Well, that was an intense evening. I jollied along to Orient last night for the second leg of the League One play-offs. All went as planned and Orient prevailed. It did remind me, though, of why I don't attend football matches. It was two hours of nerve-shredding confusion and anxiety.
I have, even if I say so myself, a "footballing brain" as it's termed. I see the game well, its territorial aspects etc. A lot of schoolboy footballers, while technically adept, have no feel for the sport. They look at their feet, the ball and about 20 feet of turf in front of them. And their reaction to receiving the ball is always the same: running with it. You'll never develop into a useful footballer with that world view. One needs to look up and assess the situation. You only pin back your lugs and give it the full Forest Gump if the lie of the land demands it.
Despite my sang-foid on the pitch, when spectating, I'm a gibbering wreck. It's just a blur of colours and sounds. All I can do is tremble and swear. I cannot follow the game at all. It's like trying to watch a production of The Cherry Orchard from a roller coaster. The see the action, but it doesn't really sink in; the nuances are lost.
Unfortunately, my torment isn't over. We're off to Wembley en bloc on Sunday week for the final. For everyone else this will be like a works outing, full of drunken laughter and tears. But for me it's the emotional equivalent of Cain carrying a burning-hot cauldron in the opening credits of "Kung Fu". If you're under 80, you might need to Google that neo-classical reference.
I'll try to maintain a phlegmatic expression, but the beads of sweat on my brow and quivering lips will tell their own story. - I come in peace...up, The Os.
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