The Blues

As a kid I used to love football. I loved playing it, I loved watching it, and I loved talking about it with mates, collecting stickers and pretending I was Gary Linekar or Gazza (yes, I'm a child of Italia 90!). Over the years I grew more frustrated by the fact that I could now predict when a player would fall over, and that officials were still taken in by it. I was tired of spending 90 minutes waiting for a moment of class and watching scrappy battles that I could see in the local park instead. I was bemused by the fact that football media coverage was more concerned with who was dating who, which player was on trial for assault, whether anyone at FIFA was not accepting bribes, and who had just bought the most expensive car. Players at international level didn't seem to care. Top professionals earned staggering amounts every week but wanted more. I could hear myself saying all of this and thought, if someone told me all of that, I'd tell them to stop watching. So I did.

I quit. I stopped watching games, listening for results, supporting teams and getting annoyed. I saved myself the time and effort of following 'the beautiful game'. And I don't feel like I've missed much generally. But today, more so than any other in my recent life, has been a day of football. In part thanks to the news of Mr Moyes being dismissed in the increasingly impatient world of management, and in part because I have two new colleagues who are footy fans. Having held a football discussion for the first time in a long time, I thought perhaps I had it all wrong. Maybe I was missing out. So when I got home this evening to find Chelsea playing a Champions League Semi-final on TV I thought maybe I should give it another go.

I have just wasted another ten minutes of my life (and more by writing about it!). Within thirty seconds a player had fallen over at the merest prospect of a tackle by two opponents. I could see it, but the referee couldn't and gave a free kick. A reply in slow motion caused utter hilarity as the man in question hit the turf like he'd been shot. Shortly after a deliberate handball should have seen the player sent off for a second yellow card, but the referee didn't give it. Worse still, the entire opposition seemed determined to ensure the guilty man was shown the card by surrounding the referee and lambasting him for not brandishing the yellow. This stopped the game for several minutes whilst they all jostled for position, resulting in two more yellow cards. Even the commentators could not decide between them whether it was deliberate or not, and got into an argument. Somebody limped off after tripping on some grass. People taking corners and free kicks could not direct them anywhere near the goal despite being paid millions and being given a ball that was not moving. Defenders trying to clear swiped at thin air rather than connecting with a sphere the size of a dinner plate.

This was the semi-final of the champions league. A competition worth millions of pounds to the clubs involved. A tournament involving the best players from European football. A head to head watched by millions of people around the world. And all they could serve up was this utter dross. If this is the best that the sport has to offer then I'll gladly leave it behind again. In fact, I want my ten minutes back!