Cod Almighty | Diary

Christmas crackers

28 December 2022

The game is the thing. The game should always be the thing except perhaps for a few weeks in April and early May. If you aren't enjoying it, or at least enjoying not enjoying it, you maybe need to think about your priorities.

That's not to say the result doesn't matter, nor is it to say that a good performance is important. There is no relish quite the same as winning away from home with your one shot of the match, the opposition centre forward contriving ever more bizarre ways to avoid scoring. Or to be watching a 0-0 draw, composing in your head a letter to the Telegraph calling for the manager and five players to be sacked, when in the last minute we scramble home a winner. Suddenly you are wondering if Hurst could be poached by Man United, and asking why Gareth Southgate hasn't come to watch Kieran Green.

Even more so at Christmas. The pitch should be white with snow except where it has been scraped clear to show the lines. The ball is orange. The players wear knee protectors. There is a distinct smell of rum on the terraces, and not just in the directors box. The action is full of misapplied endeavour. At least once, six players are all hacking at a stationary ball near the penalty spot, the scene reminiscent of school yard football circa 1969. The game is won with a magnificent 30-yard strike. Everyone goes home chattering excitedly to tea and crumpets, and next day it is all part of the holiday spirit.

That's how it feels to Middle-Aged Diary today, having paid even less attention to the Boxing Day game than Miss Guest Diary. Tomorrow I will be there (TransPennine Express willing), and of course if we lose I'll be sulking my head off.