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Al-Wahda Sports Club of Damascus, a beauty of a crest and one that symbolises the history and power of one of the world's greatest cities. Founded in 1928 under the name Qasioun, after the mountain overlooking the city, Al-Wahda have grown into one of Syria’s most prominent sporting institutions. Their football team has secured multiple domestic honours, while their basketball side famously lifted the FIBA Asia Champions Cup in 2003 (I had the honour of watching their basketball team play in Astana in 2025). The club’s name, meaning “Unity,” is one shared across the Arab world (Abu Dhabi's biggest team has the same name, for example), but in Damascus it carries particular weight. This is not just any city. This is a place that has, at times, stood at the centre of everything. That sense of identity is even reflected in the club’s colours—orange and black—which have earned them the nickname “The Damascene Orange,” a nod to the orange groves that once surrounded the city. Another, softer symbol often associated with Damascus is the jasmine flower, long celebrated across the region for its scent and elegance. Yet their is of course a harder edge to this badge. For at its centre stands the Sword of Damascus, and that points us directly to a moment when this city became the capital of a world-spanning empire. The sword depicted on the badge is a clear reference to the monumental structure that rises in Umayyad Square, one of Damascus’s central hubs. Built in the late 1950s to mark the Damascus International Fair, the monument stretches skywards from a circular fountain, its stained-glass panels glowing by day and illuminated by night. It sits at a crossroads of modern institutions—the Opera House, the National Library, government buildings—and for decades its silhouette has been woven into the visual identity of the city. Yet its deeper significance lies not in its modern construction, but in the name of the square itself. Umayyad Square takes its name from the Umayyad Caliphate, the first great Islamic dynasty, and it was under their rule that Damascus rose from a provincial city to the capital of an empire that stretched from the Atlantic coast of Iberia to the borders of India. To understand that transformation, we return to the events that followed the early Islamic conquests of the 7th century, when the old powers of Byzantium and Persia had been pushed back and a new political order began to take shape. After the death of the third caliph, Uthman, in 656 CE, the Islamic world entered a period of internal conflict known as the First Fitna. At the heart of this struggle was the question of leadership. ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭālib, cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, became caliph, but his authority was contested. Among those who opposed him was Muʿāwiya, the governor of Syria, who demanded justice for Uthman’s death and refused to recognise ʿAlī’s rule. The two forces met at the Battle of Siffin in 657, where fighting gave way to arbitration, weakening ʿAlī’s position and deepening divisions. In 661 CE, ʿAlī was assassinated, and Muʿāwiya seized power, establishing the Umayyad dynasty and moving the centre of the Islamic world to Damascus. The choice of city was no accident. Damascus already possessed the infrastructure of a former Byzantine administrative centre—roads, buildings, and systems of governance—and sat at a strategic crossroads linking Arabia, the eastern Mediterranean, and the wider Near East. From here, the Umayyads could project power in all directions. Under their rule, the city was transformed. Wealth from newly conquered territories flowed into Damascus, funding major building projects and reshaping the urban landscape. The most famous of these is the Umayyad Mosque, constructed between 706 and 715 CE on the site of a Roman temple and later a Christian basilica. Its vast courtyard, soaring minarets, and shimmering mosaics made it one of the most impressive religious structures in the world. Around it, markets thrived, trade routes expanded, and the city became the central spoke in Umayyad Empire. Yet this was not simply an empire built on conquest. The Umayyads governed a vast and diverse population, and while expansion was rapid, conversion to Islam was gradual. Local languages, customs, and religions often continued, and systems of taxation and administration adapted existing structures rather than replacing them outright. It was a pragmatic form of rule, one that allowed the empire to function across enormous distances. At its height, Umayyad power extended across three continents. In the west, armies crossed into Iberia, giving rise to the name Gibraltar—derived from Jabal Ṭāriq, the “Mountain of Ṭāriq,” after the general who led the invasion. In the east, territories reached deep into Central Asia, linking Damascus to the trade networks of the Silk Roads. And the football team too embodies a sense of being the centre of things. Al-Wahda play in the heart of Damascus and as the country rebuilds after its devastating civil war, that sword of Damascus stands for the pride of a people who were once at the centre of the universe. When Al-Wahda take to the pitch, then, they are a a reminder that Damascus was once the beating heart of an empire—and that its legacy still cuts through the present.

Al-Jaish Sports Club, based in Damascus, carry the weight of both modern power and one of the most transformative moments in world history. Their badge, dominated by a golden hawk with outstretched wings, is not simply a symbol of strength or authority. It is a gateway into the story of Islam and the rise of a civilisation that reshaped Syria and much of the wider world. Founded in 1947, Al-Jaish have grown into one of the most dominant forces in Syrian football. Their honours list is formidable—17 league titles, multiple domestic cups, and a period of near-total control between 2015 and 2019, when they secured five consecutive championships. Their name, meaning “The Army,” reflects their institutional backing, and while that might initially feel unusual to Western audiences, I encourage them to look back at the early days of English football which routinely saw regimental teams take part. Indeed, the Royal Egineers even wont he FA Cup back in 1875. Yet it is not their structure or success that makes them particularly compelling for our story telling purposes. It is the symbol they wear. The hawk on their crest is widely recognised across the Arab world, appearing on national emblems and official insignia. But this is not simply a modern state symbol. It is rooted in a much older idea: the Hawk of Quraysh, a reference to the tribe at the heart of the emergence of Islam. To understand its significance, we need to step back to the early 7th century, when Syria sat between two exhausted superpowers. For centuries, the Byzantine Empire (the eastern continuation of Rome) and the Sassanian Persian Empire had fought across the lands of modern-day Syria, Iraq and Turkey. Their rivalry drained resources, devastated populations, and left both states weakened. The final phase of this conflict, under the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius, saw enormous effort expended to defeat Persia, culminating in a hard-fought victory in the 620s. But by then, both empires were stretched to their limits. At the same time, in the Arabian Peninsula, a new force was emerging. Muhammad, born around 570 CE in Mecca, belonged to the Quraysh, a powerful tribe that controlled the city’s trade networks and its most sacred site, the Ka‘bah. The Quraysh derived their influence not from large armies, but from commerce and diplomacy. They managed caravan routes linking southern Arabia with Syria, dealing in goods such as spices, textiles, leather and incense, while Mecca itself functioned as both a religious and commercial hub. Pilgrimage and trade were closely intertwined, and the Quraysh sat at the centre of that system. Indeed, some people today decry the commericalisation of Mecca - with its holy skylines dominated now by chain hotels and shopping malls built to accomodate the faithful (and part them with their cash) - but that is in the best traditions of the local Meccans, the pilgrimage trade has long been their bread and butter. When Muhammad began preaching a message of monotheism, social justice and the rejection of idol worship, it challenged not only religious practice but also the economic foundations of Quraysh power. Opposition grew, leading to the Hijra in 622 CE, when Muhammad and his followers migrated to Medina. There, not without some incident, he established a new community that combined religious belief with political organisation, gradually building the strength to return to Mecca. In 630 CE, he entered the city at the head of a large force. The Quraysh, rather than resisting, largely accepted the new order. The Ka‘bah was cleared of idols and rededicated to monotheistic worship, and Mecca was converted to become the spiritual centre of Islam. What followed was one of history’s most striking transformations. The Quraysh, who had initially opposed Muhammad, became central to the leadership of the new Islamic state. The early caliphs were drawn from the tribe, and the great dynasties that followed—the Umayyads and Abbasids—also traced their lineage to it. Within a generation, Islamic armies moved north into Syria, defeating Byzantine forces and incorporating the region into a rapidly expanding empire. Damascus, the home of Al-Jaish, would soon become the capital of the Umayyad Caliphate, one of the most powerful states of the early medieval world. The Hawk of Quraysh as a symbol is a later development rather than something directly used during the Prophet’s lifetime. It became associated with the legacy of the Quraysh, particularly through Umayyad history, and was later adopted more broadly as a representation of Arab unity, strength and lineage. Over time, it found its way into modern heraldry across the Arab world, including the official emblem of Syria. Its presence on Al-Jaish’s badge, therefore, is not simply a nod to the state or the military, but a reflection of a much deeper historical identity. In this context, the club’s symbolism begins to align with its setting. Damascus is not just another capital city; it is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world and a former centre of imperial power. Al-Jaish, as a club representing both the capital and a curiclal institution of the modern Syrian state, sit at the intersection of those layers. When Al-Jaish take to the pitch at Al-Fayhaa Stadium, they do so as more than a successful football team. They carry a symbol that reaches back over fourteen centuries, to a moment when the balance of power in the region shifted and a new civilisation emerged. The hawk on their crest is not just an emblem of strength; it is a reminder of the tribe that stood at the centre of that transformation and of the city that would soon become the heart of its empire.

Sitting quietly on Syria’s Mediterranean coast between the larger ports of Latakia and Tartus, Jableh is not as famous as its larger cousins. A town of around 80,000 people, it does not carry the immediate weight of Damascus or Aleppo. And yet, for centuries, Jableh has stood as a point of connection—between inland Syria and the Mediterranean, between East and West, and between the everyday concerns of local people and the wider movements of empires. Founded in 1962, Jableh SC rose steadily through the leagues before reaching the Syrian Premier League in 1981. Their golden period arrived in the late 1980s, when they secured three consecutive league titles between 1987 and 1989, later adding another in 2000, along with cup successes in 1999 and 2021. For a town of its size, this was incredible success, earning them the nickname “Master of the Coast.” Another nickname, “The Seagulls”, hints more directly at their maritime setting (and I feel should allow for a pre-season friendly tournament involving Brighton and Hove and FC Chornomorets Odesa from Ukraine, who also boast the same nickname ). But the badge takes us further than just allusions to eating chips by the coast (at least, I hope that's what the locals do...). At its centre sits a trireme, the warship that once dominated the Mediterranean world. Sleek, fast and powered by rows of oars, the trireme was the backbone of naval power in the Classical era, used by Greeks, Phoenicians and later the Romans to control trade routes and project influence across the sea. Its presence on Jableh’s crest is more than decorative. It is a direct nod to the town’s long-standing relationship with maritime trade. In antiquity, Jableh was known as Gabala, a coastal settlement that thrived under Roman rule. Its remains still shape the modern city, most notably in the form of a well-preserved 2nd-century Roman theatre, capable of seating thousands and still standing prominently today. This was no minor outpost. While overshadowed at times by nearby Laodicea, Gabala formed part of a network of coastal towns that helped sustain the Roman economy, exporting goods such as grain, olive oil and timber to larger Mediterranean markets. Roads, aqueducts and defensive works tied it into the broader infrastructure of the empire. It's people thrived. Yet, as with much of Syria, Roman control was only one chapter in a much longer story. Following the early Islamic conquests of the 7th century, Jableh passed into the hands of the Rashidun Caliphate, before later being contested by the Byzantines as they attempted to reassert control along the Levantine coast. For a time, it even became an Archbishopric of the Byzantine Church, a reminder that this coastline was not only a place of trade but also of layers of religious and cultural exchange. The city remains listed as a titular see within the Catholic Church—a reminder of its earlier role in the Christian world. As the medieval period unfolded, the region fractured into competing powers. Crusader states, Islamic dynasties and maritime republics all sought control of the ports along Syria's coastline and their ability to unlock the trade and resources from within the interior. In 1109, Jableh was seized by the Republic of Genoa, one of the great trading powers of the Mediterranean. Under Genoese control, the town was drawn into a vast commercial network stretching from the Black Sea to the western Mediterranean. Goods from inland Syria—grain, olive oil, timber—could now flow directly to European markets, while imports such as glassware, textiles and metalwork travelled in the opposite direction. With Genoese naval protection reducing the threat of piracy, Jableh became a safer and more reliable trading destination and the town grew as a result. At the same time, the town formed part of the maritime branch of the Silk Roads, linking overland trade routes from Persia, India and beyond with Mediterranean shipping lanes. Spices, silks and ceramics passed through Levantine ports like Jableh on their journey west, while European products flowed back east. The result was not just economic growth, but, with these diverse trades and traders, a cultural blending that defined much of Syria’s coastal identity. In 1189, the city was brought back under Islamic control by Saladin, becoming part of the Ayyubid and later Mamluk realms. It also developed a reputation as a place of pilgrimage, most notably as the burial site of Ibrahim ibn Adham, a prince-turned-Sufi mystic. Over time, communities of Greek Orthodox, Maronite, Melkite and Armenian Christians also took root in the town, contributing to itd layered and diverse character. Under Ottoman rule, Jableh retained its importance as a regional port, particularly after the conquest of Cyprus in the late 16th century, when it served as a supply point linking the Syrian coast to the island. While imperial authority remained present, much of the town’s day-to-day life was shaped by merchant families, whose networks connected the port to its rural hinterland and beyond. Markets, trade and local enterprise ensured that Jableh continued to function as a living, working harbour rather than a relic of past empires. That continuity remains today. The harbour still operates, albeit on a smaller scale, serving local fishermen and exporters. It is this continuity that makes the trireme on Jableh SC’s badge so fitting. It is not simply a reference to ancient warfare or classical imagery, but a symbol of movement and trade —defining features of this town. When Jableh SC take to the pitch, they do so as more than a football club from a small coastal town. They carry with them the legacy of a port that has linked worlds together for over two thousand years. From Roman theatres to Genoese trade routes, from Silk Road exchanges to modern matchdays, the story of Jableh has always been one of motion. And like the ships that once left its harbour, they keep moving forward.

Tishreen Sports Club, based in Latakia, are positioned on Syria’s most important stretch of Mediterranean coast. Latakia has long served as the country’s gateway to the wider world, and it is from this setting that Tishreen SC's identity—and the meaning behind the eagle on their badge—begins to take shape. Founded in 1947, Tishreen have established themselves as one of Syria’s more consistent top-flight clubs, known for their distinctive red-and-yellow kits and a respectable haul of league titles. Their name, meaning “October”, points towards a more modern chapter in Syrian history (the victory against Israel in the opening days of the 1973 war). For now, however, it is their badge—and in particular the eagle at its centre—that draws us back into the deeper past of Latakia. That past begins long before the club, and even before the name Latakia itself. In antiquity, this city was known as Laodicea ad Mare, founded around 300 BCE by Seleucus I, one of Alexander the Great’s successors. Following Alexander’s death, his empire fractured, and Syria became the heartland of the Seleucid Empire (fittingly enough), a Hellenistic state that sought to project Greek culture, administration, and control across the region. Laodicea was one of a network of cities designed to secure trade, governance, and influence, built with orderly streets, a functioning harbour, and the infrastructure required to support both commerce and military might in the region. Alongside Antioch, Seleucia and Apamea, it formed part of the Syrian Tetrapolis, anchoring Seleucid power along the eastern Mediterranean and cementing the Syrian shore with Europe. Yet even this was not the beginning of the story. The coastline that Latakia occupies had already been shaped by earlier powers, most notably the Phoenicians, whose cities further south dominated Mediterranean trade in the centuries before Greek expansion. These seafaring merchants were not only economic pioneers but cultural ones too, developing an alphabet that simplified earlier writing systems into a manageable set of characters. The Greeks adopted and adapted this system, and through them it passed into Latin, forming the basis of much of the written world today. Alongside language, the Phoenicians were part of a broader regional culture in which symbols of power—particularly winged figures and birds—appeared across Egyptian, Mesopotamian, and Levantine societies. While Phoenician coins themselves more often depicted deities, ships, or marine life, later Hellenistic and Roman traditions would make the eagle a far more dominant and recognisable emblem of authority across the region - and would later be picked by Latakia's Football Team. This layering of cultures would continue when the next great power arrived. By the mid-1st century BCE, the Seleucid Empire had weakened under internal strain, and Rome, already dominant across much of the Mediterranean, moved to assert control. In 64 BCE, the Roman general Pompey the Great marched into Syria, ended Seleucid rule, and reorganised the region as a Roman province. Under Roman administration, Laodicea flourished. Later granted the status of a free city, it retained a degree of autonomy while benefiting from the stability and infrastructure of the empire. Roads connected it more efficiently to inland trade routes, public buildings reinforced its civic status, and its harbour ensured it remained a key point of exchange between land and sea. Remnants of this period, such as the Tetraporticus (a victory arch built for Septimius Severus) , still stand today. Just as visible—though less tangible—was the presence of Roman symbolism, most notably the eagle. The Aquila, carried by Roman legions, represented not just military strength but the authority of Rome itself, and in a port city so closely tied to imperial structures, it would have been a constant and familiar image. Seen in this light, the eagle on Tishreen’s badge is not simply a generic emblem of strength, but part of a much longer visual tradition that stretches back through overlapping cultures of the ancient Near East and Mediterranean. It reflects a city shaped by successive layers of influence, each leaving behind traces in architecture, language, and imagery. Latakia’s identity has always been outward-facing, defined as much by what passes through it as by what originates within it. Trade, ideas, and symbols have moved in and out of this port for millennia, and the eagle—refined over time—has remained a powerful marker of authority. Tishreen SC play their matches at the Latakia Municipal Stadium, sharing it with their rivals Hutteen, and represent a city whose character is still defined by its position on the edge of Syria. Their footballing achievements, while notable, sit within a much broader story—one that begins with ancient traders and imperial planners and continues through to the present day. In this context, the eagle becomes more than a badge and the team more than just a team. When Tishreen take to the pitch they representative a place that has stood at the crossroads of empires for over two thousand years.

Bexhill United, currently sitting mid-table in the Southern Combination League Premier Division (the… 9th(?) tier of English football), have an incredible story to tell. So, let’s jump straight in and #GetTheBadgeIn for the pirates of the Sussex coast. Let’s begin with the town to provide the context before we deconstruct their new, funky badge and (not so new) nickname. Bexhill-on-Sea sits on the coast of East Sussex, just along from the slightly more famous Hastings. Indeed, the history between the two is strong—during the famous Battle of Hastings, it appears that William the Conqueror’s Normans paid nearby Bexhill a visit and put the place to the torch. But fear not, it was swiftly rebuilt and was eventually handed to supporters of William, who in turn handed it over to the Church. The bishops built a manor house on the site and began a long-standing quarrel with the abbots of neighbouring Battle Abbey over where one’s land stopped and another began—a fantastically British argument. Fast-forward a bit and we come to the 19th century. It was the Napoleonic Wars, and Napoleon Bonaparte was trying to suffocate the British economy by blocking trade with Europe (silly bugger—he should have waited until 2016 and we’d have voted to do it ourselves…). But even when that lifted (thanks to some hardy work by the British Army… and the Germans), the good people and sailors of Bexhill spied an opportunity. Under the noses of both British and French authorities, they ferried goods backwards and forwards, avoiding customs duties. Items like tobacco and brandy were among the most commonly smuggled goods. The operations didn’t always go smoothly. In 1828, a fight broke out at Sidley Green, which today is a small patch of grass next to a pub (over 100 years old—see the 1896 image) and a ‘Premier’ convenience store. Smugglers were confronted by customs officials, known as blockademen, who in turn faced the smugglers’ “batsmen”, forming a line to protect those ferrying contraband further ashore. In the ensuing ‘Battle of Sidley Green’—a clash of muskets, swords and oars—two men died and many more were badly injured. Later, police rounded up ten of the smugglers, who were sentenced to deportation to New South Wales in Australia. Other notorious gangs operated along the Sussex coast too—the so-called pirates—working from small bays and coastal inlets, avoiding the men and boats of the customs officials. A similar story can be told in Bournemouth , and this long tradition of fighting the law and piracy in the South of England feels a little underreported. Good scope here for a Peaky Blinders-style show—only at sea, and with Sussex accents. Later in the century, the town’s direction changed. Under the stewardship of the local noble, the 7 th  Earl De La Warr, investment began to pour into the seaside town and it was promoted as a health resort, attracting wealthy Londoners looking to spend their cash. After the coming of the railway in 1848 they soon began arriving by the carriage load. Hotels, restaurants and attractions soon sprang up (including the country’s first ‘mixed’ bathing pool – which I imagine was caused quite the stir). The town went from smuggling to selling swimwear within a generation. This brings us to the creation of the football club. Several clubs existed—Bexhill Town, Bexhill United, Bexhill Town Athletic—but eventually, in 2002, the modern club we know today came into being after a merger. Their new badge, dreamt up by a marketing agency contracted for the role, tells the rest of the story quite well. The shield’s shape is taken from the town’s coat of arms. The three lines represent the three regional trophies won by the club and are said to reflect both the angle of the main Polegrove grandstand and the layers of the club’s foundations (although I think they also look a bit wave-like and could easily represent its coastal heritage too). The crossed swords are there to represent their pirate/smuggler past, and in a very neat touch, the handles of those swords are taken from the detailing of the edges of the Polegrove stand itself. Built in the 1920s in a mock-Tudor style, the stand is an absolute beauty. I hope that in any future renovations it is a) the last thing to be removed and b) whatever replaces it keeps its design and character. The marketing agency also adopted a font and general ‘modernist’ style for the badge in honour of the De La Warr Pavilion, one of the first modernist buildings in Britain and today a modern art gallery. But this small seaside town’s history has one more, incredible claim to fame. It was the birth place of British motoring. It all began on 19 May 1902, when the 8th Earl De La Warr backed the ‘Great Whitsuntide Motor Races’. Already invested in Dunlop, he had laid out a seafront cycle track in 1896 – presumably to increase sales of bike tyres, which he later converted into a one-kilometre racing circuit. Because it ran across his private land, it conveniently avoided the national 12 mph speed limit. The event was part of a wider attempt to turn Bexhill into a high-end resort to rival Monte Carlo, and it worked—at least briefly. The first race was won by French driver Léon Serpollet, whose steam-powered car reached 54 mph. Racing continued here until 1907, before the opening of Brooklands shifted the sport’s centre of gravity elsewhere. So, there you have it. Bexhill United. Battles, Smugglers and Racing. If you ever wondered why the British game of football is simply so superb—look no further. The fact that a 9th-tier team has the vision, resources, branding, and deep, deep wells of history to draw upon is one of the things that makes English football—and England more broadly—so special. The Bexhill pirates fly a proud flag.

Some football clubs choose symbols of power. Lions, eagles, shields, anything that looks like it might win a fight. Al-Nawair SC of Hama do something different. Their badge shows a machine. Not a weapon, not a beast, but a water wheel—and in doing so, it tells one of the most important stories in Syrian history. The name gives it away immediately. Al-Nawair literally means “The Water Wheels.” No symbolism required, no decoding needed. This is Water Wheel FC. And in Hama, that makes perfect sense. The club shares its city—and even its stadium—with Al-Taliya, their cross-town rivals. Where Al-Taliya carry the red eagle and the legacy of ancient kings, Al-Nawair wear blue and carry something quieter, but just as enduring: the story of how Hama survived, prospered, and fed the wider world. To understand that, we stay in Hama but move forward in time. After the age of the Aramean kings, Syria passed through the hands of larger empires. The Assyrians came, then the Persians, and then, in 333 BCE, Alexander the Great swept through the region, folding it into his vast Greek empire. When that empire fractured, Syria became part of the Seleucid Kingdom, before eventually falling to Rome in the 1st century BCE under Pompey the Great. With Rome came order—and more importantly, infrastructure. The Romans were exceptional organisers. They connected cities with roads, formalised trade networks, and reshaped urban life across their empire. Hama, sitting on the banks of the Orontes River, suddenly found itself in a very useful position. The river flowed north towards the Mediterranean, linking inland Syria to major coastal cities—especially Antioch, one of the largest cities in the Roman world. Antioch needed food. Hama could provide it. It just needed water. This is where the norias come in. These enormous wooden wheels, fitted with buckets, used the natural flow of the river to lift water into aqueducts and irrigation channels. No engines, no fuel—just gravity, current, and careful design. Whether the Romans invented them or not is still debated, but what is clear is that they were the first to scale them up properly. By the 5th century CE, we have clear visual evidence of their use in a Roman mosaic at nearby Apamea. Once in place, they transformed the region. Fields that might otherwise have struggled in a dry climate became productive and reliable. Wheat, olives, grapes, and fruit could be grown in abundance, and Hama became a key agricultural hub feeding the wider Roman world. Coins from emperors like Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius found in the area show just how integrated the city was into imperial trade networks. These wheels didn’t just move water—they sustained an economy. And they kept going. When the Roman Empire split and evolved into the Byzantine Empire, the norias continued to turn. Some of the largest surviving examples—up to 20 metres in diameter—date from this period. When the Islamic Caliphates took control in the 7th century, they didn’t replace the system; they preserved and expanded it. After a devastating earthquake in 1157, the ruler Nur al-Din Zangi prioritised rebuilding the water wheels before almost anything else. That decision tells you everything about their importance. At their peak, more than 100 norias lined the Orontes. They worked constantly, their wooden frames creaking as they turned. That sound became part of the city’s identity. In fact, the word noria comes from the Arabic na’eer, meaning “the wailer”—a reference to that steady, groaning rhythm that echoed across Hama. Today, around 17 of these historic wheels still stand. They are no longer essential—modern pumps have taken over—but they remain in place, turning slowly, almost ceremonially. They are not relics in a museum. They are part of the city. Which brings us back to the football club. Al-Nawair’s badge places the noria at its centre without embellishment. It doesn’t need myth or reinterpretation. It simply points to the defining feature of the city it represents. While other clubs lean into symbols of aggression or dominance, Al-Nawair lean into something else entirely: endurance, ingenuity, and continuity. Even their modern nickname, the “Panthers of the Orontes,” feels almost secondary to that central image. Panthers suggest speed, strength, perhaps a moment of brilliance. The water wheel suggests something different—steady effort, reliability, and the ability to keep going, long after others have fallen away. That feels fitting for a club like Al-Nawair. They have had their moments—strong seasons in the Syrian Premier League, and standout performances like Mohamed Al-Zeno’s golden boot in 2008–09—but they are not defined by dominance. Like the wheels themselves, they persist. And in Hama, persistence matters. The city has endured more than its share of hardship in modern times. Yet the norias still stand. The river still flows. The stadium still fills. And on derby day, when Al-Nawair face Al-Taliya, those identities collide in a way that feels almost scripted: the red eagle of ancient kings against the blue wheel of working people. Power versus process. Storm versus structure. Both rooted in the same history. So when Al-Nawair take to the pitch, they are not just another team in blue. They are carrying forward a symbol that once fed empires, sustained cities, and defined a way of life. Not bad for a water wheel.

Some football badges tell you very little. A ball, a shield, a date, perhaps an animal looking mildly annoyed. Al-Taliya’s badge, though, opens the door to one of the older stories in Syrian history. Founded in 1941 and reshaped into its modern form in 1971, Al-Taliya Sports Club of Hama are not among Syria’s most decorated sides. They have never quite turned promise into a stack of trophies. But that has never really been the point. Al-Taliya built their name another way: by being awkward, dangerous, and entirely capable of ruining a bigger club’s afternoon. Their best spell came in the mid-2000s, when they finished third in the Syrian Premier League and reached the 2007 Syrian Cup Final, before going on to make the quarter-finals of the Arab Champions Cup. Hence the nickname: the Hama Hurricane. A fine football nickname, certainly. But it is the badge that takes us furthest back. At the centre of Al-Taliya’s crest is a red eagle, swooping down with a football in its grasp. On one level, that is not unusual. Eagles are common symbols across the Arab world, usually standing for strength, pride, authority and defiance. Syria’s own state symbolism has long used a bird of prey, and variations on the eagle or hawk turn up on flags, military insignia and club crests from Morocco to Iraq. But in Hama’s case, the eagle can be read through a much older local story. To understand that, we need to go back around 3,000 years, to the early Iron Age, when Hama was not Hama at all but Hamath — one of the key Aramean royal cities of Syria. The Arameans emerged after the great Bronze Age powers began to fall apart around 1200 BCE. The Hittites faded, the regional order cracked, and into that vacuum came a patchwork of Semitic-speaking groups spread across Syria and northern Mesopotamia. They were not one united empire. Instead, they formed a network of smaller kingdoms and tribal houses, often named in the form Bit-X — the House of someone or other. Politically fragmented, yes, but linked by language, custom and a shared cultural world. Among their most important centres was Hamath, on the Orontes River. That location mattered. The Orontes gave the city water, farmland and a position on major trade routes linking the Levant, inland Syria and Mesopotamia. Hamath became wealthy and influential, powerful enough to appear in both Assyrian records and the Hebrew Bible. Its kings ruled from a city that sat at the intersection of trade, diplomacy and agriculture. Perhaps more importantly, it was part of the world that helped spread Aramaic, a language that would go on to become the diplomatic and administrative tongue of much of the Near East. In a neat historical twist, the Assyrians would eventually conquer Aramean cities like Hamath — and then make widespread use of the Aramaic language anyway. So where does the eagle come in? Part of the answer lies a little further north-east, at Tell Halaf, the site of ancient Gozana, capital of the Aramean kingdom of Bit-Bahiani. In 1911, the German archaeologist Max von Oppenheim excavated the palace of King Kapara, who ruled there in the 10th or 9th century BCE. Among the finds was a striking stele of a winged sun disk, held aloft by three mysterious figures. The symbol had older roots in Egypt, where winged solar imagery was linked to divine protection and kingship. But the Arameans adapted it into their own artistic and royal language. In this form, the outstretched wings became associated with power, prestige and divine favour. Over time, this visual language fed into broader Near Eastern eagle imagery — the sort of design tradition that still echoes in modern crests, state symbols and club badges. So while Al-Taliya’s eagle can certainly be read as a modern emblem of strength, it also fits beautifully into Hama’s older setting: a city shaped by Aramean kings, river trade and early Syrian statehood. In that sense, the bird on the badge is not just generic sporting aggression. It is a faint echo of the royal symbolism of ancient Syria. The club name helps too. Al-Taliya means “The Vanguard” — those at the front, the ones leading the way. It is a name of movement and intent, and it suits a city with a long history of standing firm and pushing forward. Hamath was a frontier royal city. Hama in modern times has also become known, often painfully, as a place of resilience and defiance. That resilience is part of why the badge works so well. Modern Hama is best known visually not for eagles but for its norias — the huge wooden water wheels on the Orontes that became symbols of the city. They are so central to local identity that the city’s rivals, Al-Nawair, are named after them. Which makes the Hama derby rather fitting: the red eagle of Al-Taliya against the blue water wheel of Al-Nawair. Ancient royal symbolism against civic engineering heritage. Not many cities can offer that. And Hama has endured more than most. From ancient invasions to the trauma of 1982 and the unrest of 2011, it has repeatedly had to rebuild, regroup and carry on. In that context, football becomes more than a pastime. Clubs become vessels for memory, pride and stubborn local identity. Al-Taliya, for all their modest trophy haul, sit firmly in that role. So the next time you look at their badge, don’t just see a red eagle clutching a football. See Hamath, the Aramean royal city on the Orontes. See the winged symbols of ancient kings. See a city that has taken blow after blow and still turns up. In Hama, the eagle still flies.

Some football clubs sit in history. Others sit on top of it. Al-Ittihad Ahli of Aleppo—six-time Syrian champions and winners of the 2010 AFC Cup—fall firmly into the second category. Their nickname, The Red Castle, is not just branding. It’s a direct line back nearly 4,000 years to one of the earliest kingdoms in Syrian history. Let’s start with the easy part: the name. Al-Ittihad means United. You’ll see it across the Arab world—clubs, airlines, institutions—anything trying to signal cohesion and shared identity. Ahli roughly translates as national or of the people. Put it together and you get something close to “United of the People”—or, more simply, Aleppo United. A modern name, but one rooted in a long tradition of collective identity in the region. The badge itself? Less revealing. The red, white, and black echo pan-Arab colours, linking the club to a broader political and cultural movement of unity across the Arab world. The Olympic rings—often seen on Middle Eastern club crests—don’t mean they’re heading to Paris 2028. They simply reflect a multi-sport club model, where football sits alongside basketball and other disciplines. So if the badge and name only get us so far, where does the real history come in? The nickname. The Red Castle. That’s a direct reference to the Citadel of Aleppo, one of the most recognisable and enduring fortresses in the Middle East. And that citadel isn’t just medieval. It sits on a hill that has been occupied, fortified, and revered for millennia. To understand it, you have to go back to around 1800 BCE. At this point, Syria wasn’t a country—it was a crossroads. Trade routes linked Anatolia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Mediterranean, and cities rose where those routes met. Aleppo—then known as Halab—was one of them. Enter the Yamhad Kingdom. Founded by Amorite rulers who settled around a fortified hilltop shrine, Yamhad turned Aleppo into one of the dominant powers of northern Syria. From that same hill where the citadel now stands, kings like Yarim-Lim I built a state that thrived on trade, diplomacy, and geography. This wasn’t a backwater. It was a hub. Tin, wool, silver, textiles—all passed through Aleppo’s markets. Its rulers negotiated alliances across the region, with correspondence recorded in early cuneiform writing—those wedge-shaped symbols pressed into clay that look like someone attacked a tablet with a blunt knife. And that matters. Because Syria wasn’t just trading goods—it was shaping ideas. Writing systems developed and evolved here. Clay from the river valleys made it possible. Over time, these early pictorial systems became more flexible, more phonetic—laying the groundwork for alphabets that would later influence Greek and Latin. In short: every time you write a sentence, you’re borrowing—just slightly—from this region. Back in Yamhad, though, power wasn’t just economic. It was religious. The chief deity was Hadad, the storm god—controller of thunder, rain, and fertility. His temple stood on the acropolis of Aleppo. The same spot. The same hill. The same place where the citadel would later rise. So when Al-Ittihad are called The Red Castle, they’re not just pointing to a building. They’re pointing to a site that has been political, economic, and religious centre of the region for nearly four millennia. Not bad for a nickname. Like all early powers, Yamhad didn’t last forever. Around 1600 BCE, the Hittites swept down from Anatolia and sacked Aleppo, ending its dominance. Later empires—Mitanni, Assyrians, Greeks—would take their turn ruling the city. But here’s the thing: Aleppo never really went away. It kept its importance. It kept its position on trade routes. It kept its reputation as a place that mattered. Even small details from the period hint at how advanced these societies were. In nearby cities like Mari, cuneiform tablets describe state-run ice storage pits—deep, insulated structures where ice was transported from northern mountains and guarded like treasure. Not essential for survival. Just… useful. A reminder that even 4,000 years ago, people were already experimenting with logistics, supply chains, and a few small luxuries. Civilisation, as it turns out, doesn’t take long to get comfortable. And that’s the thread that runs through Aleppo’s history—from early farming communities in the Fertile Crescent, to city-states like Ebla and Mari, to the Yamhad kings ruling from their hilltop stronghold. Layer upon layer. Generation upon generation. Until eventually, you get a football club. Today, Al-Ittihad Ahli play in the shadow of that same citadel. Their honours list—league titles, cup wins, continental success—sits alongside a far older legacy. One that predates football, predates nations, and even predates most written language. A club named for unity. A badge tied to identity. A nickname rooted in one of the oldest continuously important sites on Earth. Some teams inherit history. Others are built on it. Aleppo, and its Red Castle, are very much the latter.

In the summer of 2018, a tiny east London non-league club released an away kit that placed them firmly on the map as one of the most exciting and progressive organisations in the field (literally). Designed and chosen by the members themselves in a democratic poll, Clapton Community Football Club’s new strip quickly became one of the most talked-about shirts in European football. More than 5,400 pre-orders flooded in from around the world, especially Spain, forcing the club to pause sales while volunteers and their small Italian supplier scrambled to keep up. The reason? A bold, unapologetic tribute to the Second Spanish Republic and the anti-fascist fighters of the 1930s. Red, yellow and purple stripes. “No pasarán” across the back. The three-pointed star of the International Brigades on the sleeve. For me, a History teacher with a passion for the Spanish Civil War – it’s like catnip. This wasn’t just football merchandise — it was a wearable history lesson and a statement of values.   The club itself is a fascinating story, in February 2018, disillusioned supporters of the historic Clapton FC — a club that had played at the Old Spotted Dog Ground since 1888 — broke away after a bitter dispute with the owners. The chief executive had tried to liquidate the charity running the club, prompting the Clapton Ultras to boycott home games for the entire 2017-18 season. They wanted football that belonged to the fans, not profit-driven owners. So, they created their own club: fan-owned, anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-homophobic and proudly political. Based temporarily in Walthamstow and competing in the Middlesex County League, Clapton CFC embodies grassroots football at its purest — run by the people, for the people.   Club members voted from 16 designs, and the winning concept came from designer Thom, who wrote on the club website: “I really wanted to make something that marked the importance of the sacrifice of those who fought against fascism.” The kit is manufactured by Rage Sports, a small ethical Italian company chosen because it works with grassroots clubs fighting racism, fascism and inequality. Maurizio Affuso of Rage told the club: “Rage Sport will always be there for the Clapton fans because like them we believe in a new way of doing football and because we strongly believe some battles can be fought both on and off the pitch.” The club expected to sell around 250 shirts. They sold thousands in weeks. Volunteers worked flat out handling orders, emails and social media messages. Some proceeds went to running costs; the rest were earmarked for the International Brigade Memorial Trust to fund education and memorial work in the UK. A new memorial to the International Brigades were unveiled, proudly, at the Club’s ground in 2025.   The colours and symbolism embody the flag of the Second Spanish Republic — ‘la tricolor’. Adopted on 27 April 1931, just thirteen days after elections swept the Republicans to victory in Spain’s big cities and ended the Bourbon monarchy, the flag features three equal horizontal bands: red, yellow and dark purple (morado oscuro). Red and yellow had long symbolised the former Crown of Aragon (and obviously still sit in the current Spanish flag). The purple band honoured Castile and León, recalling the Pendón Morado — the ancient armorial banner of Castile, also flown by the Comuneros in their 16th-century revolt. International Brigades volunteers took this flag and added their distinctive three-pointed red star to the yellow band. That same star also appears on the Clapton CFC shirt.   “No pasarán” is placed on the back of the shirt — “They shall not pass” — was the defiant slogan of the anti-fascist forces, most famously shouted by Republican leaders during the defence of Madrid. So who were The International Brigades? At the outbreak of the civil war over 35,000 volunteers from over 50 countries travelled to Spain to fight fascism. Among them was a young George Orwell. He joined the POUM militia on the Aragon front, was shot through the throat, and later wrote Homage to Catalonia — his classic account of the war. The Second Spanish Republic lasted only eight years (1931-1939) but in that time it introduced sweeping reforms: land redistribution, women’s suffrage, workers’ rights and secular education. But deep divisions — between monarchists, fascists, anarchists, communists and moderate republicans — tore the Republic apart. In July 1936, a military coup led by General Francisco Franco, backed by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy, plunged Spain into civil war. The elected Republican government, supported by trade unions, left-wing parties and the International Brigades, fought back. Franco’s Nationalists won in April 1939. Franco ruled as dictator until his death in 1975, suppressing republican symbols and memory. The tricolour flag became the banner of Spanish exiles, then of modern trade unions, left-wing parties such as United Left, and republican movements. Clapton CFC’s shirt, released to mark the 80th anniversary of the end of the conflict, carries all of that history onto the pitch. It is an absolute beauty and its messaging is sublime, it is community football at its most powerful. So, if you’re looking for a shirt that means something, get this one in. No pasarán. They shall not pass — on the terraces, on the pitch, or in the streets. Clapton Community FC have revolutionised football kits.

Sharp. Sleek. Clever. I had to order it immediately. So, let’s #GetTheShirtIn for Cambridge United’s 2025/26 Third Kit. The shirt features an embossed pattern of DNA double helix structures woven throughout the front and back. It’s subtle enough that you might miss it from a distance, but once you spot it, it completely changes how you see the shirt. The inspiration comes from one of Cambridge’s most famous contributions to the world. In 1953, scientists working at the University of Cambridge – Francis Crick and James Watson – identified the structure of DNA, the double helix that underpins all living organisms. It’s difficult to overstate just how important that discovery was. It didn’t just move science forward; it reshaped our entire understanding of biology, medicine and life itself. After working out the structure, Crick is said to have walked into The Eagle pub, just around the corner from the laboratory, and announced to those inside that they had “discovered the secret of life.” One of the most important moments in human history. Declared over a pint. Makes you proud to be British. The shirt commemorates this moment by having “THE SECRET OF LIFE” printed along the rear neck, sitting inside the collar. The rest of the design follows the same idea. The black base and the gold overlock stitching gives it a nice, refined look. Tit also features the new Cambridge United crest for the first time on a third kit. What works particularly well is how this connects back to the broader identity of the city. Cambridge isn’t just known for one thing. In the previous shirt, the focus was on Parker’s Piece and the role the city played in shaping the rules of football. Here, the story shifts to something entirely different, but equally (well… more) significant. A city that helped define how football is played, and also helped explain the fundamental structure of life itself. Cambridge has given us both the foundations – and meaning of life. DNA and Football. That’s quite a combination to carry onto a pitch. --- Are you an educator? There is a free to download lesson that explores these topics and features the Cambridge United shirt as a case study here: https://www.tes.com/teaching-resource/resource-13430581 or here https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Crick-Watson-DNA-Lesson-History-of-Medicine-15829841

I really like this kit. Clean. Different. Properly rooted in the place it comes from. So let’s get straight into it and #GetTheShirtIn for Cambridge United’s Third Kit. Produced by Umbro and sponsored by BrewBoard, this one takes its inspiration from a very specific spot in the city – Parker’s Piece. Now, this isn’t just any park. This is the birthplace of the modern rules of football. Back in 1863, students at Cambridge – arriving from schools like Eton, Rugby and Harrow, all playing slightly different versions of the game – came together to create a single, unified set of rules. These became known as the Cambridge Rules and were first played out right here on Parker’s Piece. Crucially, they banned carrying the ball and hacking, pushing the game towards the passing, skill-based sport we recognise today. At the same time, the newly formed Football Association was debating its own laws, and these Cambridge Rules helped tip the balance. Within weeks, hacking and carrying were banned, and football split from rugby. So when we say this patch of grass helped shape the global game – it really did. Fast forward a few decades and another landmark appears on the same ground – the now famous Reality Checkpoint. Officially, it’s just a cast-iron lamppost, installed in the 1890s as part of the city’s early move into electric lighting. Built by a Glasgow foundry, it was described at the time as a “very handsome ornament” and still stands today as one of the oldest electrical lampposts in Cambridge. But of course, Cambridge being Cambridge, it didn’t stay just a lamppost. Sometime in the early 1970s, the words Reality Checkpoint  were scribbled onto its base – most likely by students. The name stuck. It has been painted over, scratched back on, restored, removed and reinstated ever since, eventually becoming an official part of the landmark itself. As for what it actually means? Take your pick. It might mark the boundary between the “university bubble” and the real world beyond it. It might simply have been a useful point of light when crossing the park late at night. Or – perhaps – it was a tongue-in-cheek warning to check you were still walking in a straight line before heading past the nearby police station. Either way, it’s pure Cambridge. The moss green base mirrors the restored colours of the lamppost, while the all-over pattern pulls directly from its design – the intertwined heraldic dolphins, along with the floral and leaf motifs that decorate its base and shaft. So you’ve got a shirt that links together two defining elements of the same space:– The place where the rules of football were first shaped– And the landmark that has stood there ever since, quietly watching it all unfold Not bad for a park and a lamppost. It’s clever, it’s local, and it’s properly thought through. A very Cambridge shirt.

Historic and world famous university town. Famed for their football? Not so much. Not yet. Not recently. But. That isn’t to say that the U’s don’t have a long history themselves. They were close to being one of the Premier League’s founding members, finishing 5 th  in the Second Tier (today’s Championship) in 1992 and having reached the quarter-finals of the FA Cup in their past. More recently they have bounced around between the 5 th  and 3 rd  tiers – winning the FA Trophy in 2014. But, this all being said, there is a fantastic link between Cambridge and football. Cambridge can claim to have invented the sport. Or, at least, codified it. While football is usually associated with the working-class mill towns of the north – that brought together young men in such quantity – and eventually gave them the time off – to begin playing team sports, there was a simultaneous developing in the south among university towns and elite private schools. In 1863, students at Cambridge—coming from schools like Eton, Rugby and Harrow, all with different versions of football—created a unified set of rules so they could actually play together. These became known as the Cambridge Rules and were first put into practice on Parker’s Piece (a large park near the city centre), with a match advertised for 20 November 1863. Crucially, these rules banned carrying the ball and hacking, pushing the game towards a safer, passing-based style rather than the physical, rugby-style version. At the same time, the newly formed Football Association was debating its own laws. The game was split between those who wanted a rough, carrying game and those who preferred a kicking game. When the Cambridge Rules were published just days before a key FA meeting, they gave strong support to the non-hacking side. FA secretary Ebenezer Morley supported them, and shortly after, the FA banned both hacking and carrying—effectively separating football from rugby. Parts of the Cambridge code, including the offside rule, were taken almost directly into the FA’s first official laws. But Cambridge’s influence did not stop there. In 1882, the Cambridge University team developed what became known as the “combination game”—a structured, passing style where players worked together in defined positions. At a time when many teams still relied on individual dribbling, Cambridge showed the potential of teamwork, movement and passing. So, let’s not pretend that Cambridge’s legacy to world is exclusively about intellect. It’s influence extends to the football pitch as well.   Back to the modern football team then, and we can see that their badge has had a recent redesign, making it more friendly for social media/digital platforms but still retains the shape and meaning of the original. So, let’s dig a bit deeper and #GetTheBadgeIn for Cambridge United FC specifically. Central to the city’s name – and also their football club’s badge – is the fact that they are a bridge, over the River Cam. The three turreted feature sitting atop both the old and new badge is taken from the City’s coat of arms and represents the Magdalene Bridge (although presumably an older version that I cannot find any trace of – as the modern bridge has no turrets). The earliest crossing of the river was just a ford as it was shallow enough to walk or ride through in certain areas. The Romans recognised the importance of this and began to improve it, building up causeways to make the crossing more reliable. The location was ideal. On the north-west bank, a slight hill gave protection and visibility over the crossing point. Anyone controlling that crossing could control movement through the region. As a result, Cambridge developed into a key inland port and trading hub. The river was not just something to cross—it was a route for goods. Merchants, warehouses, inns and workshops grew up around the riverbanks, particularly along what is now Magdalene Street, which once formed the main northern approach into the town. It would have been a busy, noisy, practical place—carts arriving, goods unloading, travellers stopping for the night. At this point, the River Cam was tidal. The sea’s influence reached inland, meaning boats could move more easily between Cambridge and the coast. This helped trade flourish and strengthened the town’s importance. Then came a major shift in the seventeenth century: the draining of the Fens. The Fens—vast wetlands covering large parts of eastern England—had long been difficult to farm or settle. They flooded regularly and were seen as wild, untamed land. From the 1600s onwards, large-scale engineering projects were carried out to drain them. Dutch engineers were brought in, channels were dug, rivers were straightened, and water was redirected into new drainage systems. Imagine getting planning permission for something as ambitious and transformative as this these days. Certainly not in Britain. Our NIMBY boomers with their nice houses and fat pensions would be out in force to prevent all progress, that’s for sure. The draining transformed the landscape. The wetlands became fertile farmland, some of the richest agricultural land in the country. But it also changed the rivers. The Cam was no longer tidal, and its role as a navigable trade route declined. The energy and flow of goods that had once passed through Cambridge began to shift elsewhere. As a result, parts of the town that had once been central—particularly around the old crossing—became more isolated. Development moved away, and the town expanded in other directions. What had been a busy commercial entrance became quieter, poorer, and, in many ways, left behind. Ironically, this neglect helped preserve it. Because the area was not heavily redeveloped during the Victorian period, many of its older buildings survived. Some date back to the sixteenth century. Even in the 1930s, Magdalene College lacked the funds to carry out plans to rebuild the street. Instead, with later support, the area was preserved and remains today one of the oldest surviving parts of Cambridge. At the heart of it all, and the U’s badge, still sits the bridge. The current Magdalene Bridge, built in 1823 from cast iron, stands on the same site as the former iterations, which have gone from Roman causeway, to a wooden structure during the Anglo-Saxon period the a stone bridge in the Middle Ages – to cast iron today. Drift along the River Cam beneath the bridge on a punt and you’ll pass college backs, weeping willows and historic stone buildings. These “backs” are the riverside lawns and gardens behind the colleges, giving you the best view of their architecture from the water. The University is made up of 31 colleges, each operating as its own community where students live, study and are supported alongside their central university teaching. It ’s a calm, postcard-perfect view of Cambridge that feels a world away from the busy trading hub it once was. From Parker’s Piece to Magdalene Bridge, from the second tier to FA trophy silverware – Cambridge, the birth place of modern genetics, has football in its DNA.