Saturday: 3pm: Nothing

Wash ye hands!

I shouldn't feel so empty. It's only a game. It's just a distraction from life after all. There's more important things in life. At now, of all times, I shouldn't be thinking of such petty things.

'Think of all the books you can read'
'Think of all the great films you can catch up on' 
'Think of the skills you could teach yourself, the projects you could get done!' 
'It's not like you had anything to play for' 
'It's not like it really matters anyway!' 

I still do feel empty. There's nothing like it. You know things are at a low ebb, when as a 40 yr old man, the highlight of your week is a video of Armand Ganduillet washing his hands.

What I wouldn't give to park up, walk down Bloomfield Rd, avoiding dog shit and litter, passing the Brewhouse and the Aldi, taking my part in the slightly suicidal charge across the 2 crossroads, a single soul in a crowd, emboldened by the numbers coming together, stopping the traffic as we cross feeling like a tiny silent demonstration of collective force. We are Blackpool. This is our moment. I want to observe the away fans milling outside, the police horses shimmying on the spot, sidestepping, checking my pockets for the tickets, passing one to the boy and praying he doesn't let go of it in the wind, pushing through the turnstiles, drinking a pint of crap beer and then taking my seat.

I want to sit amongst moaning and muttering and to watch what unfolds. I want to forget, captivated by the chaos, enraptured by the moments when things open up, when a pass, a turn, a tackle turns the game for a moment. When space opens up or possession is won.

I want to watch each little battle, each building move. The headers fought for, the decisions made whether to run or give.

I miss the body language. I miss Fonz, so lithe and graceful yet so pained when he makes the wrong choice, his body jolted by the lightning of self critique. Feeney, head down, trudging to take a corner, coming alive with a barrel chested run, head up, glancing to the far post. Maxwell, a coiled spring, always pacing, clapping, stretching. Jay Spearing, pointing, talking, running like a clockwork terrier. James Husband, sometimes not quite in the right place he should be, but bursting blood vessels to get to it. Matty Virtue, in the right place and making the right choice, but half a yard too slow to be the player his brain could let him be. Big Armand, strolling like he's still got his airpods in, cool as fuck, mystifying and enigmatic, ignoring the ball, till it suits him.

I've forgotten their short comings. I've forgotten the passes going astray, the moments of disorganisation where everyone looks at each other and some ugly centre half just walks by and nods it home. I've forgotten that we played sideways and long for about half the season. Now all the flawed and frankly uninspiring squad fillers we've seen are as exotic as the most vaunted of superstars to me. What I wouldn't give to see Ollie Turton or to hear that Super Joe is coming on.

I really miss it. I really do.

I miss the frustration of a scoreless match as much as the elation of a goal. I miss filing out grumpy and unsatisfied or elated and energised.

I miss the radio burbling with stories from all over of wins, losses and turgid draws. The guy in front of me on a betting app as we shuffle down the steps, telling his mate 'fucking hell, Utd are 2 down now!' I mis the grim consolation that at least Preston lost as well. I miss the car on the way home, warm after the cold of the stands and some manager on the radio with either triumph or disaster tainting their voice as they claim credit or pass blame. Cliche's bring comfort. I yearn for descriptions of games elsewhere drawing pictures in my mind of flick ons, pile drivers, diving saves and diving headers or diving cheats and outraged fans.

I even sort of miss VAR, stories of the crowd's  bewilderment, leave me imagining the hollow sound of confusion from Villa Part or Vicarage Road as a goal is chalked off or awarded.

Even that is better than nothing. It might be an insult to football and everything it should be, but at least it's part of a match. At least it's something.

I keep thinking it's summer for a second and summer is OK.

In summer I can put on the radio and Jimmy will be taking a five-fer. I can imagine the the canny spinner bedevilling the hapless batsman with brains and guile, or the brutal bullying of the pace bowler. I can share the joy of a field change that takes a wicket or a beautifully set up inswinger that nails the off stump and leaves the batsman groping. I can be mesmerised by the slow accumulation of runs of the out of form opener, who saves his career or thrilled by the middle order player hitting out.

I can hear the chatter and hum of people absorbed and occupied in what is happening now and what is yet to come.

It's ok in summer. It's what is natural. As May turns, the football pitches harden and colours turn to whites.

It isn't May though. There's been no 'Abide with Me'

I miss being part of something. Just a tiny dot in something much bigger. My world feels so small.

Saturday, 3pm. We'll be back.

UTMP