Jumpers as Goalposts.


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.

Poor turnout.

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