When I’m watching a Man U game on TV I like to be alone in my room where I can yell and gesticulate and generally be as obnoxious as possible without worrying about aggravating anyone (or embarrassing myself). Otherwise I want to be with other Man U fans who feel the same way I do when everything is going to hell.
So…suffice it to say that watching a game on mute while lying next to a sleeping girlfriend in a Boston hotel room isn’t the ideal atmosphere. Especially when Sir Alex insists on sending out a team that would struggle in a Carling Cup game (I’m looking at you Gibson) let alone an important early April game against a team that has had our number the past few seasons and while all of our title challengers are nipping at our heels.
(Please excuse the use of “our” or “we” as though wearing my replica Rooney jersey somehow puts me on the Man U payroll, but I am one of those kind of fans. I am also on the Red Sox and the Celtics and University of Michigan football team if you’re wondering.)
After the 2nd Noble penalty found its way to the back of the net my frustration was at an all-time high and all I could do was silently curse the world, curse the fact that I really like Green Street Hooligans, that I bought my dad that West Ham jersey and that I was stuck in that room. So I gave up. I shut the game off and rolled over and put my arm around my girlfriend and tried to go back to sleep and forget about those damn Hammers fans singing that stupid song.
This might seem like maturity. I could’ve (and have in the past) started throwing things and ranting and raving and let my whole day be ruined by the bad bounces and pre-Champions League stumbles of the “most hated team in Britain”.
But it wasn’t maturity. It was petulance. I was being a spoiled brat who gives up as soon as my team comes under pressure. Instead of hanging around to watch another fantastic Man U comeback (3rd time this season they have comeback from 2-0 down at half) and a hat trick from my favorite, vocabulary-challenged, player I quit Instead of having faith in a team that is renowned for its ability to overcome adversity and the likelihood for relegation-threatened West Ham to collapse, I stopped believing.
Part of me is superstitious enough that I actually thought if I just shut off the TV then it would increase the chances of something amazing happening, simply because I wasn’t watching. But I would be lying if I claimed it was anything other than I just didn’t believe.
I don’t know where the skepticism comes from although maybe rooting for the Red Sox my whole life hasn’t helped. Maybe New Englanders with our Calvinist love of struggle, hardship, and Blue Laws makes us all overly negative? The inferiority complex of Bostonians trickling down into my fandom? Or maybe I’m just a miserable bastard, who knows? My girlfriend will watch her team right to the end believing they will make the miracle comeback, my team gives up a goal 1 minute in to the season and I’ve just given up all title hopes.
When the game was over and I was walking across the street to get some breakfast I couldn’t help but look at the results and fist-pump my way through an intersection (getting a few strange looks in the process) and believed that my decision to shut off the TV had been the impetus for my team to push on and get the win. Such is being a fickle fan, we all have our ways to influence the games, even if mine is simply to lack faith and give up. We all have to do our part!
Glory, Glory Man United!
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