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.