Yes. I know this was supposed to be my Writer’s Island post but that will be tomorrow. I promise.
Right now I have to write about something else. The way I am feeling and memories and pain and joy and the whole human condition.
It’s a good good month for sports for me. Kirkham and Wesham winning was joy and sunburn and loveliness. They are, yes, my home team and very good they are too. But my heart will always belong to Manchester United. And tonight they reached the Promised Land. Again.
This post will be a bit rambly but I’m having a happy right now so please bear with me.
Penalties at the end of match are a rubbish way to end a match and truly fantastic in a heart stopping ‘oh my unholy God please get in the back of net yeah!’ way (or invariably ‘you complete moron what the hell did you put in the bottom left for - everybody knows you always put it there wanker’ way). It is a certainty of international football (please just accept it is football and not soccer) that if England have a penalty shootout in a big match they may as well not bother. We always lose. Tonight, in the Champion’s League Final in Moscow the rain saved us when John Terry slipped and missed. I really did feel for him at that point but also had joy as it gave us another chance.
I haven’t talked much (if at all) about being a Manchester United supporter on the blog for three very good piss poor reasons:
- Most of the time I forget
- I find it boring to drivel on about the team when they… just don’t excite me anymore.
- I am a bad fan
The last time they really excited me was just after the horrible breaking of heart and the last time they won the Champion’s League - 26th May 1999.
We had followed the matches through the whole season - spending time in the pub knocking back many pints and getting horribly excited. The drama was high anyway but as the Treble became a possibility every single match became a reason to feel joy… and the potential for even more joy later. Everything gets tied up in football results for me. That night meant so much to me emotionally. As well as the most I’ve ever screamed at a television (I watched the final in my house for fear of going out and seeing him) on my own (everyone else went out) in the dark (the lights were dodgy and I couldn’t be bothered - it fitted my mood). I had one eye on the teevee for the first half - part of me hoping he would come round… part of me praying that I would win too.
By the time the second half rolled round I didn’t care anymore. We were losing 1-0 and that was it. At 85 minutes I came so very very close to switching off the box and going to duvet land.
I’m so very very glad I didn’t.
For those of you who didn’t see it. This is what happened next.
This was the moment. The moment when I believed in miracles for a moment, when my broken heart mended for a moment. As Sir Alex said afterwards, "Football. Bloody hell."
It didn’t fix my life, but it even now makes me feel it.
Tonight, at a time in my life when there is no drama, the match doesn’t mean as much to me but I want to and feel as if I can start to believe in miracles again.
So, congratulations Manchester United (I have to say well done to Chelsea too - my heart did break for John Terry) - you made me smile again… and do a little victory dance
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