Big Fat Football Tears
In February 2004, I was lifted from the womb and into the back of the net: if I was inescapably human, I was inescapably an Arsenal fan.
There are photos on my mum’s Facebook of little me wearing a cardboard mask of Thierry Henry’s face. Aged nine, I thought ‘Hey Jude’ was covering an ode to French striker Olivier Giroud. There was always Arsenal before everything else and that included the Beatles.
Even though I was tangled up in this world, I couldn’t understand it. For a long time, my experience of sporting events entailed acting within their bounds to keep them at a safe distance whilst respecting their importance to my family.
As a child, I had to attend my brother’s rugby tournaments. I preferred to stay in the marquee; I found the whole ordeal loud and bothersome. The games had too many rules I didn’t care to learn, so I gained nothing from watching them. I liked it when they ended and everyone built dens in the ditch behind the clubhouse.
At home, I enjoyed putting my football stickers on girlie toys. There were new worlds I could invent for Wayne Rooney’s tiny head. With the body I provided, he could meet Rainbow Dash of My Little Pony fame. (A braver man might approximate their conversations.)
When I eventually went to university, I realised that listening to BBC 5 Live match coverage made me feel less homesick. There was something like the glugging of the womb about rowdy commentary. It was what my whole life had sounded like. I thought that I may as well try to like the football attached to the familiarity.
My efforts were rewarded. Loving Arsenal – albeit without the language to articulate who and what made Arsenal – became useful to proclaim: I found more people to identify with, if only through the culture surrounding football.
Before university, I had never discussed matches with people wearing novelty earrings. I had decided, for too long, that there was one kind of football spectator – he was an amorphous blob who hated my guts, and he was completely made up.
I started to wear my Arsenal shirts around, hoping people would stop for a chat. Being a fan meant finding common language in a strange place.
As time passed, I absorbed players’ names and faces and strategies. I discovered things to say to the television: when I watched games alone in my room, I was unable to stop myself from crying out or standing up.
I had gained the vital instinct. Twice a week, I was guaranteed an adrenaline rush. It could feel amazing or make me nauseous. Sometimes, being nauseous seemed to feel amazing. The Premier League was like a big tub of snus. Crack it open and give them all to me.
Still: overcoming one form of denying myself amusement gave rise to another. I still felt ashamed about openly liking and reacting to football.
For instance, if I was in the kitchen listening along and someone scored, my hand would move of its own volition and drum a small spoon against the countertop. (The utensil was interchangeable, but its meaning remained the same.) Or – God forbid – I would speak aloud to myself. Something abhorrent, like Yes!, or Come on, if I was feeling particularly verbose.
After all these years, I had barged my way out of the proverbial marquee and onto the sidelines. It was my right to react, and I still felt ridiculous for doing so. I was never so judgemental of others’ celebrations growing up as I was frustrated that, by my own rules, I wasn’t involved.
Last Saturday, I learned that none of this mattered when the football felt so good. I had spent the day with my housemates, but they had separate evening plans, leaving me alone with the beautiful game. The apex of my hangxiety was splitting my head with a fierce, unrelenting death whistle, before Max Dowman came on for Martín Zubimendi to bring it home against Everton.
As with my evening more generally, I had written off this slog of a game. Then, for the first time ever, I cried at a goal.
Big fat football tears.
The week that followed this high was rough. I finished a six-month block of counselling sessions. I was a wreck, and I frequently found myself watching Football Best Clips on my phone for a nibble of that shared ecstasy.
Live sport was no longer a stabilising background drone. It was an emotional pillow I snivelled into; I was dependent on it. Not all the time, but there are really bad weeks with really good goals – this is undeniable.
But a 2-0 victory over Leverkusen on St Patrick’s Day couldn’t stop my tears, with which I could have irrigated several Champions League bouts. So, on Wednesday evening I accepted my dad’s invitation to an Exeter Chiefs game, in doing so giving myself something to look forward to. Notification football wasn’t enough, apparently. I needed real life rugby.
At Sandy Park, I stood at pitchside and ducked between errant passes. I clung to a warm, greasy pasty that felt like a second heart. I made it halfway through before I felt too warm and greasy, like a second pasty.
The Chiefs went on to beat Sale Sharks 26-14. I stood up and stomped when something exciting happened, like a try. There were musical flourishes provided by a live band when the players arranged themselves in certain ways.
If I didn’t know about the technical side of things, it didn’t matter. I hadn’t been asked to explain what a lineout was to gain entry, and thank God. It was simply a beautiful day, and I was swimming around in it like a pasty crumb in a pint.
I love watching sports even more with each passing week. The reason changes all the time. I am open to all the reasons. Letting fun into my life seems like a decent philosophy; I’m not about to VAR the particulars any more than I already have. Get yourself outside. Turn on the telly and make a noise. I know I will.
24/03/2026











