Mid July

There is a sad reality to my life. I've come to deal with it for a long time. It essentially revolves around football, or as we know it in the US, soccer. Every year for the last 20 odd or so it's the same pattern; anticipation in July, giddy excitement in August, prayers on boxing day, etc.. you get the point.

I attempt to play the game. I read about the game. I watch the game, sometimes the same game over and over. To use a cliche, it's a minor addiction.

Now I don't get overly involved or even care about who is going where and for what, as long as my club has all it needs in August or at the latest by close of the mid season transfer window. That's what it's really about, whether or not those 11 men you chose to represent you on the front stage are really the best. Better than your mates, better than your enemies, better than your family, if they even choose to get involved in your general mess.

Basically when they fail, you fail. When they succeed, you succeed. I guess a psychobabble would you call this transference or something like that. I don't know anything about psychology or reading the bumps on one's head.

I do know football.
It's in my blood.
It is my soul.