From Wrexham With Love, Then Birmingham Stole Everything

Wearing a St. Louis CITY kit through Wrexham felt like bringing a little piece of home into one of the strangest and most successful football stories in the world. I had followed Wrexham through the documentary, the celebrity ownership, and the absolutely ridiculous three-promotion climb into the Championship. When I first started watching, I never seriously imagined I would one day be walking around Wrexham in person, wearing CITY red, drinking local beer, and explaining MLS season-ticket prices to Welsh construction workers. Yet there I was, representing St. Louis and trying not to look like the most obvious American soccer tourist in all of North Wales.

The day actually started in Chester, which feels historically appropriate. For years, people from Wrexham would apparently tell outsiders they were from Chester because it was easier and probably sounded more impressive. Then Deadpool and the guy from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia bought the football club, turned the town into an international streaming franchise, and suddenly nobody was borrowing Chester’s name anymore. Wrexham had arrived. Chester was now the opening act (to be fair, we loved Chester too: the history, Roman Walls, and the city's charm).

We drove into Wrexham for lunch at The Fat Boar, and the day immediately started strong. We sat outside on the patio with perfect weather, a steady stream of locals, and a downtown setting that made the whole thing feel relaxed and authentic instead of staged for tourists. The restaurant sits close to the cathedral and the city center, so there were plenty of good photo opportunities before and after lunch.

The Friday fish-and-chips special came with a beer, which is the kind of civic planning America should study. I ordered it immediately and paired it with a Wrexham Pilsner, intentionally saving the Wrexham Lager for The Turf later. My wife went straight for the Wrexham Lager and ordered sticky sausages & baked Camembert, because apparently we had decided cholesterol was a cultural experience. Everything was excellent. The fish was crisp, the beer was cold, and nobody tried to turn lunch into a deconstructed foam experience served on a roof tile.

After lunch, we walked past the new Wrexham team store downtown, but I wanted the real pilgrimage. The new store looked large, polished, and very tempting, but buying Wrexham gear anywhere other than the Racecourse felt wrong. I had not crossed an ocean to shop in the football equivalent of a mall kiosk. I wanted the stadium, the history, and the full emotional manipulation package.

Parking at the Racecourse was shockingly easy, which immediately separated the experience from most American sporting events. We walked around the stadium, took in the views, snapped photos, and eventually went into the club shop. It was not packed or chaotic. In fact, for most of the next half hour, the store was basically ours.

Calum, the clerk, was fantastic and talked with us almost the entire time. A few locals came and went, but we had plenty of time to browse, ask questions, and convince ourselves that every item was a necessary historical artifact. This is how you end up buying a jersey, scarf, pint glasses, a road sign, small collectibles, and several things you did not know existed until five minutes earlier.

I bought the classic long-sleeved red kit, because sometimes the obvious choice is the right choice. We also bought my son a kit, my wife grabbed a shirt, and I filled out the rest of the shopping bag with enough Wrexham merchandise to suggest we had either joined the supporter trust or were opening a small franchise back in St. Louis. The most shocking part was the price. Everything felt affordable, especially compared with St. Louis CITY SC merchandise, where buying a jersey and a scarf can require a home-equity consultation.

We spent about $175 and left feeling like we had robbed them "British Politely." Before leaving, I signed the guest book with a simple “Go CITY!” because international football diplomacy matters. Somewhere in Wrexham, there is now written proof that St. Louis arrived, spent money, and behaved itself.

The Turf was the next stop, because no Wrexham visit is complete without the pub that became a supporting character in the documentary. We took the required photos by the Joey Jones mural and then went inside for a couple of Wrexham Lagers. Wayne was behind the bar and could not have been nicer. We did not ask him for a photo or treat him like an attraction at a theme park. We ordered our drinks, found a spot, and enjoyed the atmosphere.

A group of Welsh construction workers noticed my CITY kit and immediately started asking questions. They loved that I had worn it into Wrexham and seemed genuinely pleased that an American supporter had stopped in for a beer while representing his own club. Then we got into the cost of the jersey and my season tickets, and their reaction suggested I had admitted to funding a small military operation. Apparently, spending American professional-sports money on football remains one of our less charming cultural exports.

The entire visit felt easy, welcoming, and far more genuine than I expected. We had good food, great beer, friendly conversations, a stadium visit, and enough merchandise to make my suitcase officially annoying. I only wish we could have caught a match. Having a beer at The Turf on matchday and walking into the Racecourse with the crowd would have been the full experience, but even without that, the visit was absolutely worth it.

When we left Wrexham, I felt like the day had been a complete success. I had followed this club from thousands of miles away through three promotions, documentary episodes, celebrity interviews, and the kind of dramatic football storytelling that normally feels manufactured. Now I had actually stood outside the stadium, bought the shirt, drank the beer, met the locals, and made the connection real. We drove back toward Birmingham feeling tired, happy, and ready to return to London the next morning.

Then Birmingham decided the story needed a third-act villain. The next morning, I walked outside with our suitcases, ready to load the car, and discovered that the car was gone. At first, I went through the normal stages of confusion. Wrong street? Wrong parking spot? Did I somehow forget where I left an entire vehicle? Eventually, reality arrived: the car had been stolen during the night.

And yes, before anyone asks, I locked it and still had the keys. This was not a case of an absent-minded American leaving the engine running with a sign that said “free rental car.” It appears to have been a professional theft. The vehicle was later recovered with false plates attached and was reportedly otherwise in good condition, which is comforting in the same way being told the burglar respected your furniture is comforting.

The real gut punch was everything inside the trunk. We had left our trip souvenirs in the car, including all the Wrexham gear we had bought just hours earlier. The long-sleeved kit. My son’s kit. My wife’s shirt. The scarf. The glasses. The collectibles. The road sign. The entire physical memory of a perfect football day was sitting in the back of a stolen car.

As I write this, we are still waiting to learn whether any of our belongings were recovered. The car is back, but the most important question is whether the thieves left the gear and souvenirs behind or decided they too were ready to support Wrexham. I can replace merchandise. That is not really the point. Those items were connected to a day I never expected to experience, and losing them immediately afterward felt cruel.

Still, the thieves cannot steal the actual experience, even if they did steal the receipt. They cannot take away lunch at The Fat Boar, the beers at The Turf, the conversations with Calum and Wayne, the locals asking about my CITY jersey, or the feeling of finally seeing the Racecourse in person. They can take the bags. They can take the shirts. They can apparently change the license plates with impressive efficiency. But the day still happened.

Wrexham was absolutely worth the trip, and I would recommend it to any football fan. Go downtown. Eat at The Fat Boar. Walk around the Racecourse. Buy your gear from the stadium shop. Have a Wrexham Lager at The Turf. Talk to the locals. Wear your own club’s colors and let football do what it does best: start conversations between people who otherwise would never meet.

Just take the souvenirs into the hotel with you afterward. That is now part of the official City SC Posse international travel guide.