trip to the city (after a late night watching Iron Maiden and visiting English pubs), I dragged myself out of bed for a game kicking off at 730am local time. The fans had brought breakfast for everyone and were friendly, passionate and knowledgeable, radiating a palpable glow of pride in the Chelsea community. In other words, just like a proper supporters’ club. They may be only a matter of weeks old but have already set up a “Kick Cancer” campaign to benefit the Texas Children’s Hospital, and have a spectacular day of fundraising events lined up for the Manchester United match on October 28.

Seven years ago I couldn’t even find a place to watch Chelsea in George W Bush’s backyard. Now we have our own pub and supporters’ club. The beautiful game in general – and Chelsea in particular – continues to thrive and spread. But Houston: don’t take it personally when I write that I hope I don’t need to spend another three months watching my beloved Blues over there.

Stephen Rea is the author of the book Finn McCool's Football Club, a tale of supporting Chelsea from the United States, the formation of a pub football team in New Orleans and the devastating effect of Hurricane Katrina on that city. Visit his site here: www.stephen-rea.com or friend him at www.facebook.com/stevorea

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