tell me about it

There’s something completely inexplicable about football. Something makes my heart rise up watching my team play - and yes, I proudly wield the personal pronoun, because I have a deep, devout sense of ownership when it comes to Liverpool - something that makes me grin like a sappy idiot, scream and punch the air when a goal is scored. Something that makes me shake my head admiringly when I see classy footwork. Something that makes me say possessively, those are MY boys on the field, that is MY team out there.

I shake my fists in jubilation when we win. I drop my head and sulk and mutter when we lose - damn referee, bloody opponents, only I can criticize my team when they perform badly. Woe betide a non-supporter who dares speak out against my boys. I’ll wear my jersey with pride whether or not we win matches or cups or leagues. They are my boys. My team.

How do you explain that lift in your heart when you watch your team advance on goal? That jubilation that roars in your ears and clenches your fists in excitement? The way I constantly mutter to myself during a game - “C’mon boys. You can do it. C’mon team. Let’s do this.” I’m not crazy - well, just crazy about football. Joga Bonito - the beautiful game. The beautiful, beautiful game.

I am part of Liverpool, just as they are part of me. It will always be “we”. “We” won, “we” lost, did you see that bloody brilliant goal that “we” scored last night, “we” are five-time Champions League winners. I am and will always be a true Reds supporter, they’ve grabbed me by the heart and gladly I submit to the worthiest team ever to be supported. My boys, my team, my Liverpool.

By the way, Marseille has possibly the ugliest jersey I’ve ever seen.