I didn't want to write in the comments section for two reasons:
A: I don't want trolls to read this. We have a couple lovely trolls, but still...I really don't want to discuss my love of our club with them. Or have them equate it with theirs. Fanposts are our spaces, infrequently visited as they are.
B: Nobody reads the articles. I don't know if this is my therapy or what, but the chances of people getting in an argument seems less over here in the dodgy end--the FanPost zone--of CFC. And seriously, what's to fight over now? It's all done. It's all hindsight. It's over. Not forever obviously, but this version of it.
So without any further justification or theatrics, here it is, my end of the year love letter.
"Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad"
-Derek and the Dominos
Beat up. I feel beat up. And I think it's this way because I really don't want the season to be over. I'm not ready. The drama that this squad brought forth this year may not always have been what we wanted, but as flawed as they and many of their performances were, they were gritty, they were fighters. They made me smile or genuinely proud so, so many more times than they have made me sad. This realization is important and worth celebrating although, as I sit here writing, the sensation of emptiness fills my gut and chest. In the end, they were my escapism, as they always are. And I loved them, independent of my already total love of the club, as they were--imperfect them--an extension of the "imperfect us", "the imperfect me".
Tomorrow, I will wake up and move on, knowing full well that this incarnation of the club will never exist again. I will get on with the day, completing tasks varying from the mundane to anything but. I will repeat this model four more times. I will then watch the European final on Saturday, and I will probably find a moment or two to smile in between now and then when I think about Lewis Holtby's ongoing bromance with the entire squad, Scott Parker's pirouettes, or the two Kyle's penalty shootout, etc, etc.
But for now it is pain--the level of pain Scott Parker appeared to be in after David Vaughan hacked him down--and at the moment it, independent of my brain telling me it is all alright, it feels infinitesimal. And I don't want to hear that it is only sport. I've been told my whole life that life itself is precious, and sport--in varying shapes and forms-- has been an important community and personal institution for millennia, therefore, it too is precious. The pain is real, and by acknowledging it, the pain will heal.
But this is a love letter so, speaking of precious, I'll end with a short dialogue I had with my seven year old niece today after all of the results and reality had set in.
Niece: Uncle Vince, what does your shirt say?
Me: Come On You Spurs. See.(Pointing to each individual letter of COYS) Come. On. You. Spurs.
Niece: Oh...What does it mean???
Me: Well, you see, when my soccer club is about to start playing, or when they need a little extra push, the supporters at the match all get up and yell "Come on you Spurs", sometimes with their hands outstretched like this.
Niece: Oh. Ok
And as she ambled away, the way only a seven year-old can, I couldn't help but notice the smile that had crossed my, until then, pursed lips. So I don't know why love, my--our--love of Spurs has got to be so sad, but I know it's all ok when it can just as easily make the day as ruin it. And that is worth something.
Love you Tottenham Hotspur, love you to pieces.
Can't Smile Without You