Back to the game at hand. Valentine’s. Arsenal Stadium. We’re sat behind the goal, deep amongst the Arsenal supporters, and there is buzz, a hum of voices. The pitch is so green it looks like Astroturf but I’m assured by my mate that it’s real. Very real. Real specialist football grass. One person not far from me begins to chant and then the rest follow. I try to follow the words and soon I’m joining in:
Arsenal till I die,
I'm Arsenal till I die
I know I am,
I'm sure I am,
I'm Arsenal till I die...
The air is heavy with anticipation. It’s like the day we ran to the pub to watch England in one of the World Cup matches. I was new to the Country and was caught up in ‘World Cup Fever’ for the first time. I worked in a tiny office of four and two of us were glued to the radio. Every time there was a yell, a shout, an ooo or aahh, we twitched, leaned closer and ignored our computer screens. There was 15 minutes left till the end of the match. The game was tied or at least felt like it. From across the room our Kiwi boss gave out a huge sigh and said – go to the pub. Grins plastering our faces, we ran down the street at full tilt and crammed our bodies into the overflowing pub on the corner. All eyes were on the match, our bodies moved as one as we jumped up and down, chanting our boys to victory. The floor vibrated so hard that it felt like we’d all go through the floor but we kept jumping anyway. And then it happened. We win. We’re on to the next round and in that moment, we’re all sure this is our year for the cup.
But this game at Arsenal stadium is just another day. Just another match. The team hits the pitch running and the stands explode with horns and chants and songs. Thierry Henry leads the pack. And even as they pull ahead 2, then 3, then 4 goals, we’re at the edge of our seats. ‘Com’on lad. Com’on’ the man shouts out beside me. Behind me a father points out the players on the field, glowing with pride as his eight year old can call them by name and follow the game without whinging for more coke or overpriced chips. And as the game ends 5 to 1, we’re all on our feet, chanting, singing, screaming. We’re all in love with those men in red, our boys, they’ve done it. My face hurts from smiling. I could hug everyone. I’m on the top of the world.
This football drug was astounding. It made sense then why losing could be so hard, why the day I stood outside Chelsea stadium handing out fliers for ringtones, the day they lost the championship finals, why there were those tears in men’s eyes. Why they told me to sod off and I knew I didn’t belong there. The mix of sadness and anger bubbling under the surface made the air heavy. Made me want to join them, down drink after drink until I couldn’t feel anymore or crawl under duvets and wish for sleep to take me over until the next season started and we could begin again.
Maybe people feel the same in Canada about their hockey, the CFL, but I’ve never seen it. Perhaps it’s because you don’t get the hordes of spectators filling the street, transferring their feelings from the pitch into the mob gathering outside. Maybe, as everyone leaves the stadium, if you could look into those Canadian cars going home, you too could find the joy or devastation of the game nestled in the front seat behind the wheel. Radios turned to post game talks and dreams of the next match, the next win.
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