(14 July 2021) There is something that resonates deeply when a match is lost (or won) in a penalty shootout. It is the utter finality of it. Even when one’s team make a dreadful error or have a moment of genius, the match usually continues for a while. With a penalty that is it. They remain moments embedded in my memory.
For example, when we got a penalty near the end of the game, against our rival to top the second tier, our penalty taker, a craggy old pro playing at the back, slowly walked the length of the pitch, the stadium silent and certain of a goal. The opponent’s goalkeeper unfurled his white flag. The ball went to its destiny in the upper corner.
On another occasion, in a penalty shootout against a continental team, we needed to score the fifth to stay in the contest. Our diminutive striker approached the spot with all the slow trepidation of a naughty schoolboy trudging towards the headmaster’s study. The goalkeeper lit a cigar and leaned against a post; only moving to onehandedly pick up the ball which dribbled towards the goal- not even worthy of the description “shot”.
I woke up on Monday missed penalties flying past my weary eyes with a kind thought that I hope the players go on to have reasonable careers though never scoring against Chelsea.
I took the picture below on Monday to represent my feelings.
(8th December 2020) Finally I awoke on a Saturday with football anticipation; though joy was tempered with anxiety because the club, quite rightly, made me complete an online questionnaire to ensure I was Covid free. However, I had to print out the confirmation that they had decreed I was safe. Submitted at 11.00- it did not come through until 15.03, thus eventually relieving tension.
The match kicked off at 8.00 pm, not a time I had experienced before; I was setting out in the dark for the first time since lockdown. The journey to the match (healthy backstreet walk, short tube journey) did not feel like a journey to the match; it was more akin to the semi-dystopian post-apocalyptic anxiety dreams we all (or I do anyway) experience from time to time.
The pubs were empty and not inviting to me (I’d had my dinner). No away fans in their northern trousers congregating outside a particular pub. Almost no one on the tube and no indication of any spectators just masked passengers maintaining an even greater distance from me than usual.
At the ground entrance was secure. I produced my printed ticket, printed “from what you said you have not got Covid” email (which somewhat excludes people who are not online and or don’t have a printer) as well as producing my passport to prove I was me (also excluding those who do not have a driving licence or a passport). They scanned these and photographed them (useful for track and trace I guess).
Then my temperature was taken where they detected that I was a vampire with a forehead temperature of 5 degrees Centigrade. They tried a different machine, then a third (which I assume worked).
Next the bag check (I had none) and I had to open my substantial coat- presumably to demonstrate that I was not smuggling in a person of restricted growth.
I was obviously (and sensibly) wearing a mask. My glasses had steamed up giving that authentic London fog experience.
This blurry picture below shows the above.
I was in!
Flashing my ticket at a machine I was let in.
Normally the concourse is full of people; beer, noise and colours. It was sparsely populated with masked and sensibly wrapped up fans; the lack of a buzz of gleeful anticipation was marked, it felt like the survivors of a disaster waiting for rescue.
A palpable lack of excitement
Everywhere the messaging was highly prescriptive.
Instructions to obey
My seat was clearly marked- only green blob seats were in use, the blob next to me was vacant as my bubble was not with me.
A green blob marked my spot
The most disorientating element was my not sitting on my usual side of the pitch as well as being much lower down (and the tv feed on the screen showing the view from the other side). Further my glasses were still steamed up.
But, then The Liquidator” boomed out and we all stood, our gloved hands clapping only slightly off beat in a reggae/industrial mash up.
Once the game started, I dispensed with my glasses as the slight lack of focus was better than fog.
I enjoyed the game- the full drama of them scoring first, clawing one back then getting two more in the second half to make a nice victory. They even played “One Step Beyond” (only played after special games) and I jiggled along with the rest in my non syncopated way.
Did I enjoy it? Yes, though I missed S who sits on my left and the three manly excited hugs when we scored. I also missed J who sits on my right, not just for his calming and sensible influence when I get too tense but also his warm and comforting bulk keeping out draughts.
And what I missed most was the pub afterwards with my football chums.
Taken in warmer weather my beer is brown
Here is the music. (If it works; I have had a few technical problems)
(29 October 2020) I have not been thinking much recently as dank autumn merges with Covid tedium. Then, on Saturday, while taking the dog for a trudge round the rec, I bumped into someone I had not seen for quite a while. He asked me how I was. I happened to glance at my watch and noticed the time. It was exactly when I would have left the pub to go to the match that afternoon. A gust of sadness (or a chill wind) washed over me and I realised how much I miss football.
I know they are playing in empty stadia but I don’t subscribe to sports channels (as I would only want to watch my team) and watching in pubs is never totally satisfactory at the best of times. At the moment to leave the pub having seen my team lose while amongst a crowd of crowing opposing fans is never nice and along with that, I might well have become infected.
Having had a season ticket for over thirty years it is a gap in my life, Or rather two gaps.
First, there is still that childish expectation of waking up on a matchday, anticipating joy and pleasure though tinged with a shadow in the corner that hints that it could all go wrong (a lesson for hope in general), It is that taint of disaster that distinguishes football from other activities,
If I am going to a concert in the evening, I still tingle with anticipation but I know the outcome will, at least, be “good” and hopefully “excellent”- not the case with football.
Whereas at the match the world becomes a simpler place; no ambiguities, grey areas, “listen to the alternative view”. Everything that happens is “good” or “bad” and clearly so; it is quite refreshing.
I also care unreservedly, without fear and with an intensity not often experienced in the rest of life. I can also shout with joy and anguish (in a non-discriminatory or offensive fashion of course) and let my emotions loose.
After the match finishes an emotional bubble remains. After a good or significant victory, a bubble of happiness filters my perception of the world- the fellow fans in the pub seem like demi-gods and for a day or so everything is positively enhanced. I feel warmer towards my fellow humans and tolerate the irritating ones more (I would still not kiss Donald Trump though).
But for every Yang there is a Yin. The inept performance, the biased referee, the dreadful error, the broken shoelace all create a dark and gloomy bubble that lurks in my psyche despite my best attempts to push it away. The bitter tastes bitter, the weather colder, people uglier.
The bubbles do not last and I check my diary for my next fix.
However, as they say at JML, there is more..
The second reason I miss football is the associated chumship.
Over the many years a large informal community of individuals, mainly with monosyllabic names (Bev, Dev, Kev, Mev, Trev), (some names changed to protect individuals) have clustered around the team (and real ale). As well experiencing the joys and pain of supporting the team we have lightly supported each other through births, deaths and diseases (amongst other things).
A day at football is greatly enhanced through walking into a bar ( rubbing your head)) then seeing friendly faces and having a chat.
After the game there is always a requirement for beer, to celebrate or commiserate, in likeminded company.
It is this social aspect that is lost. However, I do not claim to have unique feelings on this.
In the 2018/2019 season the top four tiers, just for league matches, the total attendance was 41.800 million. Ignoring corporates and tourists that is thirty-five million people having pleasurable chumship (or possibly thirty million excluding solipsists).
Add on a nine million watching top level club rugby union, another couple of million for Rugby league, games in Scotland and NI and all those other sports that I assume have regular spectators,we are talking about a lot of people all of whom have an absence of social contact in their lives.
