45 minutes spent standing up. Pulse rate reaching levels that would be regarded as unhealthy considering no exercise is being undertaken. And then, with barely seconds to go...
"YYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
60,000 people - minus a small black and white striped contingent and not including god knows how many others watching around the world - erupt in a single, united, delirious cheer. Hands that have been hovering nervously between the back of your head, in front of your mouth, and covering your eyes for the past 95 minutes are now waving madly and mindlessly in the air. You're jumping up and down, screaming like a person possessed, making noises that wouldn't be misunderstood by a caveman contemplating the most efficient way of ambushing a mammoth. Once the initial delirium has passed, the whole stadium finds itself singing at the tops of their voices. And, even after the final whistle blows and the players have left the field, red and white scarves are still being held in the air and everyone is beaming breathlessly.
And all because a defender that's spent most of the season injured has just managed to get a ball over a painted white line into the back of a net, meaning the boys have yet again managed to come from behind to win and are now just a single point behind their arch rivals.
If you read my last post, and stuck with it to the bitter end, you'll know that I am of course talking about the Arsenal boys.
I'm not going to take up the next four minutes of your life raving about how much I love them, swooning over the way they take their fans through the whole heartbreaking spectrum of emotions each game, each season, each transfer window. And I'm not going to go anywhere near the fact we've not won any silverware for the past seven years (...although the Emirates Cup counts, right?) If you really want to know how it feels to be an Arsenal fan, may I point you in the direction of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch. He captures it far more eloquently than I ever could. The book actually served as therapy after a particularly harrowing 8-2 mauling earlier in the season... "Ah yes, that's why we put up with this shit year after year."
But after the euphoria of our (yes, that's right - "our") 2-1 win against Newcastle at home, I felt that this blog wouldn't be complete without a post that expanded just a smidgen on this joy of mine.
For the record, and for those that don't know me, let me just share with you that I am of the female persuasion (ie I'm a woman) and I am in my mid-20s. I know what the offside rule is, including the vagaries of the 'inactive' position. And, whilst I can't artfully dissect the tactics of a game like Andy Gray and his fancy-pants technology (at least, before that incident), I know enough to feel relieved when I see the boys remembering to press in midfield, or to feel nervous when the defence is holding their line a little too high up the field for comfort. In fact, by way of illusrating my commitment to Arsenal, watching a game at Craven Cottage for the first time - whilst surprisingly enjoyable - felt a little too close to adultery for my liking. Although it's not stopped me from taking it up as an infrequent guilty pleasure. Much like a mistress that you keep in a flat in the city for the odd sordid night away from the missus, before skulking back as you remember just how much you actually love your spouse, and should probably stop taking them for granted.
I passionately disagree with the sentiment that just because I enjoy football I'm a boy (if you're reading this, you know who you are) and hopefully I'm living proof that not all football fans are mindless hooligans. Oh yes, it may seem impossible, but a love of football can indeed originate from the same heart and mind that loves reading books and going to museums. The lady in question that calls me a boy whenever I get a little too vocal about Arsenal is a very bright (if somewhat gullible) young person. By the end of the game I took her to, she was chanting "Robin van Persie!" at the top of her voice and telling the referee precisely why he was doing such a poor job, completely swept away in the joy of the experience.
I'm not going to attempt to unpick the pyschology of the person who willingly spends their hard-earned money on tacky-looking memorabilia, questionable stadium food, and would willingly risk valued relationships rather than miss a game. And I'm not going to touch on the dangerous nature of mob mentality. Nor do I condone the disgraceful violence (physical and verbal) that some seem to think is acceptable when faced with opposing fans, or indeed a dodgy referring decision.
Nonetheless, there is something very pure about the moment your team creates those little moments of beauty; that cheeky little back heel, that stunning volley, an intricate weaving around countless defenders, or short and sweet tic tac toe (or 'Ole!') football. And it's the same whether you're an Arsenal fan, a Sunday League fan, or in fact any type of sports fan. Rationally, you know it's silly, meaningless and that you shouldn't be expending so much emotional energy on something you have absolutely no control over. But my god. It feels good, doesn't it?
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