Ally
Active Member
You know, maybe we don't give the close season enough 'credit', so to speak. Fine, I'll be the first to admit that I've spent considerable periods this summer choking for some -any- variety of football. Anything at all. I actually thought it was entertaining to watch the Galaxy v the Revolution. That's pure desperation.
I spent hours in California wondering who we had signed, where, how, why, when, arghh.... My record for going cold turkey on the Internet was 5 days, and that was mainly due to being stuck at the bottom of a mountain and being surrounded by bears and sheer cliff walls. When I finally got on, I was abruptly informed that we had, of course, signed absolutely no-one, and that Kewell had gone to Liverpool.
But still, you know, it was a nice break and certainly a pleasant alternative to what I'm usually like during the season itself. There were times last year when I literally couldn't sleep – notably in the run up to the title decider at Highbury, where I was up til 2 or 3 in the morning watching the loop of Sky Sport News. Wow. There were a few days before the FA Cup replay at Stamford Bridge where I couldn't work properly because there was one, naggingly solitary thought swirling around up in the otherwise draughty and cavernous space in my head. And during the games themselves, everything can get a bit...yeauch. During the Cup Final until we scored, I was a bit of a wreck. Shaking. Physically shaking. I mean, come on. In that first Quarter Final game against Chelski, I went through just about every ridiculously excessive emotion you'd care to name. Except possibly lust. Yeah, definitely not lust. Yeech. Still, the point that me and very possibly hundreds of thousands of others, subject ourselves to unneseccary stress in the name of sport stands.
Three months off. Sounds nice. Every other year you get an international tournament to pass some of the time, of course. Sit back, watch without really caring. And after that's finished? Do something. Take up a hobby. Matchstick models, maybe. Go plane spotting. Take a walk in the opposite direction to the pub. Possibly give up writing for a f*cking Arsenal website for a week or two. Hehe. Just kidding.
A large and worrying proportion of this summer was spent in front of a screen, looking through transfer rumours, assessing their feasibility. Wondering if Rustu would actually sign, or if it was all a pipe dream? Firmly deciding that it was a fact that Kewell was coming, despite the fact that, in hindsight, it would have made absolutely no sense at all. None.
Take a break from Arsenal? No. It just isn't going to happen. My psyche dictates that separation from happenings at said football club is bad. Hence it does strange things, like developing a passion for baseball. Like listening to my dads Dire Straits albums, and enjoying them. (I even went to the trouble of downloading a live versions of Sultans of Swing, which is easily better live than on record, BTW) Like writing columns like this.
It's a glorified friendly. No more important in the wider scheme of things than your average kickabout down the park. But I love the Charity/Community/Isolationary/Plastic Plate Shield thingy. Only if you're actually in it, like. But it's great. The new signings usually impress. You may even get tantalising glimpses of the ostentatiously hyped-up youngsters off the bench. It's a decent atmosphere (In the pub at least). All in all, it helps you get back into the rhythm of things.
Wenger's Shield record is impressive. Two fondly remembered victories over tomorrow's opponents. 98 was well cool. Overmars' curling rocket straight into the top corner. Wreh getting lucky off a rebound and neatly rolling the ball under Schmeichael. Best of all, Anelka running Stam ragged and suddenly firing his shot away that hit the net beautifully in the near corner. 99 was frankly more miraculous than anything else, seeing as Arsenal reserves came from behind in the middle of a heatwave to retain the trophy [sic] thanks to an outrageous Kanu penalty and a thump from the Razor that flew in via. the inside of the post.
An indication of the season to come? Erm....no. It really isn't. At all. But as a cure for the insatiable footballing appetite of certain members of the populace, it works quite beautifully. My celebration when Gilberto scored last year was slightly too ballistic for comfort for a friendly. Which is just indicative of what happens when there ain't no football. It's always the same. Kanu's goal at Celtic Park was greeted by rapturous bounding around from the Arsenal end – from everyone, not just the freaks like myself. It's at moments like this that two ideas present themselves – that 1. If the new season doesn't start soon, someone is going to get a kicking motivated out of pent-up frustration and 2. That you really, really have to get a life. Although it has to be said that the latter is justly disregarded. Who needs a life when you can sit with your drink in a huddle with the two other Arsenal fans in the room (Very possibly the city), surrounded by thousands of opposition fans screaming for Edu to be booked and rubbing your hair in a gleeful fashion when they score.
The thing is of course, that I don't really care about this. I want to watch football. I want to see Thierry floating, Bergkamp hook his foot back, anticipate that killer pass. I want to pray, clench my fists together and pray in a totally atheistical way that Franny is finally going to tap in this one, cos the cross is perfect and he can't really miss. Can't he? I want to sit there and take it as twenty or thirty Chelsea fans cheer at full volume and shout many unrepeatable things as Vieira walks because Gronkjaer took a dive and the ref has been looking to get his cards out for the past half hour anyway. I want to go around with a distinct lack of fingernails. I want to walk on by and kiss the badge as the Liverpool fan, completely out of his box, comes stumbling out the pub and slurs out something in a distressing accent amounting to “We've gyot the league wryapped up now, la'. G'wan Michael Owyeeeeeeen!!!! Arsenal are sheeeeeee-iiiitte!!!”
I want to run the risk of slumming around in a deep depression after some abject defeat at a crucial time. I want to close my eyes for a minute during the pause as Pires prepares to take a penalty to level things up at the Lane, because this has got to go in, and if he misses.... And in an utterly perverse way, I want to sit with my head in my hands and cover my eyes as the ball flies into the net at the Reebok, and you know that's it, and you've blown it, and all the Man Utd fans who are cheering for Bolton and are now jumping up and down know it too. And I want to sit and stare at the ceiling as Giggs somehow gets a free header and scores the goal that basically costs you the league.
Because it's usually worth it in the end. After all, I've been waiting all summer for this.
But that's the beauty of it. It takes a while to find, and you can't have things your own way all the time. So hey; you know we're gonna live to fight another day, it's just a day things ain't so good. Get ourselves back again – we've got so much that we can't afford to lose.
You know what? You can stuff the close season. And whatever I may think of it anyway, there's not long to go now. Not long before we start over again. Wipe the slate.
You ready?
Ally Winford
I spent hours in California wondering who we had signed, where, how, why, when, arghh.... My record for going cold turkey on the Internet was 5 days, and that was mainly due to being stuck at the bottom of a mountain and being surrounded by bears and sheer cliff walls. When I finally got on, I was abruptly informed that we had, of course, signed absolutely no-one, and that Kewell had gone to Liverpool.
But still, you know, it was a nice break and certainly a pleasant alternative to what I'm usually like during the season itself. There were times last year when I literally couldn't sleep – notably in the run up to the title decider at Highbury, where I was up til 2 or 3 in the morning watching the loop of Sky Sport News. Wow. There were a few days before the FA Cup replay at Stamford Bridge where I couldn't work properly because there was one, naggingly solitary thought swirling around up in the otherwise draughty and cavernous space in my head. And during the games themselves, everything can get a bit...yeauch. During the Cup Final until we scored, I was a bit of a wreck. Shaking. Physically shaking. I mean, come on. In that first Quarter Final game against Chelski, I went through just about every ridiculously excessive emotion you'd care to name. Except possibly lust. Yeah, definitely not lust. Yeech. Still, the point that me and very possibly hundreds of thousands of others, subject ourselves to unneseccary stress in the name of sport stands.
Three months off. Sounds nice. Every other year you get an international tournament to pass some of the time, of course. Sit back, watch without really caring. And after that's finished? Do something. Take up a hobby. Matchstick models, maybe. Go plane spotting. Take a walk in the opposite direction to the pub. Possibly give up writing for a f*cking Arsenal website for a week or two. Hehe. Just kidding.
A large and worrying proportion of this summer was spent in front of a screen, looking through transfer rumours, assessing their feasibility. Wondering if Rustu would actually sign, or if it was all a pipe dream? Firmly deciding that it was a fact that Kewell was coming, despite the fact that, in hindsight, it would have made absolutely no sense at all. None.
Take a break from Arsenal? No. It just isn't going to happen. My psyche dictates that separation from happenings at said football club is bad. Hence it does strange things, like developing a passion for baseball. Like listening to my dads Dire Straits albums, and enjoying them. (I even went to the trouble of downloading a live versions of Sultans of Swing, which is easily better live than on record, BTW) Like writing columns like this.
It's a glorified friendly. No more important in the wider scheme of things than your average kickabout down the park. But I love the Charity/Community/Isolationary/Plastic Plate Shield thingy. Only if you're actually in it, like. But it's great. The new signings usually impress. You may even get tantalising glimpses of the ostentatiously hyped-up youngsters off the bench. It's a decent atmosphere (In the pub at least). All in all, it helps you get back into the rhythm of things.
Wenger's Shield record is impressive. Two fondly remembered victories over tomorrow's opponents. 98 was well cool. Overmars' curling rocket straight into the top corner. Wreh getting lucky off a rebound and neatly rolling the ball under Schmeichael. Best of all, Anelka running Stam ragged and suddenly firing his shot away that hit the net beautifully in the near corner. 99 was frankly more miraculous than anything else, seeing as Arsenal reserves came from behind in the middle of a heatwave to retain the trophy [sic] thanks to an outrageous Kanu penalty and a thump from the Razor that flew in via. the inside of the post.
An indication of the season to come? Erm....no. It really isn't. At all. But as a cure for the insatiable footballing appetite of certain members of the populace, it works quite beautifully. My celebration when Gilberto scored last year was slightly too ballistic for comfort for a friendly. Which is just indicative of what happens when there ain't no football. It's always the same. Kanu's goal at Celtic Park was greeted by rapturous bounding around from the Arsenal end – from everyone, not just the freaks like myself. It's at moments like this that two ideas present themselves – that 1. If the new season doesn't start soon, someone is going to get a kicking motivated out of pent-up frustration and 2. That you really, really have to get a life. Although it has to be said that the latter is justly disregarded. Who needs a life when you can sit with your drink in a huddle with the two other Arsenal fans in the room (Very possibly the city), surrounded by thousands of opposition fans screaming for Edu to be booked and rubbing your hair in a gleeful fashion when they score.
The thing is of course, that I don't really care about this. I want to watch football. I want to see Thierry floating, Bergkamp hook his foot back, anticipate that killer pass. I want to pray, clench my fists together and pray in a totally atheistical way that Franny is finally going to tap in this one, cos the cross is perfect and he can't really miss. Can't he? I want to sit there and take it as twenty or thirty Chelsea fans cheer at full volume and shout many unrepeatable things as Vieira walks because Gronkjaer took a dive and the ref has been looking to get his cards out for the past half hour anyway. I want to go around with a distinct lack of fingernails. I want to walk on by and kiss the badge as the Liverpool fan, completely out of his box, comes stumbling out the pub and slurs out something in a distressing accent amounting to “We've gyot the league wryapped up now, la'. G'wan Michael Owyeeeeeeen!!!! Arsenal are sheeeeeee-iiiitte!!!”
I want to run the risk of slumming around in a deep depression after some abject defeat at a crucial time. I want to close my eyes for a minute during the pause as Pires prepares to take a penalty to level things up at the Lane, because this has got to go in, and if he misses.... And in an utterly perverse way, I want to sit with my head in my hands and cover my eyes as the ball flies into the net at the Reebok, and you know that's it, and you've blown it, and all the Man Utd fans who are cheering for Bolton and are now jumping up and down know it too. And I want to sit and stare at the ceiling as Giggs somehow gets a free header and scores the goal that basically costs you the league.
Because it's usually worth it in the end. After all, I've been waiting all summer for this.
But that's the beauty of it. It takes a while to find, and you can't have things your own way all the time. So hey; you know we're gonna live to fight another day, it's just a day things ain't so good. Get ourselves back again – we've got so much that we can't afford to lose.
You know what? You can stuff the close season. And whatever I may think of it anyway, there's not long to go now. Not long before we start over again. Wipe the slate.
You ready?
Ally Winford
