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Beesotted’s Jon Restall looks back at an emotional day as fans sampled life at the new stadium for the first time.

Yesterday I was one of the lucky 2000 to go to our new home. Like many others I am still incredibly sentimental about Griffin Park, the backdrop to so much of my life. Highs and lows, travesty and euphoria among fellow Brentford supporters. I understand our need to move – like a growing family leaving their childhood home – but it doesn’t mean I won’t miss that beautiful old lady with her fading paint and jaunty floodlights

Accordingly, I approached the Brentford Community Stadium with a mix of excitement and dread – the latter fuelled by my memories of what went before. But the sad thoughts lifted as I crossed over the railway bridge and saw our beautiful new home, lit up by some winter sun on a cold day. Like many, I stopped in my tracks to take photos to proudly show my family and friends later.

The stadium was pristine and modern inside and I was directed, like a tourist, to my seat for the day – tucked in tight to the pitch, perfectly in earshot of the ponderous first half linesman. I nodded to those around me, delighted to see so many familiar faces – albeit hidden by facemasks and winter hats. It was like an elaborate game of Guess Who as I tried to look beyond the steamed up glasses of the fellow fan waving at me from ten metres away. But it was bloody great to see them, whoever they were..

I realised in that moment what football really means to me. It’s the comradery and the togetherness – a series of micropayments of nodding at that bloke I once sat next to in a boozer in Rochdale or waving at my friend and his kids in the family stand. It’s those moments of laughter in the pub before games, the gallows humour of an underwhelming penalty miss, the amusing catcalls to an opposing player and the everyday conversation with my closer mates which doesn’t take place on social media.

I’m a man and we are not very good at sharing our emotions or checking in on our friends. Football is ritualistic and cathartic and underpins so much of our lives, including the chance to tell someone about a bad week at work or the holiday we’ve just saved up for.

Football outside stadia has been a lonely place. For me it means squinting at ifollow on an ageing laptop, sitting in solitude while my family busy themselves elsewhere – their own afternoons punctuated by eruptions of joy or a string of expletives from the lounge. The dog joins me sometimes but I suspect she’s really just after a bite of biscuit or a falling crisp.

The recent Wycombe draw felt like a real low to me. It wasn’t the result or performance – we’ve all experienced far worse on both fronts – it was my complete detachment from a game I would have travelled to, the absence of banter or the chance to thrash out in person what went wrong with my friends on the train home. Sure we did it on WhatsApp instead, but that’s just not the same.

And in one timeless moment yesterday it felt like the players have felt the same. When Sergi smashed that ball into the top corner I heard once more that amazing sound of a rippling net as the ground around me erupted. Whatever you think of the recent form of Sergi it was a moment of pure joy, and his tears which followed the goal seemed to find their way into my eyes too. Turns out we had both missed our football family.

Of course the end result yesterday was a disappointment – but I talked it out on the walk home with my friend Sav and the world was alright again. We had both had a great afternoon at the new ground – it’s compact, the acoustics are good and it no longer feels like a stranger. I can’t wait for it to be full again and for us all to be together. It’s going to be a brilliant new home.

Jon Restall