Last night I went, with my old man, to see Chelsea take on CFR Cluj, a good old fashioned father and son outing.
Before the match, Dad took me for a slow stroll down the Kings Road showing off the sights (He was dismayed that the Old Chelsea Drugstore is now a McDonalds) and after a quick pre-match pint and some grub we made our way to the ground.
We picked up tickets at the last minute for £25 quid each (cheap by Chelsea's standards) and as a result we were sitting high up in the very top row of the upper tier of the new West Stand, an amazing view - of the roof that is, the pitch was bloomin' miles away! Still, having not been to a game for at least a year or so, we didn't grumble (it was surprisingly warm up there. After all heat rises).
It's strange the effect that watching a live game has on you. Before we entered the ground, Dad was telling me how he never feels quite as stressed watching a game as he used to back when he was a season ticket holder, that perhaps age had mellowed him out.
It made me think whether the same was true of me. Do I care as much as when I was a kid even? Maybe it's because we've tasted recent success, maybe it's just an acceptance that, as fans, there's little you can really do about it anyway - hope for the best but take the rough with the smooth.
Regardless, by the time we'd taken our seats and a lethargic Chelsea had squandered a 1-0 lead, we were anything but accepting. Suddenly, every challenge mattered, every lack of movement cursed. When you're sitting in a crowd at a stadium, the unified feelings of expectancy and nervous tension are multiplied by ten. Impulse simply takes over.
A sweeping move culminated in Drogba poking home the winner. You should have seen the old fella jump to his feet. Magic!
Before the match, Dad took me for a slow stroll down the Kings Road showing off the sights (He was dismayed that the Old Chelsea Drugstore is now a McDonalds) and after a quick pre-match pint and some grub we made our way to the ground.
We picked up tickets at the last minute for £25 quid each (cheap by Chelsea's standards) and as a result we were sitting high up in the very top row of the upper tier of the new West Stand, an amazing view - of the roof that is, the pitch was bloomin' miles away! Still, having not been to a game for at least a year or so, we didn't grumble (it was surprisingly warm up there. After all heat rises).
It's strange the effect that watching a live game has on you. Before we entered the ground, Dad was telling me how he never feels quite as stressed watching a game as he used to back when he was a season ticket holder, that perhaps age had mellowed him out.
It made me think whether the same was true of me. Do I care as much as when I was a kid even? Maybe it's because we've tasted recent success, maybe it's just an acceptance that, as fans, there's little you can really do about it anyway - hope for the best but take the rough with the smooth.
Regardless, by the time we'd taken our seats and a lethargic Chelsea had squandered a 1-0 lead, we were anything but accepting. Suddenly, every challenge mattered, every lack of movement cursed. When you're sitting in a crowd at a stadium, the unified feelings of expectancy and nervous tension are multiplied by ten. Impulse simply takes over.
A sweeping move culminated in Drogba poking home the winner. You should have seen the old fella jump to his feet. Magic!
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