Love Hurts

Love Hurts

I sit here penning this piece after just over seventy-two hours of wallowing in despair. That’s three days. Three long, soul-searching, heartbreaking days. Three days since my beloved Sunderland travelled the short journey to arch rivals Newcastle. Three days since they travelled home with their tails between their legs, on the back of a humiliating 5-1 thrashing.

It’s times like this that I wonder why I do it. Why do I put myself through such gut-wrenching pain and anger? Why devote so much time, and money, to a cause that never ceases to let me down? Why open myself up to the ridicule that, no matter how good things may seem, is inevitably just around the corner?

Never have these questions been more relevant than last Sunday evening.

You see, those of you not from the north-east might not have realised, or simply did and didn’t really care, but this is the year Sunderland do it. This is the year we prove to everyone, but especially those up the road, that we’re the top dogs in the region now, that we’re the ones to watch.

Well, that was how it was meant to be anyway. Ninety painful minutes, six goals and an entirely predictable Titus Bramble red card later prove just how wrong I was.

Perhaps, in hindsight, I should have known better. Sunderland have always had a knack of building my hopes up, only to crush them in brutal fashion.

I attended my first game on my sixth birthday. A 1-0 victory at home to Coventry City laid the foundations for a glorious future; eight months later we were relegated.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more miserable this whole football lark becomes.

In just fourteen years of support I have witnessed three relegations, two of which saw pathetic returns of just 19 and 15 points respectively. I’ve seen three, arguably four, more relegation battles. I’ve experienced the most favourable FA Cup semi-final draw we could have ever hoped for, and then I’ve watched as we transpired to lose anyway.

I could say the blow has been softened by how I’ve seen us play at Wembley, in arguably the most entertaining at match the hallowed turf has ever hosted. Indeed, not only have I seen such a magnificent spectacle, but I’ve cheered from the stands as we found the net ten times in a single game. But that single game was the 1998 First Division play-off final, and after two hours of exhilarating football and thirteen penalties, we still came home losers.

Of course, I am not foolish enough to think that I and other Sunderland fans are the only ones to witness such misery.

For the majority of fans, setting aside the Manchester Uniteds and the Barcelonas of the world, following a football team is a pretty melancholy pastime. When the going is good, we know it’s doomed to fail soon. When the going is bad, we expect such misfortune to never end.

Truth be told, which the exception of the few, it is hard to pick a time where supporters of a club can be said to have undergone a prolonged period of joyous support.

Paradoxically, perhaps the only time where all fans are truly happy with current affairs is when there is little to no football being played at all: pre-season. Those two months or so before the kick-off present hope in abundance, with new signings offering promise and the previous season’s horrors cast to the very back of one’s mind.

And therein lies the answer to my question.

It’s the hope that keeps me going. It’s the belief that, no matter how badly we performed last week, next week will be a different story. It’s the totally unfounded expectation that things will get better that keeps me desperately following Sunderland, week in, week out.

I know I’m an idiot. I know I’m guilty of hoping for the best when all of history tells me I should give up. I know I’m stupid for, in spite of Sunday’s debacle, immediately making plans to travel away to Wolves and Fulham in the coming weeks.

The problem is: I can’t help it. I’ve been bitten by the bug and there’s no cure. It’s been that way ever since that scrappy 1-0 on my sixth birthday. No matter how much they upset me, no matter how much ribbing I get from Newcastle acquaintances (and believe me, there’s been plenty of it) and no matter how frustrating the whole experience is, I can’t stop myself from going for more.

The only saving grace in all this? I’m not alone. Not by a long shot.

In fact, I’m probably one of the luckier ones.

How it must feel to be a Leeds United fan now? Just a decade ago, Elland Road hosted Champions League football; now, the club that saw off all comers in the early 1970s finds itself languishing in the second tier of English football.

What of Rochdale? Their fans were understandably overjoyed at last season’s promotion, but it came after a thirty-six year spell where their side was neither relegated nor promoted; hardly the exciting experience one hopes to garner from football.

And spare a thought for poor old Wimbledon, and the followers of the ‘Crazy Gang’. Heartlessly uprooted, replaced and renamed at Milton Keynes, fans found themselves without their local club, and were thus forced to form their own and start at the bottom all over again.

Yet, despite all this heartbreak and agonising torment, support endures.

To follow a football team is to love one, and to experience perhaps the longest relationship that can be had in life. No matter how hard one tries, it can’t simply be broken off. Even in times of pure anger and devastating humiliation, when expletive-laden rants suggest it’s all finally over and we can live our lives without the hassle, the adoration is still there, ready to come back stronger than ever.

Sunday was a particularly painful experience for myself. I’d dared hope more than I ever should have, and thus the crushing of dreams was more devastating than seemed possible. It’s been three days and I’m still not over it. However should this coming Saturday bring a win, my outlook will be bright again, and I’ll let myself hope once more.

Love hurts. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.