It's always a dagger to the heart. Stab, stab, stab. Always.
Well anyway, it used to be.
Once upon a time, we lived in fear. A dreadful, collective fear. The fear of conceding; The fear of losing; The fear of relegation. The fear of utter, utter hopelessness. If I wrote a small book - one of those sh*tty, patronising 'how to' books you usually find forced upon you at Christmas - then fear would be written into every page. How to be a fan - you must, must fear it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying supporting a football club is comparable to living under Mugabe - just that it's the instability of emotional anxiety that make it such a thrill for the senses.
When you meet people who aren't into sport - they almost unanimously seem to put it down to the visual element. I don't understand it, I don't 'get' it - were the rules made up by some mad, confused wizard? It's boring, it's all stop and start. It's vile, look at the way the fans all throw bricks at each other. How can you find THAT fun? I've had more fun doing crosswords on my wall of drying paint (It's usually a toss up as to whether they're being serious at this point..).
Okay, okay. I don't wish to be too condescending to people who choose to fill their lives with other passions. I know a few myself - everyone does - and they are not bad people, merely unenlightened. Well, it's my chance to enlighten them. Sure, it bloody well helps if you love it, if you know people who play it, if you understand it; visual stimulation is all part of the game. But what those people often fail to understand - is sport is just life in short, intense dosages - with the added bonus of not having to watch your girlfriend cry. I'm kidding, the whole point is that it IS about watching 5000 girlfriends cry - and most of them are your average, stubborn man.
Yes, there is undeniable enjoyment in seeing a cracker by Crackers, cracking it into the top corner from 80 yards. (Have you noticed that, whenever we try and recall a famous goal with hazy memory, we always add a yard or two on each year.. 'Oh do you remember that wonder goal, straight from the goal kick wasn't it?!) Yes, I can sit here and discuss tactics 'til I'm blue in the face - except I'd never, ever dream of turning blue in the face. Hopefully, if I'm ever strangled to death, my body will fulfill my 'last request' - to turn a little claret instead.
Yes, I love all the things that make sport so great - but most of all it's the emotion that matters. When I recount the most emotional moments of my life, those searing, tingling moments of pure bliss or pure bollocks, many of them have come in a sporting arena. Not just any sporting arena - my sporting arena, my second home. Whilst some people may question why I compare a third-tier football match against Bristol Rovers with the birth of my first child**, I'll answer back with this; If you don't understand why, you don't understand sport. I cannot explain what runs inside us, what makes our heart beat a thousand times a minute when on a Saturday, we get that first glimpse of the stadium. What makes the agony of seeing my second home destroyed by greed, what makes facing the prospect of administration and no club ruin not just my week, but my whole life.
**Purely hypothetical at this point
I cannot really explain any of this rationally, to some people it still seems utterly baffling. The only explanation I can really give - is emotion is what drives us on as human beings, is what makes us do great things, what makes a life worth living. And sport, at it's very heart, has a huge, huge emotional pull.
And that's why supporting the Cobblers feels so entirely pointless so often at the moment. There is no fear. When the opposition get near our goal, there is only one single emotion. Inevitability - it's not even an emotion.
Why we just don't care any more - look out for an accompanying piece to come soon!
Thursday 27 October 2011
Thursday 13 October 2011
Part-timer.
Now now - don't you ever go accusing me of being an armchair fan.
I'll have you know, I'd long since finished my prawn sandwiches, necked a bottle of sparkling mineral water, brushed up on my League Two knowledge - all before I got my lazy backside off my thousand-quid recliner. No, No. I'm not your average armchair fan. I am passionate. I even booked a table at the pub, just to make sure I'd get the perfectly prime location - the 360 puborama, as us football fanatics like to call it. On one side you have the crisp, clean viewing lines of the 5000-inch HDextra 3DD monster, but crane your neck around, and the bar is still in sight; relief for when the football is just too sh*t.
It took me thirty seconds to become a dedicated follower of alcohol whilst watching the Cobblers.
Alas, this is no AA meeting. If I wanted to admit my sins - my claret confession would probably be the most shameful. IF I ever find myself at the pearly gates (and it's a bloody big if I tell you) and God is really probing me, I reckon I'd declare myself a Manchester United fan. At a push, you understand.
I did once see them on TV. Not once, but twice. I think that over qualifies me. Gates, open!
Unfortunately, this television has switched alliances as well as channels. Is something faulty with it? I look around the pub. The clientele look bemused. You have to call them clientele now. Not boozers - or losers. As the clientele splash their cash, I try not to look unemployed. I slip my scarf off in secret. It doesn't seem to be the done thing in here. I sacrifice food so I can be a part of it. This crowd looks much more respectable than the Sixfields mob - I find myself thinking, guiltily.
"One G and T please. And makes it a er... a fancy one."
I've never ordered gin and tonic before. I don't know what having it fancy means.
"Excuse me there fellow." The bartender looks confused. I wonder if I did something wrong.
"Isn't that.... ? That ground on TV. I think I drove past there once. That wee place looks familiar."
I look up at him, about to respond. How could he not know his home ground, for Christ's sake. 'I go there every week you p***k. It's my wee home.' That's what I say to him, in my head, anger bursting out of me. The reality is quite different.
"Oh I er...hm. Yes, it does look familiar doesn't it? Isn't that somewhere local?"
I vow not to get involved with such stupid people. Life is too short. I take a sip of my drink. I don't like the taste, but it tastes expensive so I take another sip. To my right, another conversation. Well... whispered murmurings. Rumour is spread.
"Hey isn't that...? Oh my God. Look. It is!" A mate prods his mate, and he in turn nearly falls over laughing. "You're right! The Cobblers are on the box. Haha. Isn't there any other football on today then?" A third joins in. "Shouldn't it be darker than this if they played last night? What do you mean it's not highlights...."
I shake my head. How dare they be so condescending, about MY team. At least I go to the games. At least... my eye catches the monster screen. Oh crap. I've missed the first five minutes. I was too busy ordering. Did anything happen? Of course it didn't. Relief - nil-nil. It's just like being there.
"But Mummy.." Woah, this is noisier than the usual match day experience. A little boy stomps his feet. "You said Arsenal were playing today. Mummy.. can't I go home and play FIFA Mummy. I'm one match from the treble." She gives him some spiel about how it's polite to watch your local team when the underdogs have got a big match on against a much bigger team...
WHAT THE..?! Doesn't she know we're playing Crawley. Okay, so they're richer, have better players, and won't be in our division next year... but bigger than us? I almost correct her, but I'll feel an even smugger sense of satisfaction once I rip off my cardy and reveal my strip of pride underneath. I bet Superman has never had such a feeling, I bet he's never made a whole pub look ridiculous.
'1-0, to Northampton Town.' I know all the songs, I'll show them.
It's still zero-zero at the moment though. To be honest, we're not really playing that well. Neither are they. We're twenty minutes in, and the only shots to be had are those from the bar. Talking of which, this match is frustrating me. I could really use another. Me and the barman reconvene.
"The usual please" I state with all the confidence of a regular.
He is distracted again. "They've scored! Look they've actually scored! Go Cabblers!"
Cobblers. It's Cobblers you moron. I turn back to the screen, annoyed to have missed the goal. A slight feeling of excitement, though. It's quickly dashed. We're one-nil down. He's still in earshot.
"C'mon you red and whites!" Sigh. He's really starting to grate now. He knows nothing about us. Next he'll refer to it as a 'soccer game' - I give up, and move away.
A few drinks and several mind-numbing minutes later, I head for the loo. Perhaps, if I stay here for long enough, we'll have completed our fabulous comeback and I can shut these fools up. In a way - it's nice. If I was at Sixfields needing the toilet, that woman on my row who always looks like she's attending her child's funeral would grunt at me again. Plus - there's no flash-flood of piss, and there's even soap in the soap dispensers. Actual soap. My God.
Returning from such a clean paradise - I notice that the only grub to be seen is food. Tons of the stuff. It's halfway through the second-half. No-one seems to be watching anymore. Our ninety minutes in the limelight became 45 at most; they've all given up, and turned sides to the other set of screens.
"C'moonnn youuuu Saiinnnts."
As a side-issue - they won't come here again because we've bored them all to death. Not just them, but a whole nation. Creepy Crawley have tried their best too - but whilst the picture appears to be 22 players chasing a non-existent ball all over the field - by the time the thing does finally return to earth, Crawley have had time to hire a luxury limousine down to London, hop into Harrods and come out with a 5th choice keeper made of solid gold. Ah, there's nothing like the romance of a League Two side buying their way out of the division to keep the viewers interested. Move over, Ronnie Radford. Let's be honest, that was the only reason the cameras were here in the first place. They aint called The Red Devils for nothing.
I close my eyes and imagine I'm really there. I pray for a goal, a miracle, an abandonment. Anything. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and my palms are not pressed together, merely grasping a half-empty glass of something. I couldn't remember the name of the something if I tried. I drink-up, resigned to alcoholism, just as the man in black resigns a home crowd to misery. No-one else notices. No-one else cares, they're all having fun and drinking in a victory for the Saints. The irony is, I thought I'd feel shame. I thought I'd feel remorse. What I actually feel - is glad. Glad to be warm, glad to not have that awful, patronising, happy post-match Sickfields music ringing in my ears, and glad to have saved myself enough money to drown my sorrows. In the end - though perhaps I missed the company - it wasn't that different. It wasn't that bad. Slightly less depressing, maybe.
I forget quickly, and count up my pennies to scrape enough change for a final drink. Oh - I forgot I had that tenner. The barman is there again. This time it's a warm greeting. He pushes something bitter toward me - but for once it's not the abusive tones of the West-stand folk around me.
"On the house son." It tastes alot sweeter now. I might come back here.
"Thanks mate. So did you enjoy the football? Will we be seeing you up the Cobblers any time soon?"
Suddenly the answer reverberates in my ears, as I realise a whole clientele have the same two words on their lips.
"The who?"
I'll have you know, I'd long since finished my prawn sandwiches, necked a bottle of sparkling mineral water, brushed up on my League Two knowledge - all before I got my lazy backside off my thousand-quid recliner. No, No. I'm not your average armchair fan. I am passionate. I even booked a table at the pub, just to make sure I'd get the perfectly prime location - the 360 puborama, as us football fanatics like to call it. On one side you have the crisp, clean viewing lines of the 5000-inch HDextra 3DD monster, but crane your neck around, and the bar is still in sight; relief for when the football is just too sh*t.
It took me thirty seconds to become a dedicated follower of alcohol whilst watching the Cobblers.
Alas, this is no AA meeting. If I wanted to admit my sins - my claret confession would probably be the most shameful. IF I ever find myself at the pearly gates (and it's a bloody big if I tell you) and God is really probing me, I reckon I'd declare myself a Manchester United fan. At a push, you understand.
I did once see them on TV. Not once, but twice. I think that over qualifies me. Gates, open!
Unfortunately, this television has switched alliances as well as channels. Is something faulty with it? I look around the pub. The clientele look bemused. You have to call them clientele now. Not boozers - or losers. As the clientele splash their cash, I try not to look unemployed. I slip my scarf off in secret. It doesn't seem to be the done thing in here. I sacrifice food so I can be a part of it. This crowd looks much more respectable than the Sixfields mob - I find myself thinking, guiltily.
"One G and T please. And makes it a er... a fancy one."
I've never ordered gin and tonic before. I don't know what having it fancy means.
"Excuse me there fellow." The bartender looks confused. I wonder if I did something wrong.
"Isn't that.... ? That ground on TV. I think I drove past there once. That wee place looks familiar."
I look up at him, about to respond. How could he not know his home ground, for Christ's sake. 'I go there every week you p***k. It's my wee home.' That's what I say to him, in my head, anger bursting out of me. The reality is quite different.
"Oh I er...hm. Yes, it does look familiar doesn't it? Isn't that somewhere local?"
I vow not to get involved with such stupid people. Life is too short. I take a sip of my drink. I don't like the taste, but it tastes expensive so I take another sip. To my right, another conversation. Well... whispered murmurings. Rumour is spread.
"Hey isn't that...? Oh my God. Look. It is!" A mate prods his mate, and he in turn nearly falls over laughing. "You're right! The Cobblers are on the box. Haha. Isn't there any other football on today then?" A third joins in. "Shouldn't it be darker than this if they played last night? What do you mean it's not highlights...."
I shake my head. How dare they be so condescending, about MY team. At least I go to the games. At least... my eye catches the monster screen. Oh crap. I've missed the first five minutes. I was too busy ordering. Did anything happen? Of course it didn't. Relief - nil-nil. It's just like being there.
"But Mummy.." Woah, this is noisier than the usual match day experience. A little boy stomps his feet. "You said Arsenal were playing today. Mummy.. can't I go home and play FIFA Mummy. I'm one match from the treble." She gives him some spiel about how it's polite to watch your local team when the underdogs have got a big match on against a much bigger team...
WHAT THE..?! Doesn't she know we're playing Crawley. Okay, so they're richer, have better players, and won't be in our division next year... but bigger than us? I almost correct her, but I'll feel an even smugger sense of satisfaction once I rip off my cardy and reveal my strip of pride underneath. I bet Superman has never had such a feeling, I bet he's never made a whole pub look ridiculous.
'1-0, to Northampton Town.' I know all the songs, I'll show them.
It's still zero-zero at the moment though. To be honest, we're not really playing that well. Neither are they. We're twenty minutes in, and the only shots to be had are those from the bar. Talking of which, this match is frustrating me. I could really use another. Me and the barman reconvene.
"The usual please" I state with all the confidence of a regular.
He is distracted again. "They've scored! Look they've actually scored! Go Cabblers!"
Cobblers. It's Cobblers you moron. I turn back to the screen, annoyed to have missed the goal. A slight feeling of excitement, though. It's quickly dashed. We're one-nil down. He's still in earshot.
"C'mon you red and whites!" Sigh. He's really starting to grate now. He knows nothing about us. Next he'll refer to it as a 'soccer game' - I give up, and move away.
A few drinks and several mind-numbing minutes later, I head for the loo. Perhaps, if I stay here for long enough, we'll have completed our fabulous comeback and I can shut these fools up. In a way - it's nice. If I was at Sixfields needing the toilet, that woman on my row who always looks like she's attending her child's funeral would grunt at me again. Plus - there's no flash-flood of piss, and there's even soap in the soap dispensers. Actual soap. My God.
Returning from such a clean paradise - I notice that the only grub to be seen is food. Tons of the stuff. It's halfway through the second-half. No-one seems to be watching anymore. Our ninety minutes in the limelight became 45 at most; they've all given up, and turned sides to the other set of screens.
"C'moonnn youuuu Saiinnnts."
They seem to know their songs. Well, they do only have two songs. The Saints have come marching out, and already they lead comfortably. Northampton is now not just on the map; it's the centre of the sporting Universe. Unfortunately, one side of the galaxy is looking decidedly dreary. Surprise, surprise. It's our side. We're falling off the map again - our one chance to shine and they all love rugby now.
Cheers fill the pub. I glance around. Bloody hell, now I'm not the biggest fan of rugby by any means, but I have to admit that was a damn fine try. A small smile creeps over my lips. It's good to see the Saints winning. It's good for the Town. The Town.. the..... Ah yes, the Town.
We're still playing, I just remembered. Even the 5000 inches aren't wide enough to fit Bayo in the picture, and yet we choose to bring on Savage too? Sky vow not to come here again, not until they've invented super-widescreen.
As a side-issue - they won't come here again because we've bored them all to death. Not just them, but a whole nation. Creepy Crawley have tried their best too - but whilst the picture appears to be 22 players chasing a non-existent ball all over the field - by the time the thing does finally return to earth, Crawley have had time to hire a luxury limousine down to London, hop into Harrods and come out with a 5th choice keeper made of solid gold. Ah, there's nothing like the romance of a League Two side buying their way out of the division to keep the viewers interested. Move over, Ronnie Radford. Let's be honest, that was the only reason the cameras were here in the first place. They aint called The Red Devils for nothing.
I close my eyes and imagine I'm really there. I pray for a goal, a miracle, an abandonment. Anything. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and my palms are not pressed together, merely grasping a half-empty glass of something. I couldn't remember the name of the something if I tried. I drink-up, resigned to alcoholism, just as the man in black resigns a home crowd to misery. No-one else notices. No-one else cares, they're all having fun and drinking in a victory for the Saints. The irony is, I thought I'd feel shame. I thought I'd feel remorse. What I actually feel - is glad. Glad to be warm, glad to not have that awful, patronising, happy post-match Sickfields music ringing in my ears, and glad to have saved myself enough money to drown my sorrows. In the end - though perhaps I missed the company - it wasn't that different. It wasn't that bad. Slightly less depressing, maybe.
I forget quickly, and count up my pennies to scrape enough change for a final drink. Oh - I forgot I had that tenner. The barman is there again. This time it's a warm greeting. He pushes something bitter toward me - but for once it's not the abusive tones of the West-stand folk around me.
"On the house son." It tastes alot sweeter now. I might come back here.
"Thanks mate. So did you enjoy the football? Will we be seeing you up the Cobblers any time soon?"
Suddenly the answer reverberates in my ears, as I realise a whole clientele have the same two words on their lips.
"The who?"
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