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​No Place Like Romford: An Identity Crisis For the London Raiders

After losing their rink to a supermarket development, Romford Raiders pitched up at Lee Valley Ice Centre with a new name. But, like others before them, they are not finding the transition to be entirely smooth.
Photos by the author

It is colder inside than out. No surprise; that's ice hockey. But there is little going on at the Lee Valley Ice Centre on London's eastern border tonight to offer even notional warmth. Maybe it's the night that's in it: sodden with a vicious cut in the Clapton air.

Children, 50 or so, whizz slickly along the ice. The men and women who admirably dedicate their time to the London Raiders patiently observe them from the perimeter as a voice on the Tannoy system announces that the rink will close in five minutes. This isn't wholly true.

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An NIHL South Division 1 ice hockey game between the London Raiders, formerly of Romford, and the Cardiff Devils, still of Wales, is in the pipeline. Even so, the arena slowly empties.

The Raiders have faced greater challenges than the prospect of playing in front of empty seats, however. In dazzling succession they lost their rink in Romford to a supermarket development, their coach died, and their owner walked away. The team was rechristened after a move into the capital and they managed to claw together the funds to play a full season on the fly, only for the players to quit by the campaign's end.

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John Scott, the Raiders CEO, says the exodus was down to "management encouragement", but is bullish about the youthfulness of the team and coach he is now presiding over. He says that he is also eager to build a rival side here before taking the Raiders "name" back to where it belongs: Romford. This is strange, primarily because there is already a team here – the Lee Valley Lions, who play at the same rink but in a division below the Raiders.

"Gets a bit dangerous around this time," quips Scott as we weave through an open-plan maze of blades, benches, sticks, and departing 10-year-olds.

The kids nonchalantly pass by the two sets of imposing padded players who are limbering up. A Zamboni ice resurfacer, chugging through the doors like a lobotomised Sherman tank, also fails to draw their attention. The cafe's shutters have been pulled down. Nothing to see here.

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Pucks slap against plexiglass, creating an exhilarating thud as the Cardiff Devils – the amateur sibling of the Welsh top-tier side of the same name – warm up. At the opposite end of the rink, the Raiders rehearse what might be penalty plays. Hockey goalkeepers are basically pillows with heads.

A handful of fans begin to trickle into the near-empty and deathly cold rink, assembling a crowd no more than 130 strong. They occupy the rounded corners, but not much else. Some take the easier option and head to the gallery bar, the entrance to which has so far proved elusive. But it's there.

Despite efforts to flog London Raiders shirts, most who wear the merchandise prefer the Romford version. No place like Romford.

Alan Blythe, the Raiders coach, agrees that more could be done to boost local knowledge of the team, pointing to a sad and isolated poster. Radio advertising – hardly renowned for reaching a generation reared on Spotify and YouTube – is in the works.

It's a white crowd. A very white crowd. An hour before, the venue was filled with black families, Asian families, white families; east-end families. It is depressingly hard not to notice this oddity as the teams burst on to the ice.

The DJ injects some Wildean soundtracking: Cardiff get The Who's Who Are You and the Raiders emerge to Won't Get Fooled Again. It's prescient, because the Boston Garden on Bruins night this is not; neither is it Romford.

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A minute of silence for the victims of the Parisian attacks the night before is dutifully observed. God Save the Queen, which no one sings, is given its moment too, even by the Welsh. The DJ reminds fans that "foul language" will not be tolerated. Must be a Romford thing.

Players jostle by the glass during the early exchanges. Cardiff's enforcer is immediately obvious. Grizzly, wiry and probably the wrong side of 40, Mike Newberry is the only player on the ice without a protective visor. He shrewdly clips at the ankles of Liam Chong, the spry Raiders star. A short time later he rams an opponent into the glass long after the puck has slipped away from both of them. The Raider can only manage a wry smile as Newberry – quickly running out of steam – clambers off the ice for a breather.

"Rom-ford" clap, clap, clap. "Rom-ford" clap, clap, clap.

A brisk trade in chicken nuggets and chips keeps the few children that are here contented. Their appetites for classic rock are equally satiated as the DJ peppers the arena with kitschy selections from AC/DC et al.

By the end of the first period the Raiders are ahead by three goals. Chong is the only player that looks like he could go up a level. He is light and canny in his movement, like a stocky Plushenko with pads.

The Zamboni is back to smooth over the ice. Its gruff nobility is almost humbling. It is a cultural icon in some parts of the world and, if writing about poorly subscribed niche sports on the outskirts of London doesn't work out, there is always the Zamboni game.

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The immediacy between athlete and spectator in semi-professional sport is crystallised when a young girl bounds towards her Raider father between the second and third periods. Her eyes are wild with pride; she is hugging him for the world to see.

During the final period, Cardiff, spurred on in part by an ailing but no less fierce Newberry, cut the Raiders' lead down to one. The play is frantic but the home side's equivalent to Ultras – decked out in Romford Raiders gear, obviously – are undeterred in their dedication.

"Let's go Romford, let's go Romford."

Their joy in hurling abuse at the Cardiff goalkeeper is endearing. This is the team they love and the game they love; it just isn't the place they love. They have a right to call this team Romford. The management do not have the right to pretend that's what it is.

Sport lives and dies by community. From the Qatari-led environs of Manchester City to the bustling terraces of Dulwich Hamlet, it is a basic concept understood on varying levels. At the London home of the Raiders – if only for a few years – this appears to have been lost at an organisational level.

The children of Hackney that were forced to scarper from the ice long before tonight's game began might not count the next Wayne Gretzky among their number. Had they seen him play, however, they might have unearthed the next Liam Chong. Being of this place, they deserve that opportunity. They deserve to know that there is an ice hockey team purporting to represent one of the largest cities in Europe on their doorstep. But they don't. It is a stretch to say radio advertising will make a difference and, with one eye on a move back to Romford, maybe it is a difference not worth making.

The Raiders scrape through the last frenetic minute of play to send their fans home happy. Home, though, is not here.

@morethanaphelan