My First, My Last, My Everything

I love watching my club play, I love talking about my club, I love writing about my club, but first and foremost I love my club.

When the sky falls, the mountains crumble and the s*** has well and truly hit the fan, there will always be Tottenham Hotspur Football Club. This above all else helps keep my sanity below the borderline of crazy (although I imagine some would argue otherwise).

I began writing for The Fighting Cock toward the beginning of last season and have never been short of an opinion on everything Spurs. The problem is that life won’t always let you stay in your little lilywhite bubble and reality can burst it with a well placed needle glued to a swift boot up the backside.

Please forgive me if this seems like an ‘X-Factor style’ sob story, but last year was a very hard one for me. Countless arguments with my girlfriend of 3 years resulted in her becoming my ex-girlfriend, I hated the place that I called home, money was lower than Fernando Torres’ confidence and there were a few other things that I won’t go in to as well.

These problems all fell on top of me like Emile Heskey in the box, and made the simple act of getting out of bed seem as pointless as Heurelho Gomes having hands. I also stopped writing as I just couldn’t keep focused when left to my own petty devices.

[linequote]I could write a million love songs dedicated to my true infatuation. God only knows what I’d be without you, I don’t want to miss a thing, I only have eyes for you, My first, my last, my everything.[/linequote]

I am sorry if this information seems self pitying, but I promise it does have a point. Now that I am ‘out the other side’, as it were, I can really see how much my team kept me from really going under. Even in the lowest of the low moments, just a simple question from a friend, like “do you think you’ll win this weekend?” or “who would you put up front for the next game?” could banish the demons intent on bringing me down. I could go from Monday to Friday without raising a smile, but as soon as a player wearing our proud chicken badge bagged a goal or made a game saving tackle I could indulge myself in joining the choir of voices raised in praise and encouragement.

Even the bad times (that as Spurs fans we frequently have to partake in) were bursts of adrenaline in an otherwise lacklustre demeanour. Shouting “pull your finger out, you blah blah blah” was invigorating to the point of being addictive.

This has proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that even though I loved my ex-girlfriend, she will never be Tottenham Hotspur. Even though my home life was shit, it will never destroy my real home (N17). Even though my finances were dwindling to the point of extinction they will never be as tight as Levy’s waistband.

I could write a million love songs dedicated to my true infatuation. God only knows what I’d be without you, I don’t want to miss a thing, I only have eyes for you, My first, my last, my everything.

I love my shirt, I love my crest, I love the emotions my team evokes. I love my football club.

COME ON YOU SPURS!

[author name=”In the name of Hod” avatar=”https://si0.twimg.com/profile_images/3327896969/b34d2c8072510a56935911d4486b6efb.jpeg” twitter=”GlenStanbury” website=”” tag=”GlenStanbury[/linequote]