Summer lovin'

Another bank holiday here in dot-coe-dot-you-kay yesterday, and another hosing-down from the gods.  We're in that difficult transition period between "it's been a shit spring" to "it's being a shit summer".  No-one's quite sure where the cusp lies.  It's like Easter; only the Vatican seems on top of that sheight.  All we do know is that it's close.

The point of this equinox of course is that one must abandon hope if it can be shown we've passed it.  Summers in this country and short and brutal, like a spell in a young offenders' institute.  If we've missed even a week of the summer season to poor weather, then statistically-speaking it cannot be saved.

As Bill Shankly or Buddha would no doubt have averred: it's the hope that kills you.

This spell of appalling weather has come at the end of a very trying weekend too.  On Sunday my beloved Orient were beaten in the League One play-off final at Wembley.   I've seen Orient lose more play-offs than I can shake a stick at, but this one hurt particularly  

I was stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the same cohort of people I was in the 80s when Orient went up against Wrexham, and we've been there for every major game since.  The difference this time is that if we needed 13 years to reach another Wembley final (the gap since our last play-off final), would the club even exist?  It was this thought that played on my mind on the interminable tube journey home.

If West Ham get Olympic Stadium, I fear we're screwed.  The children of Walthamstow, Leyton, Leytonstone etc. will grow up to be Hammers.  You can't blame them; I would have done the same.  The idea of Orient not outliving me is hugely troubling.  I've got football existential angst.  I wonder if my GP will sign me off work?  He is an Os fan after all.

Be still, my beating ar5e

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.

My trouble is I care too much

I'm off to a football match this evening.  That's a rare occurrence for me.  I used to go regularly, not often, but regularly.  But as real life has increasingly encroached upon childish pursuits, I've rather left the beautiful game behind.  This trend was exacerbated by most of my friends moving away from the area we grew up in.

I did go alone once, but it was an horrific experience for all concerned.  I ended-up sitting in the family enclosure, and was surrounded by 12-year-olds and their mothers, all in scarves and rosettes.  In any other circumstance this would present no problems; I'm a polite well brought up sort.  Unfortunately, when it comes to football, the veneer of civility slips away rapidly.  As soon as the referee gets proceedings underway, yours truly starts swearing like a docker - one who's just stubbed his toe on a red-hot javelin.

The reason for this is nerves.  I get really het up at football.  I hate it in all honesty.  It's the one arena in which I do let the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune get to me.  I look upon it as a personal slight when an opposition team of journeymen professionals contrives to beat my beloved Orient.  It's like someone having a pop at your family.

I know this makes me sound like a nutter, but I'm really not.  I wouldn't categorise myself as much of a supporter at all.  I don't slavishly follow the club's news, or pour over match reports.  I don't even really care that much for the game anymore.  I used to, as a boy, but now I've bigger cultural fish to fry.

The reason I can get upset to such an unseemly degree is that for me football is territorial.  The club is a reflection of what and who I am.  That's why I could never support a team with which I had no geographical or cultural link.  What would be the point?

The club is akin to a river for me.  I was brought up on its banks, and so it belongs to me.  I care not a jot for the players in the squad at any given time.  I appreciate what they do for the club, but they are not the club - no more than the water is the river.  The river's quiddity transcends its individual temporary elements.  And that is why I eff and blind all the way through the game.  Yes - including the halftime break.  QED.