Passing on the addiction

It all starts on a red hot day in August and
ends on a warm one in early May.
Perfect symmetry, you might say

But the inbetween will be cold and wet and
the wind is awfully grim in the north west
on an early December afternoon.

Be it Burnley or Blackpool; Blackburn or Bolton.
Down the leagues the weather seems even less merry
at Morecambe and Bury

and Accrington Stanley. “Who are they?”
asks the little boy with milk round his mouth.
He wears his red shirt with passion and it

has a name and number on the back.
It’s his hero, like.
Dreams of the winning strike

clutter his mind all week.
Oh, that glorious moment
in glorious, vivid technicolour

when the white leather ball
hits the back of the net, and you forget
that you’re absolutely soaking wet.

Cos this is what we’ve been waiting for.
This is what it’s all about.
There’s no escape

for the poor flapping goalie who's covered in mud.
The goal’s come at a great cost;
one nil down and clean sheet bonus lost.

The kitman can’t bear to look for
they’re caked up in sludge.
Like layers of chocolate

all thick and rich;
a hedonist’s dream.
But there’s no pleasure for this beaten team

who collect their thoughts
as they walk, heads down,
back to the halfway line.

There’s barely time to kick off;
As that ruddy goal against came right at the death.
The fourth minute of stoppage time, no less.


Oh, the heartbreak.
It all feels so empty now.
A vacuum of hurt in space hope once filled.

Oi, come on ref,
You’ve got it so wrong
You said just three minutes but kept going on

Come on lino, it was offside!
Stop the game, for we need that
vital point away from home

that we were clinging to
for our cause.
The flag never comes, of course.

So we head towards the
exit and back to the car.
It’s dark

and our hats, gloves and scarves
no longer shield us from the cold.
We can’t be consoled

for a little while at least.
But it will pass and we’ll
be back in the real world again.

At the minute, though, we
are left feeling low.
There’s nothing to show

for our efforts and the M6 won’t move
for an hour or two
at least.

We’re in a mood and
we speak only when spoken to.
It’s just me and you

and we put the world to rights.
We ignore our phones
and we’d kick the cat when we get back

but she knows the score and
is nowhere to be seen.
We’re left to wonder what might have been.

Football, you see,
is our religion and a
microcosm of life to boot.

You can’t appreciate the highs
without the lows.
It’s just the way it goes.

We go through the agony and despair
because it makes the ecstasy better.
We always believe.

Cos at the end of the day,
when all said and done
Whether the battle has been lost or won

it’s the belief that keeps us going
along with the knowledge that we only go through it
because it means something to us both.

We realise it doesn’t really matter
whether our team win or lose;
If we’re top of the world or singing the blues

As it’s just a scramble for points
in league tables that get
lost on the shelf of life.

So we should treat both impostors
just the same.
It is only a game,

as our friends will say.
And they’re right,
whether we care to admit it or not.

So if you don’t gloat
when you are winning
and laugh away that dreadful loss

And start again at your beginnings
And never speak another word
of that dross

If you can go through it all again
this time next week,
more Saturday fun

then yours is the game and everything that goes with it
And what is more...
You’ll be a fan, my son.

© D Nice July 2010

As a now 25-year-old fan who follows Doncaster Rovers with dad, this poem is inspired by him, and the reasons we go to watch our beloved team!