“I don’t quite follow how you, a man who lives over 200 miles away from the home ground of your chosen team, can claim some deep attachment to a bunch of overpaid, hired hands from all four corners of the globe who temporarily wear the same colored shirt as you’re currently wearing.”

Mitchell and Webb

Today my chosen soccer team, Tottenham Hotspur, lost to West Ham 1-0. It was just the latest in a string of underwhelming performances – including an abysmal 3-1 loss to arch rivals Arsenal – that have been going on since I started writing this post last February.

In December of 2020 Spurs were first in the Premier League. They had hired a historically successful manager named Jose Mourinho to bring us silverware. Two of our stars, Harry Kane and Son Heung-Min, were combining for more goals than entire teams. Last October, they beat Manchester United 6-1 at Old Trafford (sans fans but still cool). It was a great time to be a Spurs fan.

Since then they’ve been a shit show.

We’ve seen losses to beatable teams, a League Cup final loss to Manchester City, a UEFA Cup exit at the hands of a Croatian team who’s manager was in prison, the sacking of Jose Mourinho followed by a frustrating and protracted search for a new manager resulting in the appointment of Nuno Espirito Santo who was roughly eighth on the original wish list, and a strong desire from our best player, the homegrown Harry Kane, to leave and go to Manchester City so he could finally win something.

We* even managed to sit at the top of the Premier League table this year after the first few games only to tumble once more as if the players and coaches all know what they’re doing and love rubbing salt in the wound.

*A friend once pointed out to me that if your team is losing they’re “they,” when they’re winning, they’re “we” so I’ll be using we, despite the fact that they’re sapping me of life force.

In the first season of Ted Lasso* the barkeep tells Ted, “It’s the hope that kills you.” I’ll echo that slightly and say, it’s caring that kills you.

*I’d be surprised if you were reading my blog and didn’t know this show but it’s a Jason Sudeikis sitcom about an American football coach who ends up coaching in the Premier League, the premise of this sketch where he’s coaching Spurs, which manages to hold up.

When Premier League soccer started back up again last year after being shut down for the pandemic, I had something to look forward to. The games were on all the time to make up for the months they had missed. Watching Spurs got me through a pretty long stretch of the pandemic (that and repeated viewings of Community but we’ll talk about that later). I had always been a huge fan but now I was invested and free of other distractions.

But it goes back farther and deeper than that.

I recently found the post from my previous blog in which I chose Tottenham as my team. I started following them in the 2007-08 season. I bought my first jersey that year. I started hanging out with other fans at a bar on Atlantic Avenue long before I lived anywhere near it. This season is my fourteenth following this team. Fourteen years of my life.

My support for this team has survived jobs and relationships. I was watching a game with friends when my father called to tell me that I should come home to Rochester to see my mother in the hospital in what would turn out to be her death bed. One of the last things I ever did with my father was attend a game in London.

It might be a stretch to say that I’ve made and lost friends over this team but it’s not even a slight exaggeration to say that friendships have been strengthened and strained by this team.

In November of 2019, I traveled to London, England, by myself, just to see Spurs play. They drew Sheffield United at home, a disappointing game and the last one managed by fan favorite Mauricio Pochettino.

I have hoped for their wins. I’ve shrugged off and been stung by their losses. I have watched players and managers come and go. I have spent money on this team, on merchandise, cable packages, and tickets. I have also spent an asset more valuable than money: time. Fourteen years of it.

Let me also state for the record: I asked for this. No one told me to follow a Premier League soccer team. Nor did anyone suggest that I choose the one that perennially underachieves and chokes.

I could have made the easiest choice and become a Manchester United fan, the team that needs no more fans, that every American who has barely even heard of soccer has heard of. I could have chosen Chelsea or Arsenal, maybe even Liverpool. West Ham and Everton have storied histories. If I were a basic bitch, I could have waited a few years for Arab billionaires to prop up an also-ran team and become a Manchester City fan.* I could have chosen Newcastle and now I would have to reckon with a take over by an even worse billionaire.

* Show me an American who was a Man City fan before 2008 and I’ll show you a liar. I don’t hate them because Man City is a title winning machine. No. It’s that they are thoroughly created, money having replaced all of their players with continental upgrades who never would have deigned themselves City players in the pre-billionaire era. If you’re from Manchester and your family has loved City for years, cool. Liam and Noel are cool in my book. However, if you just started watching soccer and you picked City as your team, I don’t respect you.

It’s a funny thing, being a fan. It’s just a game, a game that I am not playing, a game that isn’t responsible for putting food on my table, a game in which I truly have no stakes. I could just stop watching. But I know I’m not going to. Maybe it’s become a habit or a crutch. Maybe it’s the sunk cost fallacy. What I keep coming back to, though, is this: what the hell else am I going to do? I like soccer, I enjoy watching it, and this is my team.

I keep watching for the miracles. For Peter Crouch scoring against Man City to get us to fourth place and qualify for the Champions League. Watching Gareth Bale score miracle goals on his way to becoming arguably the best player in the world. Watching Clint Dempsey score at Man U for our first win there in decades. Watching Lucas Moura scored one of the best goals in Champions League history.

In the Spurs podcast A View From the Lane, host Danny Kelly asked some of the other journalists, “do you think fans feel entitled to a good game?” It was a question so obvious that I never gave it any thought. I think it’s the source of all sports misery, though, isn’t it? It’s certainly the current source of my disappointment with the team.

In today’s loss, Spurs didn’t even look like they were trying that hard to score. West Ham’s Antonio flicked the winner into the net off of a corner while being marked by Harry Kane. I don’t think I’m entitled to a good game, they don’t owe it to me. But I sure as hell want a good game. I want them to care as much as I do and today it didn’t seem like they did.

I’ll watch their League Cup match this week. I’ll watch their next Premier League game this Saturday. I’ll wear the latest jersey I bought for both. If they lose, I’ll complain to my friends, if they win, I’ll feel a sense of hope. And on it will go.

If you didn’t know what the title of this post meant, it refers to the chant captured below, a chant that I am starting to understand far too well.