It’s hard to convey the attraction of sport to those that don’t like it. The simple truth is, there is nothing that can adequately be compared to it. There are plenty of things in life that can make our feelings change, brighten our spirits, or give us the blues, but the fact is, most things in life we can control to a degree. So if your relationship is giving you mixed emotions and you can’t deal with it anymore, then end it. If your job is giving you aggravation that you just can’t stand, well, there are always roads that need sweeping.
The problem with sport however, is that you have no control whatsoever. You didn’t kick the ball which went in off the post, you didn’t summon up the strength to knock someone out in the last round, or to launch a last minute drop-goal perfectly between the posts. Alternatively, you didn’t miss a sitter, double fault or slip on your arse during a gymnastics routine. It’s not you taking part, but your emotions are still invested in it. Your heart and soul is twisted and turned by the acts of complete strangers. Your happiness is in their hands and feet - there is no control, and never a moment of solitude.
So when you get to a play-off second leg, hysteria takes hold, as 22 men who you have never met, and would probably only mumble a faint hello to if you saw them in the street (and then immediately tweet that you saw them) step onto some grass to kick a ball around. That’s all it is really - it’s a bunch of lads who you probably have nothing in common with unless you really love Call Of Duty and Nandos, kicking a ball around a field - only this field is being watched by thousands of people.
Now, I know all this. I understand it. But as much as I try, I always forget this. It’s not just some boys who were really good at P.E booting the ball around, these people (well, 11 of them) are representing me and everything I stand for. When Freddy Eastwood had a goal disallowed, I felt his pain like it was my very own. And in a way, it was. When we conceded a goal in the 86th minute, only to storm back and score in the 88th, I felt I was one of the players, feeding off the fans, the frenzy of noise and colour sending them into the trenches once more, onwards to victory.
But the victory never came, and the score remained the same. The expectancy of Wembley was reduced to a quiet hum of resignation. The requests of no pitch invasions were not necessary, as thousands of shrimpers mentally prepared themselves for another trudge around the footballing backwaters. Football can be amusing when places like Portsmouth and Coventry are golden jewels, and delightful places like Devon are seen with shudders, but that’s how it goes. Amidst the wasteland of discarded pie-crusts, half drunk bottles of cola and tattered programmes, one old boy was trying to remember who had gone down from League One, and who we would be facing next season now promotion was nothing but a husk of a dream.
”Wycombe and Rochdale I know, but who is the other?” he said.
My eyes turned to his, and I opened my mouth. “Exeter”, I replied. “All this for Exeter.”
All the expectation, all the worrying, the sadness, then the happiness. Every conceivable emotion. If the goal hadn’t been disallowed, if the woodwork hadn’t been struck twice. So many what ifs, and there was nothing I could have done about it.
Nothing lasts in this sport. Players, chairman’s, managers and stadiums come and go. The only true representation of a football club is inside your heart, and you can be sure, no matter how many times you’ve been let down and hurt, taunted and teased, you’ll be ready to fight again when it all kicks off again.
Maybe football is a bit like love after-all, only far, far more painful.
