Welcomed to Wrexham

I arrived into Wrexham early on a Friday evening in late August, after a weary day of travel, having departed that morning from the tiny seaside village of Portpatrick, Scotland. Two buses and four trains later, and I’d finally made it to this former coal mining city in North Wales. With only a couple minor delays, the journey had been a pleasant one. Seaside views and intermittent naps. I was in good spirits. A heavy backpack strapped to my back and a smaller one on my chest, I began the walk from the train station to the center of town. It was a clear night, the air was cool, so I didn’t mind the walk. Wrexham marked the penultimate stop of my summer travels. I’d been in Europe since early June, having ridden my bike 2,000-kilometers across Germany during the Euro 2024 football tournament to raise money for mental health then spending two busy, dream-fulfilling weeks in Paris for the Olympics. Scotland was meant as a way to escape the crowds and recharge my battery. Late mornings, pub meals, and long walks along the coast proved this decision to be an enlightened one. But after a week of nature and solitude, it was time to make my way to Wales.

Wrexham is home to Wrexham AFC, a football club that competes in England’s League One professional football division, a league just two steps down from the mighty Premier League of Chelsea, Arsenal and Man City. While the recent success of back-to-back league promotions following two highly successful seasons would be cause enough to put Wrexham on the British soccer map, there’s another reason this team has achieved notoriety, and why I’d traveled such a circuitous route to get there. Wrexham AFC is owned by Hollywood big shots, Rob McElhenny and Ryan Reynolds. And thanks to them, the city has not only received fame and attention for its football club, but it’s also achieved a certain degree of stardom thanks to the FX docuseries, Welcome to Wrexham, now in its third season. I’d fallen in love with the “tug at your heartstrings” series immediately upon discovering it during its first season. The perfect real-life companion to the fictional Ted Lasso, the show chronicles not only the soccer and Rob and Ryan’s fierce and loyal determination to build a successful club, but it shines a light on the city of Wrexham and the many beautiful, everyday people who call it home. From former coal miner turned weekend rock star, Scoot, to 100-year-old recently departed fan, Arthur, to prison guard slash goal scoring machine of the Wrexham’s women’s club, Rosie Hughes, this series showcases the rich and varied stories of this proud, once bustling mining town. I feel no shame in admitting that most episodes require a tissue or two.

Traveling to Wrexham had been an idea since first dreaming up my summer of travel, but I wasn’t sure getting there would come to fruition. Prior to leaving Minnesota for Germany, I’d thoroughly nailed down nearly every minute detail, stage and step of my 35-day cycle tour, but beyond that, I’d planned little else. I wasn’t sure what kind of shape, physical or mental, I’d be in after my ride or whether I’d be up for more traveling after a tour that would far surpass any I’d done before. Boxing myself into plans that would be difficult to change down the road seemed like a poor idea. But following my cycle trip and a brief bit of recovery in Munich, I was riding a travel high. I found myself in the mood for more. The Olympics had always been an idea, and when I learned that a friend’s Airbnb in the city had yet to be booked I figured, even if I couldn’t get tickets for any events, at least I could bathe in the aura of the City of Light and immerse myself in the magic of The Olympic Games. Paris, indeed, was calling.

But there was still one bit of planning that remained. The final leg of my trip was to be Spain – Madrid and the southwest Atlantic beaches near Cádiz. Two weeks of true R&R and time with my sister’s family. Sun, sand, hours of easy-breezy reading, morning coffees, cold afternoon beers, and late night dinners of sauteed octopus, salty, grilled fish and endless bottles of dry, red wine. It was to be my time to do nothing, reflect on a summer well-traveled and begin the thought of returning to a largely yet to be determined future back home. There was only one hitch. As an American, my 90-day European visa was set to expire September 1st. In order to realize this perfect Andulusian ending to a long and exhausting vacation, I needed a two-week escape from the Schengen Zone. While still in Munich I considered my options. I’d heard good things about the beaches of the Albanian Riviera. A couple of people I’d met on my bike tour had encouraged me to check out Georgia. I could plot a journey through the Balkan states of the former Yugoslavia. Or, I could go to the UK. That seemed the best and frankly, easiest, option. After Paris it would be just a train ride away. I could finally visit Scotland, a destination I’d scrapped two years earlier due to mental health reasons and a place that would give me the quiet, natural setting I would assuredly crave after Paris. And… AND… if I went to the UK I could go to Wrexham! It was decided. Paris, Scotland, then Wrexham. I set the idea in my head then used my remaining time in Munich to make the necessary arrangements.

After 10 minutes of walking, I made it into the city center, the entire time my eyes peeled for Welcome to Wrexham celebrities, expecting the people I watch in the docuseries to be hanging out on every corner, welcoming us tourists into their city. Alas, I didn’t see any. What are the odds? But, I did get a good old fashioned, cheerful “hello” to Wrexham from a couple of young locals who steered me clear of a road closure and helped point me in the direction of my hotel. This was just a preview of the kindness I’d feel throughout my weekend.

I checked into The Wynnstay Arms, a place that had clearly witnessed a decade or two since its last renovation, dropped off my bags and headed down to the pub. Hoping to get a tall glass of the famous Wrexham Lager, I was disappointed to see an array of all too familiar international taps behind the bar – Corona, Coors, Carlsberg. I ordered the most “UK” beer I could see, chugged it quickly, then made my way back across town to the only pub that really matters to Welcome to Wrexham fans like me, The Turf. This place is connected to Wrexham’s home stadium, The Racecourse Ground, and is older than the stadium itself. Wayne, the good-natured owner, is featured prominently on the docuseries, and The Turf is the place to go on game day, for the pregame, the postgame or the game itself if luck doesn’t bestow one with a match ticket. I assumed there’d be a raucous vibe the night before a game, and I wasn’t wrong. The joint was jumping, so much so that after snagging a beer, I retreated to an outdoor table at which to enjoy it. It was there I met Chrissie and Jen. Jen was a fan like me, who’d driven down six hours from her home in Edinburgh earlier that day. Chrissie was a friend and former roommate of Jen’s. A local from nearby Chester who knew virtually nothing about the hype of Wrexham AFC but had recently learned a thing or two from Jen. We took pictures outside the stadium, shared a few toasts and had a good chat. I wondered how often this sort of thing happened. Strangers, from all corners of the world, landing in Wrexham, commiserating over their shared fondness for the team, and meeting in a way that would never have happened without Rob and Ryan.

The night continued inside. A few more beers, a game of pool between Jen and me and a couple of locals, and my first encounter with a member of the show. Michael, or “Scoot” as his friends call him, worked in the coal mines of Wrexham as a teenager prior to their closure in the late ‘80s and most recently has become famous for his band’s unofficial Wrexham AFC theme song, “Always Sunny in Wrexham.” I was reluctant to bother Scoot, but Jen jumped right in and broke the ice. She offered to buy him a drink and the three of us talked. Scoot seemed all-too-familiar with moments like this and seemed quite happy to have another one. He was a great guy, saying how wonderful it is that folks like us now make their way to Wrexham. “We never had tourists before,” he said gleefully. I thanked him for his willingness to chat, we shared a selfie together, and he went on his way. My night, by that point, was also complete. I mean, time well-spent with a couple of fun-loving Brits, a game of pool on a well-worn Turf table, and a pleasant bit of conversation with the famous Scoot. I’d had more than my share of fun.

The next morning marked the beginning of game day. Thanks to a ticket generously given to me by a fellow fan through a Wrexham Facebook group, I’d secured a spot for myself later at The Racecourse for the 3:00 match. It was a matter of finding the right way to enjoy the festivities beforehand. Scoot had informed me, during our chat at The Turf, about the Miners Rescue Station near the stadium, a former working station that has since been converted into a museum and café. Scoot did Saturday morning tours, and encouraged me to drop by. Of course I would. When I arrived, he was already mid-tour, sharing stories with the small group of the history of the station and how it was one of hundreds throughout the UK that trained men to go down into the mines when disaster struck. And in those days, disaster struck almost daily. Scoot showed us into a replica mining tunnel, discussed the perilousness of mining work and most importantly, gave time and reverence to the Gresford gas explosion that not only took the lives of 266 local miners on September 22, 1934, but left nearly as many widows behind, homeless and forced from their mine-owned homes. The Wrexham AFC kit, during particular anniversary years, features a mining wheel and the year 1934 to honor the lives lost in this tragedy. I couldn’t help but put myself in the shoes of these miners who regularly spent six days a week and 14 hours a day in the pitch black underground, working until their bodies gave out or until the day they died. I gave a silent thank you for how the quality of life and the protections of workers has improved since then – before unions, the 40 hour work week, and government pensions.

Following the tour I found my way into the adjacent Rescue Cafe for a late breakfast. Nearly every seat was taken but I was invited by a small group to join them in a vacant seat at their table for six. A local family, a younger man with his parents and his two children. They were all Wrexham season ticket holders, and like nearly everyone I’d met so far, were eager to talk and eager to welcome me to their town. I asked the young boy if he had a favorite player. Without skipping a beat he replied, “Super Paul Mullin.” Not, “Paul Mullin,” who is Wrexham’s celebrated striker, but “Super Paul Mullin,” as if “Super” was the name his parents had christened him with at birth. After the family finished their meal, I ordered the “Coal Haulers Breakfast,” complete with sausage, bacon, hash browns, black pudding, egg, mushrooms, tomatoes, beans, toast and coffee. I wouldn’t go hungry on this day. During this breakfast that puts the Denny’s grand slam to shame, I met my second Wrexham TV star. Alan, or “Big Al,” is featured on an episode of Welcome that presents Wrexham’s long, and sometimes dark, mining history. Alan, another former miner, is caretaker to one of the large mining wheels that, during its time, lowered a large steel “cage” filled with workers deep into the dark pits each and every day. It’s Alan’s hope, and a promise of Rob’s, that this wheel will be given prominent placement outside a new, planned addition to The Racecourse. Big Al, like Scoot, was super generous with his time, seemed flattered by my attention and said he wished we could meet again for a beer after the match, but that on this day he had a family obligation afterwards. By the time I’d paid my check, Alan had taken a  seat and was wolfing down a large helping of beans on toast. I bid him farewell, but not before a volunteer cafe worker, an older lady who seemed to carry a crush for Alan, playfully asked me if I could take him with me. “He’s in here all the time and he talks too much,” she smiled. We all shared a laugh, and with my belly and heart both filled with Wrexham treasures, I moved on.

That’s when the real action began and when my Welcome to Wrexham fanboying went into the next gear. I was back at The Racecourse. Behind the stadium this time, near the carpark and the official club shop. The game was still a couple hours away. A few dozen people lingered outside the players’ entrance. I began to recognize faces almost immediately. Millie, a young, exuberant woman on the autism spectrum, was perched along the railing, just outside the door, waiting to greet the players. She’s perhaps Wrexham’s biggest fan. Her mother, also featured on the show, was with her. There was Kerry, Wrexham’s disability liaison officer, zipping to and fro, taking care of business from her wheelchair. At one point I heard Millie shout out, “Albi” and turned to see her greet Paul Mullin’s – sorry, Super Paul Mullin’s – young son, also on the spectrum. Then came Phil Parkinson, Wrexham’s manager, followed by a slow parade of Wrexham players. Scottish forward Steven Fletcher, backup goalkeeper Mark Howard, the tall, handsome Ollie Palmer, and finally Super Paul Mullin himself. It was a kick, and the guys were beyond generous with their time, signing autographs, posing for selfies, and taking a good 15 minutes each to make it through the line and into the locker room.

It was surreal seeing all these people, Millie, Albi, Kerry, characters larger than life on my TV screen but just normal Wrexham citizens, simply enjoying a typical Saturday. I suppose, to be fair, these folks have felt a bit of fame in the past couple of years. They, like so many others in this age of reality TV, have become pseudo, perhaps reluctant, semi-celebrities.  I noticed a man from The States pop over and visit with Millie and her mother, something I can’t imagine would have happened prior to the show. But, still, these Wrexham loyalists and docuseries “stars” are not famous in the true sense of the word, so to gawk at them with my overeager eyes felt a bit awkward. I chose to stay removed from the crowd and drift around just beyond the action. I prefered watching from a slight distance.

As game time approached, I popped inside the club shop to purchase a scarf for my daughter, who’s also a fan, then wandered to my gate entrance. I didn’t know it, but my ticket granted me access to the official stadium Fan Zone. The attendant slapped a wristband on me and directed me into the proper entrance. Another party. Beer, food, big screens showing Wrexham highlights, a solo performer strumming his guitar and belting out familiar rock tunes, and fans standing joyfully, shoulder to shoulder. I grabbed a beer then found a place away from the crowd. I was admiring a large banner that featured a photograph of last year’s team, celebrating their promotion to League One, when a man standing nearby got my attention and asked where I was from. Another friendly local. Soon, his buddy and match mate appeared and over the course of the next half an hour Andy, Alan and I discussed life in Wales, Gareth Bale, American politics, our various beer preferences, and the joy and passion of British football. They bought two more rounds and we agreed to meet after the match.

It was finally game time. My seat was in the temporary Kop stand, a set of seats behind the goal that had been erected in the off season, after the original, crumbing Kop, unused for years, had been torn down. The demand for tickets had exceeded capacity, so Rob and Ryan had chosen this interim, and likely financially irresponsible, solution. A permanent section is likely to be built soon. I settled in, sandwiched between two other Americans. Wrexham put on a show, scoring three goals, including contributions by docuseries darlings Ollie Palmer and Elliot Lee. Former Arsenal goalkeeper, and future superstar, Arthur Okonkwo brilliantly kept a clean sheet. And Super Paul Mullin, coming off back surgery, even added to the spectacle, coming in as a substitute in the second half to raucous chants of, “We’ve got Mullin, Super Paul Mullin! I don’t quite think you understand. He plays in red and white. He’s fucking dynamite. We’ve got Super Paul Mullin!” It was a glorious late summer day and a glorious time at The Racecourse.

By the time the match ended, I was tired from a full day and therefore not particularly disappointed that Alan and Andy had stood me up. After waiting around the Fan Zone for what felt like the requisite amount of time, I popped back into The Turf for one final pint. You’re going to think I’m lying, but I swear to you that this beer, like so many others before it, was also bought for me by a friendly, celebratory local. What a town! I considered remaining at The Turf, seeing what fun I could dig up that evening, but at that moment it seemed like my Wrexham experience was complete. I didn’t feel anything could top the time I’d already had. Wrexham, and the club, had given me everything I’d come here for. A welcome that had surpassed expectation, time rubbing shoulders with Wrexham’s best, a not to be forgotten night at The Turf, and a victory on the pitch by the boys. I’d had it all. So, I left The Turf, wandered back to town and did the only logical next thing. I bought a bag of burgers at McDonald’s, retreated to my hotel room, and spent the night watching the remaining episodes of Welcome to Wrexham, Season 3.