So we reach that point again. The climax of the footballing season and all of its associated thrills, spills and bellyaches. The excitement of the Cup final and the drama of the final-day relegation battle has always had something distinctly bittersweet - and dare I say anticlimactic - about it for me though. As quickly as it arrives, it's gone, thrusting us all into the football free abyss that is the British summertime. It's the sheer, brutal finality of it that gets me, like the chaotic, heady excitement of that last day of term at primary school - followed by the brave new world of the long, hot summer with its lack of boundaries or certainty.

Almost as soon as the final whistle goes it seems you regain that elusive sense of perspective on it all. Maybe football isn't really that important, not when there are ice creams, jolly japes and warmer climes awaiting. And if it's not, well that's a bit sad really considering you've just spent the last 20 odd years of your life obsessing over it. Maybe, as in life, the thrill is in the chase and none of us quite know what to do with ourselves once it's all over. Or maybe it's just me. Either way, there's nothing quite like the end of the season to bring on a bout of misty-eyed existentialism. Of course, come late August (actually scrap that - September - there's something not quite right about football in the heat of summer) you've realised the error of your ways and will be begging forgiveness from your erstwhile amigo, guilty that you ever doubted him. It's all in the game. Still, you wouldn't have it any other way.

MM

Leave a Reply