I don't write much on this blog. I'm either not good enough, or not vain enough. But it *is* my blog and therefore I can be as self-indulgent as I want to be.
There was a time when football was my life. I would go to sleep pondering whether Tranmere were better suited to a flat back four, or should build their defence around utilising Tony Thomas as a wing back. Following that I would travel the length and breadth of the country to see Barnet bounce around at the foot of the full time pyramid. Then I invested time and money into the folly that was/is Retford United (yes, Mr Dixon, I am still bitter). And at every juncture, it mattered. A lot. I missed my graduation, weddings, christenings, birthday parties, the works. Some reading this will understand this obsession, others won't.
I'm not proud of this fanaticism. It doesn't appear in any other aspect of my life. I do not suffer an addictive personality. Friends will happily testify I tend not to give a rats ass about pretty much anything. So why football?
Partly tribal, I guess. A sense of belonging. Certainly, the "gang" at Barnet are some of the funniest, most genuinely lovely people I have ever met, and I am proud to call so many of them my friends.
However, I'm no psychologist. And this isn't the place for my cod self-analysis. The point of all this preamble is get to this point: I simply don't care any more.
For the last two years or so, I have "hopped". Semantically, I have always claimed I was a match-hopper, not a ground-hopper. It matters not one bit, but makes me feel better about my lot. There was no spread-sheet, no rules, no Aldi carrier bag. Just this half-arsed blog, and a Twitter account. It has been a solo pursuit in the main. Occasionally interrupted by visitations from fellow Tweeters or bloggers, or even, rarely, actual physical friends. But by and large, it was me, the car, and ideally a bespoke pint of cider.
And then, this year, it became a chore. Going to the same places, seeing football that was occasionally interesting but usually beyond awful. Faces I didn't care about, dramas that never unfolded. I still look at the fixtures and tables. It still pleases me to see Carl Haslam's name on a score sheet. And it still saddens me to see Grantham set for promotion. But the thought of using my Saturday afternoon or Tuesday evening shivering in Clipstone or Gresley just does nothing for me any more.
Some of the corner stones of Notts/S. Yorks non-league blogging have announced that they too are hanging up their note pads in May. It is not for me to hypothesise as to their reasonings. But their absence will surely be noted. Is this malaise something non-league football needs to be aware of? Are we that important to them? Probably not. But if the bloggers aren't blogging, that is one more publicity outlet that isn't being utilised. And non-league clubs are bad enough at selling themselves.
Selfishly though, that isn't my concern. I'm just curious why I no longer care. You'd think day trips to abandoned northern mining towns, decimated by Maggie's legacy, would be enough for anyone.
