Why support the big teams? All they do is win.

Why is being a football supporter all about supporting the best team? Surely, logically, that defeats the object of really supporting the club.

I stated in an article the other day, that there is a certain beauty to being a football fan when you’re young. 

Before the pressures of adult life take over, your football team dropping points on a Saturday afternoon is as serious as it gets. It’s like your own little magical world. It doesn’t matter if Narnia FC are lounging in the relegation zone and on the brink of administration, those eleven men are your heroes. 

They’ll win every game 10-0, and that’s all there is to it as far as you’re concerned.

Supporting the underdog

For my sins, I was raised as a Spurs fan. This was never overly concerning to my adolescent self, even though they mostly spent their time in mid-table when I began to properly follow football in the mid-noughties. 

I’d wear my Spurs top underneath my school uniform every day. Non-uniform days were even better, I’d be able to proudly show off the lilywhite colours no matter the weather, nor the temperature.

My friendship group at school consisted of lads who supported Man United, Arsenal and Liverpool – the main teams in those days. 

I recall walking out of class one day and jogging to catch up with them, before one of the Liverpool fans told me, with a smirk on his face: “only teams in the top four can walk with us”. 

By now I was accustomed to the banter. It’s just something you had to deal with when you supported a team that never won anything. 

I once did a presentation for my English class on why Spurs were the best team in the world. My argument primarily consisted of referring to the glory days in the 60’s, and dearly hoping nobody picked up on the fact that I barely mentioned the modern day mediocrity. 

Ultimately, to sincerely believe such a statement would be delusional. 

There’s an element of truth to the phrase: “we can beat anyone on our day”, which often refers to a club’s annual defeat of a financially superior team, after pulling off a training ground set-piece to take all three points. 

But unfortunately, for most realists, it would take more than just a Christian Eriksen free-kick against the Catalan giants for Spurs to ever get anything from a side like Barcelona, let alone do it consistently.

It's not about winning

But that’s surely the point of supporting a football team? It’s not about winning, it’s not about trophies, it’s about turning up to every game and making as much noise as possible. Being the twelfth man – to use a classic cliché. 

Granted, it must be nice to support a team like City or Chelsea, who are guaranteed a trophy or two every season. But does that not get a bit dull? There’s nothing to look forward to. It’s the same thing every year. A trip to Wembley, or a Champions League semi-final, is a ‘when’ rather than an ‘if’. 

When you support a club like Spurs, especially in a time like the nineties or noughties, winning is a novelty, and that’s what’s so immensely rewarding about it.

For all the times the defence collapses in the dying minutes and a one goal lead disappears into thin air, there’s a game like Chelsea at home on New Year’s Day. Ultimately, a one-off performance, but there’s nothing quite like watching the team who’ve struggled against lesser sides for the past few months, suddenly tearing apart the best in the league. 

It may be a long wait for the bragging rights against your neighbour, discussing the day’s action over the garden fence, but it’s worth the wait.

The modern day influence of big clubs

I was listening to a podcast a few weeks ago, where they were discussing the influence of the big clubs on the modern world. 

If you walk into any sports shop, regardless of geographical location, you’ll see the same, familiar football shirts on sale. And this method will lead the next generation of football fans to only one conclusion.

It’s almost like we’re being told what team to support.

It’s the same concept with Sky and BT prioritising the big clubs on Saturday lunch times or Sunday afternoon. As recently as three days ago, ‘Super Sunday’ involved a bore draw between Manchester United and Manchester City, and ignored the six goals shared on the south coast – which kicked off at the same time. 

This is the case more often than not.

Enjoying the game

In 2010, Spurs qualified for the Champions League after a Peter Crouch headed winner away at Manchester City. The following season provided the most breath-taking, visually orgasmic football that most Spurs fans had seen in their lifetime. 

That season seemed to breed a higher level of expectation amongst the fan base. 

Despite the inevitable-but-gradual fall from grace following the departures of the silky Luka Modric, the fiery Rafa Van der Vaart and the blistering pace of Welshman Gareth Bale – the final hero to bid farewell to N17, we’ve still been hoping for a return to the big time. 

This hasn’t happened.

Pochettino was essentially brought in to start again. Rebuild the team from scratch with a focus on youth, and implement a new way of playing in order to please the fans and create a new footballing identity for the club. 

So far, so good.

Expectations appear to have lowered somewhat in the last year or so, and many have accepted that Spurs will remain as Spurs, regardless of whether the famous Champions League theme tune is blasting out of the White Hart Lane speakers. 

And quite honestly, I prefer it this way.

I’ve missed being able to simply enjoy the game, rather than worrying about the prospect of only being able to see fourth place via a telescope if points are dropped on Saturday. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love another season in the big time. 

But for now, fuck the trophies, let’s all just grab a beer and enjoy the game – it’s what football is all about.

Dear World...

Dear world…. it’s just a game.

Okay, so the result of various horrifying combinations from the top shelf behind the bar on, what is apparently turning into, an annual trip along Jagerbomb avenue during my weekend in The Shire, isn’t usually a surge of creativity on a Sunday morning. 

Last night we were walking to another pub, and word got around about my footballing loyalties. Within a few seconds I had a Gooner either side of me, singing (or more, yelling) anti spurs songs. I did my best to respond in a witty manner, despite my numerical disadvantage, but on the whole my attitude to the situation was somewhat apathetic. 

It’s just a game. 

Okay, so I’ll admit one or two things:

I have a broken Playstation controller from getting, err, a bit annoyed with Fifa. 

I cried when Gareth Bale was sold to Real Madrid – although, a few weeks later I got over myself and refollowed him on twitter. I’m fortunate enough to know how it feels to achieve something that was once just a dream, and his shirt from the Champions League season resides on my bedroom wall.

I nearly lost my voice when Clint Dempsey equalised in the dying seconds against United in 2013. 

But, it’s at this point I refer to Hal Cruttenden’s stand-up routine on football fans. 

He began by stating his disgust at a Manchester United supporter telling a radio presenter that Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement was like ‘a death in the family’ and states that the radio presenter responded in a sympathetic manner, and not, as Cruttenden would’ve expected, by calling him ‘an emotionally retarded twat’.

Mr. Cruttenden then goes on to talk about how he thinks men go to football to take out the emotions that they struggle to express in other parts of their life. 

“I think what people really want to sing is:

I CAN’T EXPRESS MY FEELINGS, I CAN’T EXPRESS MY FEELINGS

I FEEL LIKE CRYING, FEEL LIKE CRYING, FEEL LIKE CRYING ALL THE TIME!

I’VE CLINICAL DEPRESSION, I NEED A THERAPY SESSION, NANANANANA’

It’s funny because it’s true.

However, in equal measure there is a certain beauty to being a football fan. When you’re young, you’re convinced your football team is the best in the world. It doesn’t matter if they’re lounging in the relegation zone and on the brink of administration, those eleven men are your heroes. As far as you’re concerned, they will win every game 10-0 and that’s all there is to it.

But as you get older, these things are put into perspective. Football grounds are horrible places, and in my *holds breath* 24 years of life, I’ve been to a fair few. 

I openly admit to being ‘a sensitive soul’ but regardless of that, I still don’t take any pleasure when the guy sat in the row in front aims a stream of obscenities at a player because they’ve done something trivial, like misplace one pass.

Despite their horrific wages and flashy haircuts, footballers are human beings. 

I speak as somebody who has lost a string of close relatives in the last few years, and thus had to put the game to one side. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still get that same excitement on match day. I still check the line-ups an hour before kick-off. I still make sure whichever of my football shirts happens to have the – albeit usually only temporary – title of being my ‘lucky shirt’, is washed and ready for match day. 

But it all matters that little bit less now. 

The moment that final whistle is blown, it’s game over and normal life resumes.