Planet Jupitus: A new season that smells strongly familiar

Ah, the opening home game of the season! There’s nothing quite like it for putting an extra spring in one’s step. Even the most curmudgeonly of naysayers would have to admit to a slight frisson of optimism coursing through their embittered veins.

The walk to the stadium is a jaunty promenade filled with cheery waves and jocular banter. Thumbs are held aloft, backs slapped, hearty handshakes exchanged, but a niggling sense of unease hangs in the air. Your prematch routine is repeated as it has been throughout your life. The tea, the programme, the swag, they all have to be brought from the same places as usual. I had an odd moment yesterday, looking for a copy of the fanzine Over Land And Sea. I saw loads of kids selling them, but nonetheless was compelled to buy mine from Gary outside the main gates.

As an atheist, I find it quite disturbing that I’ve allowed part of my life to become so absurdly ritualised.

The last few steps towards the ground assault the senses, the gamey tang of rapidly defrosted burgers and slimy onions scorching on the griddle.

The aroma of sickly sweet booze wafting out of pub doorways and the pores of the sweaty drinkers smoking outside, the mix of fear and bewilderment on the faces of tiny children being brought to their first game. Something in me wants to take the parents to one side and give them a good slap. Why would you set your child on the road to a hazardous and expensive addiction such as football? I stay my hand because I know that they are victims, too, and their parents did the same thing to them. It’s the circle of spite.

Once inside, you take that first look at the pitch and the sound of the crowd dispels all pessimism. In your head, you start writing a first draft of the script for the forthcoming season. Comfortable victory today that launches a dogged and triumphant league campaign. A couple of spectacular cup runs and, then, Europe! The first few moments of the game go according to this insane vision, but then grim reality takes hold; your defence looks shaky, your striker goes off injured and your script turns from a massive, feel-good Spielberg blockbuster to a low-budget Ken Loach kitchen-sink drama. Ah well, plenty of time for rewrites. . .

Comments

[Leigh Vernier]

Soccer presentation is still 19th century with a touch of Attila The Hun. No wonder England can't actually play football. Where's magic? Fantasy? Skill? Inventiveness?
We need a total presentational rethink. Until then, watch on telly with sound off and my own commentary/analysis. The only way I can get some intelligence into the game.