Khhhrrrrrrrrweeeeeeeeeeep. Khhhrrrrrrrrweeeeeeeeeeep. Khhhrrrrrrrrweeeeeeeeeeep.
It’s a painful sound, deliberately chosen to jar me to life in those early hours of the morning before the sun has even bothered to yawn, let alone rise. Despite the near heart attack and the massive headache from listening to that blaring piece of junk jolt me awake, I still manage to put my head back down for a couple more z’s. Lather, rinse and repeat a couple more times—you get the picture. Maybe I should upgrade to something more effective—you know, like one of those alarms that shred your money if you stay in bed. Or the Rubik’s cube version, which doesn’t let you have a moment of peace until you solve a side or something—not easy, when you’re still groggy and possibly hung over.
Eventually, I get bored of my own groaning and moaning, and I roll out of bed, clinging desperately to my blankets as I crawl my way across the floor, out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen. First stop: the coffee pot. Not even Starbucks dares face these wee early hours of the morning, so I have to brew my own cup of joe. As I wait for that damn thing to boil, watching every single drip and drop fill my mug, I can’t help but wonder at what point in my life I became insane enough to wake up this early on the weekend. And, of course, whether it will even be worth it.
After the morning wake-up hoddle of coffee, I crash down on the couch to confront my next puzzle of the day: where the hell is the damn match showing? Hence commences the search through every one of those damn Comcast Xfinity channels, looking for those magic words to appear on the guide. I don’t know who in the name of hell watches enough television to require literally thousands of channels – especially now that most people just record their damn shows, anyway. But I know the foolishness of the DVR. There is no recording sports. You watch it live, period. There’s no magic left when you watch it later, even if you’ve managed to effectively barricade yourself from outside communication (an impossible task, might I add).
If you’re lucky, you’ll eventually find the gem you’re looking for, but more often than not you will inevitably discover that nowhere on those thousands of channels can you find the damn match, because for some reason a bloody game of soccer doesn’t warrant live broadcast in California even though 850 of the channels have an average of oh, about twelve viewers a year, and this morning match could surely generate an additional five or so. But fuck that, we’re in ‘Murica, and we don’t care.
So instead, I open up a computer to search for some pirate stream to view. A couple set off some flashing warning lights in my head—you know that these sketch websites just have to be laden with trojans and spyware and crap that you definitely don’t want infiltrating your machine. But the clock continues ticking, and eventually you just have to settle for some crappy-looking site with painfully shitty resolution.
What a way to watch. Your eyes are barely open, the world outside your window is dark and dreary—an omen, inevitably, for the match at hand—and the pixilation of your screen makes the match a puzzle to be deciphered more than a game to be enjoyed.
But then the whistle sounds, and you just know…it’ll all be okay. The whistle wakes you up more than any alarm possibly can. Adrenaline starts to kick in, and your heartbeat elevates more than any cup of caffeine can provide. The crowd—oh, the crowd!—starts to sing:
Oh when the Spurs…go marching in. Oh when the Spurs go marching in.
That shitty resolution disappears, and suddenly…I’m there. I’m at the match, singing with the crowd, chanting, "GLORY GLORY!" I can feel the stadium vibrating, I can sense the excitement. And I remember why I bother to drag myself out of bed in the morning—on a weekend, no less. This is what life is about: a cup of joe and the great Tottenham Hotspur, there to delight and dazzle and lead me, sometimes kicking and screaming, to glory.
The dashing Aaron Lennon blazes by, and I scream his name in amazement. Hugo Lloris leaps to his left and makes a splendid goal-line save, reminding me that not all Frenchman are as intolerable as that wanker across town! I see Sandro, who captured my heart from when he first stepped on the field at White Hart Lane three years ago and proceeded to destroy some poor unsuspecting soul. I see the HURRIKANE
breeze sprint move down the field, the fiery youngster who takes no prisoners and promises a shining beacon of hope for our future. I glimpse Defoe on the sideline, and wonder how the hell he's still on the squad.
I briefly and mournfully look at that painful hole on the left, left by Gareth Bale, but then glance around the pitch and see countless new dollars sitting on the field, preparing their own moments of magic.
And then we proceed to shit the bed, and I wonder why in god’s name I bothered to get up in the morning.
I am MeinHerr PolarBear. I am new here, though I have visited from time to time over the years just to lurk. I am from California, and I have the kind of love/hate relationship that any true Spurs fan should have. Just figured I'd introduce myself.