Gautam_bhatia
Active Member
Let me muse for a while on this strange phenomenon called football, and the power - at times funny, at times frightening - it holds over some of us.
Aston Villa v. Arsenal. The season is over, there is nothing to play for, the league is out of reach, the games are mere formalities until the end of the season, and I have the small matter of college the next day. And yet I stay up till three thirty at night, to watch the team travel to Villa Park, and eke out a drab, dull 1-0 win courtesy of a deflected Diaby goal. You may think that the inconsequential nature of the game, and the lateness of the hour, would be a deterrent. You may think that three crushing cup defeats in the space of eleven days might put one off football (especially Arsenal) for a while. Yet the thought of missing the game never even came to my mind.
This is the hold that football, and supporting a team, has over some of us. I was talking to Sahil a few days ago in the immediate aftermath of Real Madrid's European exit, and we both agreed that football had caused us much pain over the last five years. Where we differed, however, was that on the balance I yielded towards the benefit side, while he was emphatically with the cost. To be fair to him, however, Real have won nothing since 2003, whereas I at least have the memories of an unbeaten season, an FA Cup win and a glorious Champions' League run to fall back upon.
It's the same thing every time, and has been since 2002-03 when we threw away an eight point lead in March, and I first knew heartbreak as an Arsenal fan. There is a shocker of a result (Bolton away in 2003, Chelsea at home in 2004, Man United at Villa Park in the same year, Man United away in the same year, Barcelona in Paris, PSV at home this year...), the mind-numbing despair which follows, the horrible night tossing and turning in bed, thinking of what might have been, replaying images in one's head (it's especially bad if it has been a European night, and one gets to bed at 4)... and then next week the wheel has come full circle, because one his back watching them in a meaningless league game against Watford, and going delirious when Henry scores a penalty.
In a way, Nick Hornby captures it all in Fever Pitch. That is a book which can be understood only by the football fan, and only a certain kind of football fan at that. There is an incident when Hornby, couldn't bearing to watch a game, locked himself in his room and turned on the stereo, knowing that the match would end at approximately the same time the song would. I confess that I have done the same. I couldn't watch the Arsenal-Chelsea game at Highbury back in December 2004. I locked myself into my room, and listened to Nirvana at full volume until I was sure the match would over. Hornby says that finals are the worst of all. I agree. If the FA Cup Final agaisnt Man Utd - which was decided on penalties - was torture every minute from beginning to end, the Champions' League final against Barcelona was sheer agony.
There is no logic to picking a team, falling in love with a team. A week after taking him to Highbury, Hornby's dad took him to White Hart Lane - Sp**s were one of the best and most attractive teams in England at the time, and they won that particular game 5-0. To Hornby, however, it was irrelevant, as he had already fallen in love with the team that he had seen win their home game courtesy of a rebound off a saved penalty. It was roughly the same for me back in early 2002. I can't pinpoint the exact time when I became an Arsenal fan, but I remember watching a dire, dire game against Sp**s, decided by a late penalty taken by Lauren. It was a horrible penalty - slow, grounded, along the centre. Yet it somehow found its way in. I remember seeing Lauren and Henry rush to the stands and embrace a couple of supporters. I remember seeing Arsène Wenger rise from his seat, both fists clenched, his face working. And I knew at that moment that I was an Arsenal fan for life. The bond between a club and a fan is something which can't be expressed in words - all I can say is that it runs deep, very deep... and it is irrevocable. One week my journey was complete as I stayed up till four in the morning to watch the delayed telecast of a game against Ipswich, settled by two goals from Freddie Ljungberg (or was that before? I've forgotten). I remember punching the air when the second one went in (it had been a tense game, scoreless for a long time), my mouth open in a soundless scream. There has been pain and heartbreak along the way, but there have been moments like that. And I won't be willing to swap the memories of those moments - or the anticipation of future ones - for anything else. And sometime around all that, "Arsenal" became "We."
There is a very touching part of Hornby's book, when he describes the players lining up for the Anfield game in 1989, the greatest one in our history. He says something to the effect of how well he knew each of those players, their faces, their quirks, their mannerisms, watching them day in and day out. I can't help feeling how true that is. It was Adams, Smith, Thomas back then... now it's Toure, Henry, Cesc, but the sense of association remains. Our club. Our players. How well I can imagine them lining up right now... Toure, who can never keep that broaf smile off his face... Cesc, always up for the battle... Mad Jens, grim, angry... Rosicky with his slight, boyish grin, Senderos looking so tragically earnest, Henry moody and aloof... and so on.
This then, I suppose, is what being a fan is all about. To forge this deep, irrevocable bond with the club; a bond so deep that you cry tears of frustration and despair when nights like PSV come along, or leap all over the drawing room, smashing into tables and falling over chairs when Henry scores in the 94th minute against the Mancs. A bond that sees you with the club through thick and thin, through the barren years as well as the glorious ones. A bond so close that it permeates into the rest of your life. There have been times when I've been down and out, when the thought of the weekend game has come to the rescue; and for two hours you can just sit back, watch, and forget about life and the outside world, the world that is so often cruel, capricious, fickle and treacherous. Come on, Cesc! Pass the freakin' ball, Bert! SHOOT, damn you! There may be no other constants in life, friends come and go, people are never what they seem, but Arsenal is there, the weekend game is there, those two hours of pure, unadulterated bliss are there.
It's been a tumultous ride. But looking back on five and a half years of supporting Arsenal, all I can say is...
For what it's worth, it's been worth all the while.
Aston Villa v. Arsenal. The season is over, there is nothing to play for, the league is out of reach, the games are mere formalities until the end of the season, and I have the small matter of college the next day. And yet I stay up till three thirty at night, to watch the team travel to Villa Park, and eke out a drab, dull 1-0 win courtesy of a deflected Diaby goal. You may think that the inconsequential nature of the game, and the lateness of the hour, would be a deterrent. You may think that three crushing cup defeats in the space of eleven days might put one off football (especially Arsenal) for a while. Yet the thought of missing the game never even came to my mind.
This is the hold that football, and supporting a team, has over some of us. I was talking to Sahil a few days ago in the immediate aftermath of Real Madrid's European exit, and we both agreed that football had caused us much pain over the last five years. Where we differed, however, was that on the balance I yielded towards the benefit side, while he was emphatically with the cost. To be fair to him, however, Real have won nothing since 2003, whereas I at least have the memories of an unbeaten season, an FA Cup win and a glorious Champions' League run to fall back upon.
It's the same thing every time, and has been since 2002-03 when we threw away an eight point lead in March, and I first knew heartbreak as an Arsenal fan. There is a shocker of a result (Bolton away in 2003, Chelsea at home in 2004, Man United at Villa Park in the same year, Man United away in the same year, Barcelona in Paris, PSV at home this year...), the mind-numbing despair which follows, the horrible night tossing and turning in bed, thinking of what might have been, replaying images in one's head (it's especially bad if it has been a European night, and one gets to bed at 4)... and then next week the wheel has come full circle, because one his back watching them in a meaningless league game against Watford, and going delirious when Henry scores a penalty.
In a way, Nick Hornby captures it all in Fever Pitch. That is a book which can be understood only by the football fan, and only a certain kind of football fan at that. There is an incident when Hornby, couldn't bearing to watch a game, locked himself in his room and turned on the stereo, knowing that the match would end at approximately the same time the song would. I confess that I have done the same. I couldn't watch the Arsenal-Chelsea game at Highbury back in December 2004. I locked myself into my room, and listened to Nirvana at full volume until I was sure the match would over. Hornby says that finals are the worst of all. I agree. If the FA Cup Final agaisnt Man Utd - which was decided on penalties - was torture every minute from beginning to end, the Champions' League final against Barcelona was sheer agony.
There is no logic to picking a team, falling in love with a team. A week after taking him to Highbury, Hornby's dad took him to White Hart Lane - Sp**s were one of the best and most attractive teams in England at the time, and they won that particular game 5-0. To Hornby, however, it was irrelevant, as he had already fallen in love with the team that he had seen win their home game courtesy of a rebound off a saved penalty. It was roughly the same for me back in early 2002. I can't pinpoint the exact time when I became an Arsenal fan, but I remember watching a dire, dire game against Sp**s, decided by a late penalty taken by Lauren. It was a horrible penalty - slow, grounded, along the centre. Yet it somehow found its way in. I remember seeing Lauren and Henry rush to the stands and embrace a couple of supporters. I remember seeing Arsène Wenger rise from his seat, both fists clenched, his face working. And I knew at that moment that I was an Arsenal fan for life. The bond between a club and a fan is something which can't be expressed in words - all I can say is that it runs deep, very deep... and it is irrevocable. One week my journey was complete as I stayed up till four in the morning to watch the delayed telecast of a game against Ipswich, settled by two goals from Freddie Ljungberg (or was that before? I've forgotten). I remember punching the air when the second one went in (it had been a tense game, scoreless for a long time), my mouth open in a soundless scream. There has been pain and heartbreak along the way, but there have been moments like that. And I won't be willing to swap the memories of those moments - or the anticipation of future ones - for anything else. And sometime around all that, "Arsenal" became "We."
There is a very touching part of Hornby's book, when he describes the players lining up for the Anfield game in 1989, the greatest one in our history. He says something to the effect of how well he knew each of those players, their faces, their quirks, their mannerisms, watching them day in and day out. I can't help feeling how true that is. It was Adams, Smith, Thomas back then... now it's Toure, Henry, Cesc, but the sense of association remains. Our club. Our players. How well I can imagine them lining up right now... Toure, who can never keep that broaf smile off his face... Cesc, always up for the battle... Mad Jens, grim, angry... Rosicky with his slight, boyish grin, Senderos looking so tragically earnest, Henry moody and aloof... and so on.
This then, I suppose, is what being a fan is all about. To forge this deep, irrevocable bond with the club; a bond so deep that you cry tears of frustration and despair when nights like PSV come along, or leap all over the drawing room, smashing into tables and falling over chairs when Henry scores in the 94th minute against the Mancs. A bond that sees you with the club through thick and thin, through the barren years as well as the glorious ones. A bond so close that it permeates into the rest of your life. There have been times when I've been down and out, when the thought of the weekend game has come to the rescue; and for two hours you can just sit back, watch, and forget about life and the outside world, the world that is so often cruel, capricious, fickle and treacherous. Come on, Cesc! Pass the freakin' ball, Bert! SHOOT, damn you! There may be no other constants in life, friends come and go, people are never what they seem, but Arsenal is there, the weekend game is there, those two hours of pure, unadulterated bliss are there.
It's been a tumultous ride. But looking back on five and a half years of supporting Arsenal, all I can say is...
For what it's worth, it's been worth all the while.
unk 
