A desperate business

Being a football fan can be a desperate business, just ask Mrs B.Not that she is one, of course. She's much too sensible for that. If there is a big game on - FA Cup final, crunch England match - she might take a passing interest in events. She might even ask about the scoreline. But as for settling down for the afternoon or evening to watch a middling Premier League encounter, a bottom of the table Championship clash or even a meaningless encounter between two of the lesser lights of La Liga, forget it. There is always something much more pressing for her to do than watch football: pouring a glass, or two, of Chardonnay, for example. And those celebrity gossip magazines don't read themselves. She wouldn't dream of going to a game now, although she does have history in that department. One of our first dates all those years ago, when everyone in the crowd still wore hats and the action was in sepia, I 'treated' her to a match in the far-flung North. She didn't really want to go, but she humoured me, gritted her teeth and braced herself for a boring afternoon. Things went reasonably OK to start with: I plied her with a plentiful supply of goodies from the tea bar, she amused herself by 'people watching' in the crowd, and my team lost at home, but not by a cricket score. It was as we made our way from the ground that the day began to nosedive. This was back in the late 1970s, when football hooliganism still regularly reared its ugly head, and a good punch up seemed to be a prerequisite of a great day out for many footie followers. As I led Mrs B out of the ground, round the back, over the waste ground littered with bricks and other handy missiles and towards the car park where the away fans' coaches were parked, I suddenly realised I'd made a boo-boo. Perhaps it was the chanting that first alerted me to the prospect of trouble, or maybe it was the hail of stones which came our way. But before I knew what was happening, we were caught in no-man's-land as fans from the rival teams squared up. Mrs B was not impressed. In fact she was terrified... and I wasn't overly-impressed with the prospect of getting sandwiched between two groups of hard-core thugs intent on battering each other to a pulp. Somehow, we managed to scramble away to the sidelines, shaken but unhurt. We started to make our escape to a main road, where we were counting on safety in numbers. But then I heard the barking. Now the icon who is Mrs B is usually well-disposed towards animals. Cats she loves, dogs she doesn't mind. But when she saw police dog handlers racing towards us, ferocious alsatians straining at the leash with fangs bared - desperate to sink their teeth into the nearest human - she decided enough was enough. Showing a turn of speed which Olympic gold medallist Sally Gunnell would have been proud of in her prime, she dragged me away from the scene before giving me the biggest dressing down of my life. Ouch. So we don't bother with football together any more. Which brings me on to the main point of this blog. She might not be a fan of the beautiful game, and it wouldn't worry her if she never saw a match again. <> But these last few days, when I have been at my lowest ebb as a fanatic of my favourite team, she has been a diamond. Not only were they propping up their division and playing like a disorganised group of big girls' blouses while losing match after match, the board also appointed a manager who nobody wanted and in doing so effectively waved two fingers at their loyal, long-suffering fans. It was a slap in the face which really hurt, and left me desolate. Non-football fans will wonder what the fuss is about, but those who devote their lives to a team and suffer every low while savouring the (very) occasional high will understand what I am going through. I'm appalled, angry, feel disenfranchised and am silently seething. Yet throughout my suffering, Mrs B has lent a sympathetic shoulder and offered soothing words. She understands what I'm going through, even though she has no time for the game. Not once has she uttered those deadly, disdainful words which can cut to the quick and leave grown men gasping: "Don't worry, it's only a game." And for that, I salute her.