“The main joy is being here, playing, and sharing time with people,” he tells me on the night. There’s a sense of continuity and craft, from the original AstroTurf pitches of the 1970s to 3D-printed goals, as players balance nostalgia and innovation. “The social aspect is massive. You come here and make friends. It’s relaxed, you don’t have to talk about work,” he continues. Regulars come from all walks of life, supporting different clubs, and yet the conversation flows easily over the table: “We may enjoy different teams, but we can talk football without it getting too intense.”
It’s not all half pints and handshakes, though; there’s a surprising seriousness. Before games, players prepare their figurine bases with a cloth and some special polish, a tactile meditation that transforms the occasion into something theatrical. “There is a ritual. The polishing ritual,” someone notes, as if every swipe holds the potential to shift the game. The standard is high. Six of the club’s members even represented England at the Subbuteo World Cup in Tunbridge Wells, which featured 27 nations, 300 competitors, and a Weetabix sponsorship in the run-up to the event.
I watch a chuffed Gianluca almost levitate around the room, hovering around the tables, giving much-appreciated advice. I lock in to watch a game he plays: two grown men scrambling around a tiny football pitch, broad smiles and the odd “Fuck!” There’s something child-like in here, big kids flexing their imagination, running around in their favourite footballer’s shoes, the ones they wanted to be in when they were young. I’m daydreaming, before…
“Ryan! You’ll want a picture of this! Direct free kick. Shooting distance.” I try to get into position but can barely catch Gianluca’s vicious flick into the bottom corner. He sends me a knowing look as if to say, “That was a good one.” I wish I caught it on camera.