Today, I watched
22+ men play a game of soccer at a place called The White Heart’s Lane in North London.
(I’ve
misunderstood the terminology for comic effect.)
I accompanied my
mum to the Spurs vs. Watford league match today, in place of my dad, who wasn’t
well; thus making my first visit to White Hart Lane (save a tour of the ground a little while back) in a good twenty-two years. The
last time I went to a game, the likes of Klinsmann, Sheringham and Anderton
still played for team; the time before that, I was watching Gasgoigne, Lineker
and Mabbutt; don’t let it be said that I’m a part-time supporter.
To be fair, I was
never really a fan at all, which has already gone on record. While my parents
have been avid supporters since the early 1960s, I grew up showing little-to-no
interest (infamously taking a book and a Walkman with me to a childhood match,
and tutting every time the crowd made a noise, which isn’t something I’m proud
of).
Thankfully, I’ve
lost most of my youthful precociousness and sports-apathy in the
intervening years, and therefore didn’t feel the need to take any distractions
with me today, except for a half-time Cadbury’s Twirl and a final-score apple. I
genuinely enjoyed myself today, and would happily go again as proxy to Mr. Ephgrave
Senior. I found myself getting increasingly tense in the second half as the
game got more exciting, and at one point, the roar of the crowd gave me
goosebumps. God, I’ve changed; 1994-me would be ashamed.
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| Poor turnout. |