Anything's Possible

I'm posting this today as I don't think I will be in any fit state to do so tomorrow, let alone of Sunday, and I guess part of the reason I want to post before then is to put my feelings across before D-day.

The thing is I hate football. No I love it, its in my blood, I just hate what it does to me. Not that I can do anything to change that.

When I was 11 years old, my dad rang me and asked whether I fancied going to the Coca-Cola (League) Cup final, I shrugged it off but agreed, it seemed like a good way to spend time with my dad and I kinda was getting into football. So we went, playing Arsenal, and to cut a long story short we lost 2-1, and I cried all the way home. Just a couple of weeks later, it was the FA cup final reply (we had drawn 1-1) in the actual final. So it was late in the evening and my mum had let me stay up and just as it was about to go to pens, Andy Lingham rose from a corner to head the ball, Graham Hyde failed to move his leg, and Chris Woods just watched the ball fly into the net, and we'd lost. I can still see that goal, everytime, expecting it to be booted up field and each time it going into the back of the net.

I cried myself to sleep that night, yet when I got up in the morning I dressed in blue and white. I was proud of what my team had done, how far they had come and the heart they had shown. I had also become part of my family, the part of my family that had been Wednesdayites for generations, that had been at Wembly in 1966 and been through the pain of 1990 when the unthinkable happened.

Things quickly settled back to normal, Wednesday became a mid table team, occassionally pushing for Europe and I got suckered into buying a season ticket. A cheap deal in which I thought I could miss several games and it would still be worth my while, it was really too good to miss as long as you where up for 8 matches that year. The thing is I didn't miss one, and not only that but I started going away from home too, by the end of the 1990s I was hooked, my Saturdays focused on Hillsborough, and then the brown stuff hit the fan. We were relegated, I still remember the day I accepted it, long before the season had ended, we had lost at home to L**ds, 2-0, played on Sky, and the cameras caught me, now 18, sobbing my heart out head in hands, I got so much grief for that from my mates.

Three years later the same had happened again, before the season ending we were relegated again to the third tier for the first time in the clubs history. Yet I was there in the 7-2, the game after we had dropped down the division, tears streaming down my face belting out that 'I'm Wednesday til I die.' And going through the same emotions two years late as we won the playoff and headed back up the leagues. Dancing around, singing, crying losing my voice.

And now it comes to Sunday, and a day we could be relegated again. There's five teams in the mix and we are one of them and there's a good chance we can go down. Its simple maths really win, and we stay up, lose and the unthinkable happens, and I'm already feeling sick, unable think about what may happen.

I know that I will sing my heart out, so I come home with no voice. That my emotions will go through a rollercoaster as I wear my heart on my sleeve. Give everything I have and come home crying, feeling like I have run several miles. I know that for those 90 minutes that all will be forgiven and forgotten, I won't care about rising season ticket prices, that we have most of our star players injured or the mess in the board room. I will be giving everything to our kids, loan signings, and players I've claimed have not been good enough as they are all owls and they could all be heros. I will not give up until the end, even if we let in goals, miss pens and fail to get a shot on target, I'll be there singing. Knowing that my boys out there will win every tackle, be first to each ball, have more shots and score more goals, and if all that goes okay we'll be safe. And in my heart of hearts if I can still sing with pride about my team at the end of the day, things will be okay. And whatever happens I will be still wearing my colours come Monday.

So here's the call. Forget the history, where were in the past. Forget the mess of this season. Forget the board room battles. The manager debates. Injured players. Its 90 minutes, lets give it everything we have, afterall it has been in my blood for generations and will be for generations, no matter who the board, managers and players are. Lets be the 40,000, yes its a sell out that fights til the end.

'CAUSE I KNOW I AM, I'M SURE I AM, I'M WEDNESDAY TIL I DIE!

(I hope someone other than Richard unstands this post.)