Cod Almighty | Diary

The Little Reasons

9 July 2025

Sometimes, when the game is flat and the wind's biting, I find my mind drifting. Not to tactics or team selection, but to a far more fundamental question: why do I bother?

Why do I spend hundreds of pounds on season tickets for myself and the family? Why do I travel to far-off towns with a clingfilm-wrapped cheese bun and the faint hope of joy? Why do I give up several Saturdays a year, and the odd Tuesday night too, often only to be frustrated, enraged – or worse, bored?

Saturday, the opening game of pre-season, offered no immediate answers. Cleethorpes Town away. No beer in the ground for the first time ever. A tired, sun-dazed Grimsby XI playing like they'd spent the week jogging up dunes. I was stood at the barrier with my three-year-old propped on one arm, a toddler-shaped kettlebell cutting off the circulation to my elbow. The game trundled. My attention wandered.

A decent through ball from Jamie Walker, a tidy Danny Rose finish – it flickered briefly into life. But as I stared at the familiar, local advertising hoardings – Bridge McFarland, Forrester Boyd, Dee Bees – I found myself wondering again: why am I here? But I always snap out of it. Because it's not just about what's in front of you for 90 minutes. It's about all the little reasons. The hundreds of barely perceptible moments that make following this ridiculous football club so worthwhile.

It's 16th September 2006, Chester away. Nil-nil in the 90th minute. Suddenly: a mix-up between Ashley Westwood and John Danby, Gary Jones pounces. Moments later, Andy Taylor beats the offside trap and rolls it home. From bleak to bliss in a flash. It's Kieran Green scoring from his own half at Harrogate last season, and the collective disbelief that followed. It's sheer, spontaneous joy breaking through the monotony.

It's chats at the bar, behind the terrace, on strange streets in strange towns with an old mate you only ever see here. It's checking the scores again on Sunday morning, recalculating the table over a coffee. It's that familiar line, "Shall we have a swift one at half time?"

It's the banter. The new trainers you bought because they're the right shade to go with your away kit. It's the laugh that echoes down a row of seats after someone cracks the perfect line. It's the latest rumour, the whispered maybe.

It's crawling into bed too close to midnight after a bitterly cold Tuesday, with limbs frozen but heart strangely warm. It's hearing Hull or Scunny have lost again. It's the opposition player shamelessly goading the Pontoon and knowing, deep down, we wouldn't have it any other way.

It's that dodgy refereeing decision. The one that still winds you up three days (even years) later. It's football.

It's daft, expensive, stressful and often feels like a test of endurance. But in all the little reasons, stitched together like badges on a scarf, there's something beautiful.

That's why we bother. Because somewhere, in the next dull game, is a memory we haven't made yet.