KetteringPete2
Active Member
I have been disillusioned with football for some time. Senior football at least, and I had to jot down why. Then it kinda ended up in this essay. I don't know if anyone else feels like this but I just needed to get it off my chest. Thanks for indulging me....
Football, I Want a Divorce.
You know, we first met in 1969, a chance encounter that ignited a passion that would last a lifetime—or so I thought. Our affair became serious after that thrilling 2-2 draw at Leicester City against Leeds in 1973. You captured my heart, and Leicester City became my club in your exhilarating, unpredictable world.
You were everything I wanted: exciting, fast-paced, thrilling, and enthralling. And cheap! You were my weekend escape, my midweek daydream, my reason for living from one matchday to the next. I loved our rituals—the anticipation of boarding the coach, meeting up with mates, parking outside the Leicester Working Men’s Club, and downing a pre-match pint with a tray of mushy peas and mint sauce. Then off we’d go, piling into Pen 3 behind the goal at my beloved Filbert Street, always just before 3 o’clock. A frantic 45p at the turnstiles and a sprint up the steps—I could already hear the roar of the crowd, our fans shouting for the team we loved, and I’d shove my way in, eyes darting up to the gantry to see if the cameras were there, hoping to relive it all on BBC’s Match of the Day or ITV’s The Big Match.
And when we won? Oh, the Saturday nights out were electric—pints clinking, jukeboxes blaring, the sweet taste of victory lingering long after the last call.
Away games were their own brand of madness: up and down the motorways in a coach that rattled like a tin can, blue and white scarves flapping through the windows, jeering at rival fans like we were Spartans on the battlefield, and always, always that desperate bladder-busting race for the nearest loo when we finally spilled off the coach. But who cared? A programme in my hand, change left over from £2.00, and the thrill of knowing we were all in it together.
I was just 17 when you seduced me. Since then we’ve been through so much together: the ups and downs of relegation, the heartbreak of losing cup semi-finals and play-off finals, even one occasion, clawing our way back from 3-0 down. But we kept fighting. We finally won a play-off, clambering our way to the promised land of the Premier League. There were glorious League Cup final wins, and then the humiliating tumble to the third division. But we fought back, didn’t we? All the way to the top.
And then, against all odds, against every pundit and naysayer and even my own cynical heart—Leicester City, my Leicester City, became champions of England. It was the dream I never dared dream, the greatest love story in football history. We had a European adventure that left us all giddy and proud, followed a few years later by FA Cup glory. It was magical. We were invincible.
But even in those halcyon days, I sensed something was wrong. You started turning away, didn’t you? You found a new lover. Television. No longer could I just rock up to a game and pay at the gate. Everything became all-ticket, a hassle, a scramble, a ritual for the privileged few who could jump through the hoops. But you didn’t care. You were too busy cosying up to the cameras, doing everything to keep your new partner happy.
Gate prices skyrocketed from 45p in 1973 to £35.00 a ticket. Even allowing for inflation, it should only be £8.50 or thereabouts. What happened, football? We’ve had our share of tragedies, but this feels like robbery.
And you’re obsessed with pleasing your new fan. You’ve sold your soul to the devil’s TV Guide. You’ve slapped distracting moving electronic ads around the pitch—eyesores that light up like tacky Las Vegas slot machines. Matches are still all-ticket. I can’t just decide on a whim to go; I have to sign up to some soulless website, book days in advance, and wave goodbye to spontaneity. Kick-off times change at the drop of a hat, all for the demands of TV. Once, all was sacred at 3pm on a Saturday. Now, it’s a scattergun of times, as erratic as a toddler’s sleep schedule. And what’s with the after-goal jingles? Fans don’t need a soundtrack to know when to cheer!
But the final straw—the nail in the coffin of our relationship—is VAR. It’s destroying you, but you can’t even see it, can you? Back in the day, the scoring of a goal was a euphoric eruption, a spontaneous combustion of joy. Thirty thousand people united in a moment of shared ecstasy, a collective roar that could shake the heavens. That’s what it was all about. That’s what we paid our money for. And now, thanks to VAR, those moments are dissected, delayed, and drained of their soul. We sit, waiting, wondering, then celebrating tentatively—only to have our joy snatched away by an invisible hand drawing lines on a screen. That magical, unfiltered moment is gone.
So, football, at least premiership and league football, I’ve had enough. I’m done. I want a divorce. I’ll always look back fondly at what we had, but my Saturdays are beginning to belong to non-league football. No VAR. No irritating adverts. No players pocketing £100,000 or more a game while barely breaking a sweat. No, I’m packing my bags, and by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
Goodbye, football. I wish you well, but I’m moving on. But I probably won't.
Football, I Want a Divorce.
You know, we first met in 1969, a chance encounter that ignited a passion that would last a lifetime—or so I thought. Our affair became serious after that thrilling 2-2 draw at Leicester City against Leeds in 1973. You captured my heart, and Leicester City became my club in your exhilarating, unpredictable world.
You were everything I wanted: exciting, fast-paced, thrilling, and enthralling. And cheap! You were my weekend escape, my midweek daydream, my reason for living from one matchday to the next. I loved our rituals—the anticipation of boarding the coach, meeting up with mates, parking outside the Leicester Working Men’s Club, and downing a pre-match pint with a tray of mushy peas and mint sauce. Then off we’d go, piling into Pen 3 behind the goal at my beloved Filbert Street, always just before 3 o’clock. A frantic 45p at the turnstiles and a sprint up the steps—I could already hear the roar of the crowd, our fans shouting for the team we loved, and I’d shove my way in, eyes darting up to the gantry to see if the cameras were there, hoping to relive it all on BBC’s Match of the Day or ITV’s The Big Match.
And when we won? Oh, the Saturday nights out were electric—pints clinking, jukeboxes blaring, the sweet taste of victory lingering long after the last call.
Away games were their own brand of madness: up and down the motorways in a coach that rattled like a tin can, blue and white scarves flapping through the windows, jeering at rival fans like we were Spartans on the battlefield, and always, always that desperate bladder-busting race for the nearest loo when we finally spilled off the coach. But who cared? A programme in my hand, change left over from £2.00, and the thrill of knowing we were all in it together.
I was just 17 when you seduced me. Since then we’ve been through so much together: the ups and downs of relegation, the heartbreak of losing cup semi-finals and play-off finals, even one occasion, clawing our way back from 3-0 down. But we kept fighting. We finally won a play-off, clambering our way to the promised land of the Premier League. There were glorious League Cup final wins, and then the humiliating tumble to the third division. But we fought back, didn’t we? All the way to the top.
And then, against all odds, against every pundit and naysayer and even my own cynical heart—Leicester City, my Leicester City, became champions of England. It was the dream I never dared dream, the greatest love story in football history. We had a European adventure that left us all giddy and proud, followed a few years later by FA Cup glory. It was magical. We were invincible.
But even in those halcyon days, I sensed something was wrong. You started turning away, didn’t you? You found a new lover. Television. No longer could I just rock up to a game and pay at the gate. Everything became all-ticket, a hassle, a scramble, a ritual for the privileged few who could jump through the hoops. But you didn’t care. You were too busy cosying up to the cameras, doing everything to keep your new partner happy.
Gate prices skyrocketed from 45p in 1973 to £35.00 a ticket. Even allowing for inflation, it should only be £8.50 or thereabouts. What happened, football? We’ve had our share of tragedies, but this feels like robbery.
And you’re obsessed with pleasing your new fan. You’ve sold your soul to the devil’s TV Guide. You’ve slapped distracting moving electronic ads around the pitch—eyesores that light up like tacky Las Vegas slot machines. Matches are still all-ticket. I can’t just decide on a whim to go; I have to sign up to some soulless website, book days in advance, and wave goodbye to spontaneity. Kick-off times change at the drop of a hat, all for the demands of TV. Once, all was sacred at 3pm on a Saturday. Now, it’s a scattergun of times, as erratic as a toddler’s sleep schedule. And what’s with the after-goal jingles? Fans don’t need a soundtrack to know when to cheer!
But the final straw—the nail in the coffin of our relationship—is VAR. It’s destroying you, but you can’t even see it, can you? Back in the day, the scoring of a goal was a euphoric eruption, a spontaneous combustion of joy. Thirty thousand people united in a moment of shared ecstasy, a collective roar that could shake the heavens. That’s what it was all about. That’s what we paid our money for. And now, thanks to VAR, those moments are dissected, delayed, and drained of their soul. We sit, waiting, wondering, then celebrating tentatively—only to have our joy snatched away by an invisible hand drawing lines on a screen. That magical, unfiltered moment is gone.
So, football, at least premiership and league football, I’ve had enough. I’m done. I want a divorce. I’ll always look back fondly at what we had, but my Saturdays are beginning to belong to non-league football. No VAR. No irritating adverts. No players pocketing £100,000 or more a game while barely breaking a sweat. No, I’m packing my bags, and by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
Goodbye, football. I wish you well, but I’m moving on. But I probably won't.
