Opening
Kaliningrad in March is still not much of a place for walks. A wet wind, a scarf pulled up to the nose, a hood over the hat, a grey sky in which even Saturday looks like the middle of a working week. But if a child has been promised football, no weather is an argument any more. He hops through the puddles anyway, tugs at your sleeve and treats every Baltika poster on the way as a personal invitation.
We go to the match not simply as father and son but as people with their own ritual. For me a trip to Baltika is a way to spend two hours being the person who has supported the club since childhood. For him it is a great adventure with a stadium, noise, tea, a hot dog and a dad who for some reason becomes far more emotional than at home.
