Why we do it

Why do I do this to myself? This is why.

Those moments of total abandon. That hug-a-complete-stranger-while-yelling-incoherent-gibberish feeling. The way a split second transforms an afternoon from the humdrum to the unforgettable, twice over.

We’re five minutes past the 90. The final whistle is imminent. It’s 1-1, in a game that Sunderland looked like losing for a long time. Sheffield United lose possession in midfield, but there’s not much danger. Until Tom Watson strides forward. Keeps going. Sees that the retreating defender is blocking the goalie’s view. Curls an inch-perfect shot along the ground, kissing the inside of the post as it ruffles the net.

The roar from a bar in Durham might have been audible at Wembley, were it not drowned out by the even greater roar in the stadium. We’re a mass of flailing arms, a guttural, wordless chorus. Fives are high, backs slapped. Embraces shared. We’ve no idea who most of these people are, we just know that in this moment we’re part of one family. And, for an afternoon, the dream is coming true.

The Championship playoff final, the richest game in football. It’s fantastic entertainment, unless you support one of the teams. If you’re a fan, it’s hell on earth.

When your team plays outside the Premier League, or yo-yos between the top two divisions, you might drag yourself to a cup final. There, even if you lose, you can console yourself with the occasion, and the likelihood that you were up against some kind of petro-funded, state-backed behemoth with the resources to buy your entire club from the loose change in its owner’s back pocket.

But the playoffs are all about the result. You’re up against a direct rival, a team you can beat. Maybe not a team you should beat, but if they were that great, they wouldn’t need to go through this ordeal either. And the ordeal is the same for them. It’s all or nothing.

The “occasion”, the “spectacle”. All that’s for the neutral, the Sky-boys, the part-timers. The kind of mealy-mouthed fop who comes out with drivel like “I just want to see all the local teams doing well” (*). Sure, when my team isn’t involved, it’s fun to watch – especially if 40,000 people are going to cry on the telly when their team loses. But this year, we were there. Underdogs, perhaps not wholly deserving of a chance to shoot for that redemption arc, but shooting nonetheless.

No chance of a ticket. Fair enough; others get to more games than I do, travel away with greater commitment. And I’m not paying £500+ for a “Club Wembley” VIP experience. So it’s off to the pub. The price of a match ticket will buy a decent amount of beer and dry-roasted peanuts and, even if we’re 200 miles from the action, I’m still there among my own.

Tension meets bravado. A beery table of lads tries to get a chant going before kick-off, but it doesn’t quite catch. Too many people are too nervous.

The game starts. Barely a minute played and a save-of-the-season contender keeps us at 0-0 at the cost of an injury to a key central defender. Luke O’Nien, a player whose significance transcends his ability, leaves the field. His replacement lacks pace and is cruelly exposed midway through the first half. We get a corner, a chance to attack, and 12 seconds later the ball is in our net. It’s not undeserved on the balance of play, but the way lose the goal hurts. The pub noise descends to an irritable mutter.

Disaster! 0-2! A long way back from here. But VAR, only applicable in this game, steps in. A Sheffield player strays offside, blocks the goalie’s view. It takes time. Enough time to get back to the bar and secure the next pint, but the goal is disallowed. Game still on, just about.

Half time. Regroup. Check the racing results and see the day’s Acca safely past the post. In the Wembley dressing room, something changes. From the start of the second half, there’s intent. After 45 minutes of dominating possession while doing next to nothing with the ball, suddenly there are chances.

Unfortunately, they’re at both ends. Defensive indecision should have been terminal, Paterson makes a season-defining save with an outstretched boot. It’s starting to feel like one of those days.

Until Eliezer Mayenda gets on the end of Patrick Roberts’ pass, surges into the Sheffield box and fires into the roof of the net. 1-1. Jubilation. O’Nien racing round the touchline, arm-in-sling, to celebrate. 15 minutes left, and the dream is alive once more. Trai Hume puts a crunching, legal, yet devastating tackle on Ben Brereton Dias; the Blades’ sub is subbed out of the game with a badly bruised ego. Then Tom Watson. Already committed to join Brighton in the summer. It’s the last kick of his Sunderland career, and it changes everything.

(*) disclaimer: this attitude is total garbage. Any true fan understands that the only thing comparable to your own success is the utter failure of your local rival. Supporting “all local teams” is the kind of behaviour that should have people placed on government watch-lists.