Well, the “Silly Season” is almost at an end, and thank God for that. The instantaneous nature of information (and disinformation) availability, coupled with a healthy football addiction can make for an extremely long and torturous lay-off. The 16th of August cannot come soon enough. Finally, the footballing euphoria that will wash over me will heal the wounds the hyperactive media has inflicted upon my psyche over the last few months.
The 16th feels to me now, as Christmas used to feel to me as a young child. No matter how close it may be, it still seems a distant star on the horizon. Only the transfer window, and the media-fueled debacle that comes with it, throws a torturous new hurdle into my path. Imagine, in keeping with the Christmas simile, every day your mother would tell you a gift that you would receive. She would then retract her previous promise a few days or weeks later and tell you of a new wonderful gift that would surely be in your near future. Some days she would even tell you that you did not even need a new gift because she found an old one you left at your mate’s house for about a year (you know the one-with the blond ponytail…sorry, I slipped out of my analogy). Now imagine the economy has hit you a bit hard and you have to sell some of your current toys to fund your shiny, new ones. Cue a whole new set of daily disruptions.
Sounds pretty difficult for a child to go through, doesn’t it? Imagine how hard it is for a child trapped in a man’s body. Believe me, it’s rough. But now, this very moment in time, where the action is so close it is palpable; this is best time of the year. All things are possible; nothing is absurd. The slate is cleaned; all eyes are forward. Sensing the potential peaks (and valleys because without them, the highs are not as high) is such an invigorating precursor to an unmatched dramatic journey that I can hardly sleep.
So roll on, Sunday, because I am completely and utterly primed and ready.
A bit dramatic, but you get my point, yeah?