I watched Spurs play Arsenal at home today in place of my dad, thus witnessing my first North London Derby (unless I attended one as a child and then blanked it from my memory).
It's the second time I've been to White Hart Lane in a month and I'm going back in two weeks...and dare I say it, I'm enjoying it. What's happened to me? Have I become a soccer fan in my mid-thirties? Is there something afoot(ball)?
While I've never been into the game (or sport in general), there's no denying that attending a match is a completely different experience to seeing it on television; particularly when you’re watching two teams with a rivalry like Tottenham Hotspur and the-squad-with-the-buttock-tinged-name. Hatred of Arsenal is an Ephgrave prerequisite, which lies dormant in the genes, waiting to be teased to the surface; not so much a red rag to a bull, as eleven-red-shirts to-a-David.
The atmosphere was great. It was tense, watching Spurs concede a goal after playing well, to then score two in quick succession and end up with a draw. I shook my fist at the Gods of Soccer. I wonder how long I’ll go before buying my first kit? I might even shave my head; it's the beginning of the end for me.