Anything but football

At times like this- how I wished I'd taken more interest in cricket, tennis, rugby union or anything but football.

There are times when I wished I'd taken a more active interest in other sports. After the Gooners thrashing of the Hammers at the London Stadium all I wanted to do was lock myself in a dark room, weep uncontrollably, eat several bars of Bournville chocolate, drink a couple of bottles of Beaujolais and just drown my sorrows in a veritable brewery of beer.

Hold on Joe! You don't mean that. Football is just a game, a mere weekend diversion, an abiding interest. And yet it's painful, excruciatingly painful, deeply uncomfortable and awkward. I know the football season in England lasts for only nine months but this is just a cruel punishment, a terrible imposition. I mean there must be more pleasurable hobbies than supporting a football team who regularly underachieve, always leave you on anxious tenterhooks and do nothing for your heart. It's damaging to the health and should be stopped right now.

But, tell the truth I wouldn't have it any other way. When you support West Ham United and all of the emotional investment that that entails you do become very conditioned to permanent failure. Last season West Ham finished a commendable seventh in the Premier League and for those of a cynical disposition it must have felt that it could never ever happen again. But it happened and upon reflection that last season at Upton Park was rather like a supernatural occurrence.

When the whistle went for that famous last game against Manchester United last season it almost felt like some romantic film or some memorable social event. It was almost like that moment in Sleepless in Seattle when Tom Hanks meets Meg Ryan for the first time. It just felt like the right moment and the right time.

Now of course roll forward to December 2016 and everything has just gone disastrously wrong for West Ham as perhaps we feared it might. Maybe I should have had a premonition that things would just hit the buffers, go haywire and just crumble around our ears. There were times during the late 1970s and early 80s when every week was a major crisis at Upton Park. Towards the end of that first relegation to the old Second Division in 1978 you somehow knew that it would all end in tears. Defeats for West Ham were an almost a regular occurrence and when relegation was confirmed you could almost smell that impending sense of gloom.

They were counter balanced by the wins at Upton Park which were great fun to watch but torturous all the same because you would never know when they would come. But here am I back in the present moment and wondering whether West Ham will ever get it right. Or maybe they'll never find that winning formula again, maybe the chemistry is wrong, the structure isn't right, the manager Slaven Bilic isn't quite what West Ham had in mind. Maybe it's something they put in their tea.

Do you know something? There are times when I feel sorely tempted to follow a rugby union or league team, maybe follow tennis, cricket on a more frequent basis. Why I ask myself, do I have to put myself through this anguish, this trauma, this dreadful sinking of the heart. I should be used to it by now but such is the nature of things that you can never truly find the reasons for it all. There has to be a psychological explanation for the Hammers yearly battle against the odds.

And then you find yourself yearning for a sport that doesn't involve first halves, half time and full time because they're just nerve shredding. Why set yourself up for a fall and then find yourself pleasantly surprised when you do win?  Why did I stand on freezing November terraces in the South Bank at West Ham, stamping my feet and then just praying for the final whistle because the Hammers had been so awful. I must have been a masochist or perhaps there was just a small part of me that hoped that because the BBC or London Weekend TV cameras were there that might be the right omen.

But oh no. All around me loyal and hardened Hammers spilled out the grievances, Here we had abuse, offensive language, full throated obscenities and deep dissatisfaction. Burgers and cups of Bovril were launched onto the pitch like heat seeking missiles. West Ham had lost once again when they should have won convincingly and here was I a victim of circumstances. I just couldn't do it again and yet I could because of the atmosphere, the vocal crowds, the horses outside Upton Park, the programme sellers devoted to their cause, the peanut sellers with their regular bags of peanuts, the terrace wisdom, the lively banter, the cheeky comments but above all I loved their unwavering support and I had to go back. Every fortnight. Without fail.  

Then the Upton Park floodlights flickered on at half time almost reluctantly and season ticket holders on the South Bank would light up a thousand cigarettes. You breathed out the cold air of a late November afternoon and plumes of smoke would drift into the air almost casually.  When the defeats became too much I could have decided to call it a day and never set foot inside Upton Park again and yet the tug of loyalty was still there. How could I desert my football team for the ruck, maul and line out of rugby, the wonderful ebb and flow of tennis or the peacefully sedate world of cricket. There was hockey or lacrosse perhaps. Maybe boxing but that was just violent and brutal. Maybe cliff diving, motor sport, darts, snooker, bowls, sk-ing. There had to be a logical alternative to all of that nervous tension, the constant nail biting, the teeth chattering, the checking of watches, that numbing sensation you get when the final whistle goes and the Hammers have lost again. Why do I do this to myself?  I know why I do this. It's that sense of belonging, that allegiance to something special, that sentimental attachment to my football team and just Blowing Bubbles that nearly reach the sky.

In many ways it is rather like watching a medieval execution. Here are the huge crowds baying for blood, hurling contempt at the referee, all fired up venom, bile and vitriol. And then the game is over and you look around you and find that the world is still there.  Life goes on, the shops are still open, the buses and trains still running. There is though, a sharp intake of breath and the slow realisation that once again all of those delusional hopes have gone by the wayside, like a puff of smoke. You flick through the claret and blue programme and convince yourself that maybe West Ham will win again at Upton Park, It's just that you don't know when or how. The uncertainty in a sense maybe good for your soul.

Now after 40 years of sheer bloody minded endurance and soul searching I still follow my team both on the radio and the highlights on Match of the Day. Not because I have to but because deep inside me there is some ridiculous compulsion to support your team come hell or high water. It's part of who you are because when you were a kid you woke up one day and you had to follow your football team because Uncle Pete did or it was a family attachment. Of course that was the reason why? It ran in the family, it was genetic, deeply embedded in your soul. That's it. You just supported your team because it felt good and you were persuaded into thinking that your team would always win Cups and Leagues. Every week, month and decade.

But I have to say that right now it doesn't feel that way. West Ham are a point above the relegation zone in the Premier League. I wonder what would happen if I did start watching more cricket and tennis to the total exclusion of everything else? I could tell myself that football is a wretched and abominable sport. I could just nip off to Saracens or London Irish and thrill to the sight of beefy prop forwards thundering into rucks, stampeding across the pitch and flinging the ball about with an almost instinctive telepathy. Rugby may be tough, rough and very physical at times but hey I could get used to that.

Then I could follow the recently crowned No 1 Andy Murray, Rafal Nadal or Roger Federer or any of those up and coming stars of the tennis court.  Tennis is just inherently skilful, artistic on frequent occasions, fluent, flowing and seemingly continuous. Tennis seems to go on for days, weeks and months. Sets can last for ever. Tennis players have almost inexhaustible reserves of energy. Where do they get it from? Tennis is about outwitting your opponent, stretching your opponent to the point of no return, both mentally and physically uplifting. So why not tennis? There's always Wimbledon at the height of summer.  But then I'd probably miss the winter pursuit, West Ham against Chelsea or Manchester City and United and wonder where the Hammers were in the Premier League.

What about cricket? Well I used to love watching cricket when the BBC had the rights to the Test matches. Cricket had a definite appeal. Cricket had and still has an immaculate dress sense, it had both skill and strategy, an intriguing mystique, a game that gradually unfolded like the first tulips of spring and then built up to an electrifying climax when there were run chases to be had and batsmen going hell for leather.

On second thoughts I'll stick to football. It can do no harm at all. And besides when it comes to supporting West Ham there is something very exhilarating about a relegation battle that is somehow indefinable. Without knowing it maybe it is doing me the world of good. Now where did I leave that claret and blue scarf? Oh, it's over there.