A history of how I fell back in love with football

It's exactly a year to the day that the Cobblers triumphed at Anfield on 'that' famous night. Whilst predictably we've been crap ever since, on the anniversary of that momentous occasion I thought I'd share with you a very personal piece I wrote for the fanzine last year. Tissues at the ready...


A history of how I fell back in love with football.  

29/08/09-22/09/10 

Two dates. Two football games. For me, they are both hugely significant dates. For you, the latter will likely jump out at you - the former probably means nothing, or little. Burton Away. Liverpool Away. The relationship is not at all obvious. Indeed, the only obvious connections are found in the contrasts. Woeful, depressing ineptitude. Glorious, glorious ecstasy. Well for me, those contrasts are relevant. Yet only because, looking back, the emotional impact that those two ninety minutes still have on me is hard to express. But I shall try. 

Burton Away was the last football match I attended with my Mum. It was a beautiful day - at least off the pitch. Now I could tell you about every kick, tackle and shot that took place. Perhaps I shall come back to that, but regardless of our embarrassment, those details are not important; suffice to say that we lost. For in this instance, football really is more than a game. Football is what brings us together, football is what tears us apart. Football runs through our veins and we bleed it. We live it, we love it together but most vitally, we share it together.  

If you want to know the most basic reasons that we love football, I don’t think they are formed on the pitch. I think they are formed off it - the friendships, the drinks, the banter. The common social tool. The great divides, the great debates. We cry together, we celebrate together. We are accepted, together. This is our home.

My Mum had been a very ill person for a number of years. For part of that time, I juggled being a young carer with trying to be alive. Yet for all the stress and responsibility, for all the difficult days, one thing more than any other took us away from that pain. Football. Northampton Town Football Club, home of the Cobblers. Home for us, for a number of years as season-ticket holders. Home is where the heart is - and the more you invest your heart in a common love, the more freely you can invest in each other.

My Mum was diagnosed with bowel cancer in September, a couple of weeks after we’d been to Burton. She was in a bad state then, yet she’d driven up there because she wanted to. Because she wanted to get away from it all. Because it allowed her, and me, an escape. Don’t go telling me football is just a game; to some people, it is the purest form of escapism. We all need to escape sometimes, don’t we?

In November '09 my Mum passed away. Whilst grief is largely private, one day later I brought my grief to Sixfields; one day later we faced Crewe at home. I don’t remember much about the match, except that I decided to go because that’s what she would have wanted. I brought my brother along, my brother - who takes about as much interest in football as I have in his geeky world of software developing. It needn’t matter. For one day, we were united. For one day, irrespective of result, there was simply the absolute need for us to be present - and we were. It helped.

The months afterward did not. Yes, there was something comforting about leaving sadness (and weeks of washing up!) at home, stepping out into a world previously turned upside down - now familiar for ninety minutes at least.  But truthfully, it was bloody difficult too. Truthfully, despite our resurgence up the table I did not care. Truthfully, I could not enjoy company; the truth of an empty seat beside you is the worst truth of all. But habit can keep us going. Habit can make us remember. Habit can be a healer.

Habit was a healer for me. The football habit. The unkickable habit. Anfield…

When we drew Liverpool away in the Carling cup, I stopped to stare for a moment. See, this was a massive draw for the football club, but for me, it was so much more than that. Almost immediately, I thought of my Mum; Liverpool born and bred, although she hadn’t come to love football until later in life, she often fondly recalled standing on the Kop with her Grandad as a child. Make no mistake, this would have been a special occasion for her. Why hadn’t it come around just a season before? Why? Why.. Why...  

No doubt, people will talk of Jacobs the wonder kid, McKay the ‘fox in the box', Thornton the maverick. The football was exceptional. The football was instrumental, but let us again put it to one side for a moment. The occasion was momentous - to me, incredibly meaningful. Whilst there were ghosts laid to rest, there were memories remembered and and feelings resurfaced. 

Osman, scores! The Cobblers faithful go wild - I cannot jump, I am overcome. 

Emotion in it’s rawest form, grips me and shakes me. The champagne flows, not from a bottle, but from my eyes. I am released. I love football again. My Mum looks down, and then for a moment she is in the seat beside me. She smiles, and at last I can smile too. 

This is for her, for me, for everyone. This is football. 

I share a joke with her. 

How appropriate that Burton was your last match, Mum. How appropriate that you witnessed clown school at first-hand, from our boys in the Claret and White. What a way to go out; miserable, laughable, farcical - Cobblers ‘til the end. 

How appropriate that for a moment, you’re here beside me so we can laugh and cry together again. So you can hear me heal whilst I shout ‘I F*CKING LOVE FOOTBALL!’

Out of death and darkness comes delirium, you better believe it.

Dedicated to Ruby Bliss. 1953-2009.

The Transfer Window blues - part 2

Window after window, we'd stared at our own worried reflection for hours, and hoped that no-one would crawl out. The locks had long worn away, and frame by frame, we realised this wasn't a transfer window at all; but a transfer bloody door, wide open enough for even the smallest of dreamers to escape from. In fact, at times it seemed our prized possessions were being given a firm shove on their way. Of course, we are only little Northampton Town. Eventually, they all leave the tiny nest for a mansion, whether they take flight with regret or with a determined dash; it is the nature of being low-down on the football pyramid.

The problem was, for a while the door could only be opened from one side. We did not so much as bother to fit a burglar alarm - the chance of a stellar stranger breaking in was as remote as the chances of a repeat of 'that' 60's roller coaster. Apparently, Sixfields cannot be fitted with doors that open from the outside, unless the redevelopment takes place. C'mon Council, it's all your fault that we don't speculate to accumulate. It must be - everything is your fault, after all.

I think this is part of the frustration. After those dizzy days of spending, for a while we saw Gray build a team full of colour, then they all promptly left and plunged us back into darkness. It wasn't that they left - they had to - it was that they were replaced with some kid or other, likely a reality TV winner who could do some fancy flicks but f**ked off when the going got tough. Whether that was Gray's fault or Cardoza's - the facts were that nothing seemed to be reinvested. The only thing the bank guaranteed, were loans. With bloody miserable rates of interest.

Slowly, this seems to have changed. Off-the-field ventures have begun to emerge, and on-the-pitch - the only thing we 'really' care about - Dave has finally committed some capital. That's the annoyance; we finally knock down the doors altogether, and lo and behold, 20-goal potential was standing out in the cold all that time - if only we had bothered to check and warmed our cockles earlier - we might not be on this deathly downward spiral.

So, that's the thing with this club; you wait around for months for a VIP to come bounding in, but unfortunately it turns out it was only the bouncer that agreed to it. The manager has changed, and promptly kicked him out on his arse. The investor raises his eyebrows, but ultimately the manager has been successful elsewhere - so he lets him get on with things. As much as some of the crowd want to tell you otherwise; the truth is that the DJ went home early and we never really had long enough to see whether Harrad could dance to the music. Sure, his initial moves looked a bit dodgy, but football fans have a way of believing football is entirely removed from every other profession on earth - it's not.

It is very different, and it should be a privilege for those lucky few - but every last football player is still human (with the possible exception of El Hadji Spit). It might be stating the bleedin' obvious, but they all have emotions, families and faults. They all get motivated in different ways. We all do. Footballers move regularly these days - instability is part of the fabric of the game - but not everyone gets used to it. Some settle quicker than others. It's utterly ridiculous for us to judge Harrad's future based on the short sticky spell with us - and here's why.

Harrad arrived with a great deal of expectation. Perhaps too much, but you can hardly blame us for getting a thrill when we noticed there wasn't a 'free' mentioned anywhere. I know that I almost fainted.

After the aforementioned 'perfect debut', things quickly turned sour with a silly suspension. We stuttered without him and even on return; eventually spluttered to a halt. Harrad could no longer rely on that trusted bouncer, instead he had to shake his stuff in front of a whole new pair of eyes, a set which doubted anything not labelled 'his own'. If you don't hit the dance floor ground running, panic can soon set in. Barely a minute ago, you came to this club with promises of promotion and private booths. Now, having convinced those you love to join the queue; you're in danger of being judged far too quickly, and being relegated to toilet-attendant. Or worse - the Conference.

Okay, so Dzeko is an extreme example, yet one cannot help but look at the extraordinary difference between Dzeko the cumbersome and Dzeko the cult. He signed at a similar time as Harrad, made a handful of appearances just the same and scored at an even more sluggish rate. I am not saying that 27M and 40K are completely comparable; but the fact remains that most of us struggle to adapt to change, especially career change. When you're settled, you become the sh*t once more, instead of just sh*t.

One of the obvious differences between the two is that we were very quickly heading for the trapdoor - and Harrad suddenly had the weight of the World on his shoulders. He rarely looked at ease, and from someone who seemed to have an infectious personality, it was obvious that the stress was getting to him. Even I'll admit that his touch was disappointing - yet let's not kid ourselves - he'd been in the non-league not so very long ago. Good goal scorers are not always gifted, McGleish was the master at two-yard tap ins, but some never warmed to his lack of nous elsewhere. It remained difficult to find him a partner. He was singular; greedy; he'd settle down to a family dinner and show-off the compilation of all his best scuffs. He never ate eggs - he was too busy scrambling goals.

I do not wish to criticise, it takes much more talent than people think to find space where there is none, and in a congested crowd Scotty could never be seen until it was too late. He sprang, Jack-in-the-the-box like from nowhere, and took every opponent by surprise. See, they saw he scored 20 the previous season, but after 80 minutes they wondered what all the fuss was about. Then, he cracked it once again, and fried us to victory. Poaching can be an art form too.

Of course, he was more capable than that. So is Harrad. Take for example, Scotty finding the sweet-spot away at Wycombe, or Shaun the cheek lobbing the Bury 'keeper with the ease of an expert. But crucially - they do have their limitations. So do manager's though, and ours appears limited in one crucial respect - an inability to show love for those that are not his.

Harrad did miss some glorious chances that Scotty would have swallowed up in his sleep, but we were still a shambles. It's hard to tune-out from all the interference and concentrate on doing your thing - your one thing. Putting the ball in the net. Some will argue, how come Bauza shined and Shaun appeared sheepish? They are different players. Bauza has more ability in his little toe. Harsh, but true. But he will never be your 20-goal-a-season man. He had the flair and finesse to forget the furore around him, but that was helped by the fact he could do many things. Look - Harrad is a bit of a one-trick pony. Even from his tricky beginnings, I was sure of that. It's just when your one-trick is so bloody deadly, people will pay to come to watch. Bauza was a beaut, but who would score more in the same team? Harrad - every time.

So why was his deadly instrument so blunted at the end of last season? And why was he not given the chance to skin-a-cat or at least score-a-goal this time around? Two words -
Gary Johnson.

Forget your finances folks, there's something beyond the pressures of expectation here and far beyond our current knowledge. I'm sure of it. Yes, we needed to reduce the wage bill. But I'll place a wager here and now, Harrad did not HAVE to leave. He was forced out by one thing only. Politics. If you don't agree with Johnson's manifesto you'll manifest yourself a problem. If his methods don't match-up to your own, and you dare to speak out, you'll be faced with stubborn stoutness. His way or the highway. It just so happens that his way has been by and large, a very productive path to take thus far.

However, first at London Road and now here at Sixfields, we are starting to see cracks in his philosophy, and underneath the cheery exterior, there lie more questions than answers. Do you need to be flexible to be the best? Wenger and Ferguson stick to their principles pretty successfully. I guess, it's when things start going wrong, that you need to take the blinkers off, step back and take a look around you at what other ideas are out there.

Did Harrad march to the beat of a different drum? Dare to speak out? His transfer away had been manufactured over the summer; there can be no doubt. Was it down to football ability alone? I'm not so sure. I'm really not. Leon might come across a little bitter, but his ranting must tell us something - there's no tweet without heat. Or something like that.

The silly thing was, we needed that 20-goal man, we bought him, then we let him slip through our fingers. One day, he might come back and Bury us. Be warned.

The Transfer Window blues - part 1

Well, well, well.

Murder mysteries will have to wait for another day, as I couldn't help but comment on the deadline day drama; at least a dramatic enough scene to stoke up our fans' fury.

The question is, should they be breathing their Clarence-the-dragon-fire, or calming their inner-furies and taking a step back to survey the surroundings?

There is perhaps, no right or wrong answer. Some fans will always react badly to losing one of their own. Some will dismiss them with the rudest of waves; others will see the pros and the cons. Moving on is a part of football life, after all.

It is perhaps, not the calibre of player that is the talking point here, but the way in which the transfer transpired - and what it means.

I digress, for Shaun Harrad's ability is still relevant. Just not absolutely essential to this argument. What is more worrying, is the lack of replacement.

When we signed Harrad, it seemed much more than just 'another' footballer arriving. It felt like a watershed moment in the Cardoza era. Error might be more apt, yet slowly our Chairman has found his balls, and invested his heart into our Club. It sure took a while, but only fools could lack support for his recent efforts.

You can question his mistakes - there are many - but not his purse strings. They tightened too much, but finally his cherished change came tumbling out, and we at last had something to smile about. Let's be honest here - spending money on crown jewels is the most exciting thing. They might turn out to be turds, but the lottery of life seems so much more thrilling when you're grinning. The only problem with lottery wins is: they do not guarantee long-term happiness.
Our Shaun did turn out to be short-term, after all.

For a moment - for the briefest of moments - we sniffed the smell of success. We spent, at last, and our time was spent daring to dream of a brighter future. On that night that we demolished Crewe - everything felt possible. Anfield memories still drifted on the wind, but now we could back it up with a striker to scare away the doubters. In those sweet moments, in the sweetest moments in the aftermath of destruction - when you destroy them - doubt does not seem possible.
6-2 was impossible, until now.

After such a perfect goal scoring debut, things were bound to go wrong. Sweetness turns bitter eventually; at least here it does. With Sammo down the sh*tter and our season in ruins, Harrad probably wondered why he had bothered. Not to fear, a new manager means a fresh-start.

Or does it?

That's the thing with Gary Johnson - I'm not sure it does. We were swept away on a tide of charm and charisma, we wanted him in after all. We had every right to, with that record. Only, the record seemed a little tarnished lately; here, it seems stuck on repeat.

As much as we can despise the 'Boro, they at least provided us with a warning. Gary Johnson is not the messiah. Perhaps not a 'very naughty boy', but there were definitely wrongdoings and wrong-turnings. We hoped that was just a one-off. We prayed he just disliked them as much as the rest of us. His results were not catastrophic; however, the result of his time in the swamp seems to have dirtied him.

Instead of being washed through and sold as new, thus far he has tried and failed to replace old, tattered laundry with fresher, cleaner sheets. Clean sheets would be a start, after all.

They said 'he has his favourites' - they were right.
They said 'he'll chop and change your defence, and never stop leaking' - they were right.
They said 'his gung-ho formations are a worry' - they were right.
Those blue buggers, they were right - about a lot of things.

Whilst we must assume that some of these things contributed to his impressive past, we should mostly judge on what happens here. Not only - because you only need look into what happened at Ashton Gate, to know he has the capability to turn around a club gasping for air. His start was horrendous there, and many wanted him out. Yet in the end, he got them bouncing.

So far though, it's more flounce than bounce. We briefly were taken in by his words - and Sixfields rocked out. In the end though, fancy words start grating if performances leave not something to be desired - but almost everything.

Likeable can so easily become laughable, if you can't back up your one-liners with one vital ingredient - points. And so far, on the most important count, he has been a bloody miserable failure. Performances have varied, but one variant has stayed the same. The wins column. Desolate.

Many a manager has their favourite. Favourite wine; formation; player; whatever. But Johnson does seem to take this to extremes - and that can be extremely frustrating, if not based solely on ability. There is no doubt that GJ values a 'strong mentality' in his team. He talked in detail over the summer about changing this - insisting that much of our downfall was in our players' minds. He would deliver a backbone; no longer would we see spineless surrender.

Although he spends hours combing over footage and stats, much of this I think is for show; he has already decided who plays next. I could watch the Morecambe DVD a thousand times over - we would still be bloody awful. You could perhaps gain something from watching it back, but much of football is delivered on instinct - and instinctively, you can tell who was good, and who was crap. A clue: they were all crap.

It's more of a challenge thrown out - to improve. It's not like they can deliver an 'exact' situation again - matches never happen exactly the same. I think he's more interested in their response; some respond well to being criticised, others become critical, then finally collapse. Psychology plays a vital role in football nowadays, there can be no doubting that. Wenger has brought huge thought and philosophy over with him - and we are a better football nation as a result.

What worries me is it can become an obsession. You can freeze some shy or rebellious ones out. And not all the most talented are the most-confident or most-thoughtful. Just look at Rooney. He doesn't think much off the pitch; but on it he's Einstein. Johnson spent so long looking into the eyes of his new babies, that he forgot on occasions to look to their feet.
Beyond all, that is what matters on a football field.