As I expected I have severely delayed this second entry. I have been busy at work and with uni work but there was not the issue. It was the shock admission that my footballing idol, my Dad has decided that he's fell out of love with the sport and gave up his season ticket for the Burnley home game when a little effort means he could be in attendance.
I suppose it shouldn't be a shock. The signs were there back in September when refusing to pay an admission fee to watch one of his sons play under the lights at a local ground. Apparently it was the 'principle', paying for Sunday League football was just not on. It was a boycott to hit the league where it hurts. This is the man whose opinion on football is officially the best as it is to every child growing in the country, Dad knows the best players and Dad knows his stuff. Dad takes me football and Dad told me who to support.
He's had enough. Such was the spectacle of City v Portsmouth, last Saturday; it was the final straw. As soon as Nugent's volley hit the net, Steve Cotterill was informing his troops not to cross the halfway line and foul anything that went past them. This is the problem he reckons, too many teams with such a desperate desire for three points because the sport is so results based on performance and thereby there's a direct link to money. Higher up the table more money. Money's killed sport, people like Sven come in rob clubs blind of money, spent it like it grows on trees. Got to get those three points at all costs, no encouragement to ping the ball about.
He thinks this quietly though and then lets rip normally during the Sunday afternoon analysis in the pub or on the Monday afternoon dinner table (all this said Ben Mee was given some stick during Saturday's game). You feel like you can't disagree, this is man who knows best and was actually the best player in the world in his younger days. I am probably exaggerating all this because when he watches football subjectively as just a game, he's quite accurate.
The thing is for a Leicester fan is he's actually quite timid in this respect. As Yakubu snatched a shot towards the end of the Portsmouth game and it landed in outer space, a million expletives rained down onto the pitch from the locals, my Dad didn't even bother like always but the shouty moron is well in existence at the Walkers, whether it's Ricardo (maybe actually valid), King or Yakubu, there's a scapegoat. Soon it'll be Sven.
'50 fucking grand a week for that piece of lazy shite' was pretty much the sum of it from all angles. Welcome to Leicester City, the club where a bit of form leads to false hope of glory (probably like every club to be fair). Ever since that win at rather shitty Derby, promotion was on according to the masses but they seemed to forgot this is Leicester City FC. I have never known them to have any bottle or the ability to go on a winning run which breaks records.
The lack of bottle was more than evident as Norwich outclassed us at hum. At the time, I was rather annoyed by Norwich but maybe that's because off the back of the performance at QPR, I reckoned that we would be sorted, back to winning ways. Instead Norwich produced a performance lauded by Canary fans as their greatest away display in years and I'd probably say the best team down here all season. Too good, we're aiming for top six, them the top two.
Whilst enjoying the day at Scunthorpe and the warm glow of three points (something I have only managed twice this season), I look back on it as an annoying de-tour to failure of my hopes for the playoffs. We scored three times and kept a clean sheet which was great. Issue was that those three goals came from set pieces and Scunthorpe had a penalty and a goal disallowed. It prolonged the hope. I went home, got out the calculator and probably produced better maths skills than I ever did at school. It's still on said calculator in 'if club x beat club z and club y have a negative goal difference due to a 6-0 hammering by the hands of Leicester City' fashion.
But then came the realisation, 30 minutes in on Saturday. 1-0 down to Portsmouth, I just knew. I sat there lifeless for about a minute. I thought no it's not going to happen. I looked at Portsmouth's eleven and thought they should be a lot higher up the league. Then King missed a sitter of a header. No, definitely not and the second half was just some mish mash of a football game where I never thought we were going to win. It was akin to monging out watching shit BBC3 comedy. Draw maybe but never two goals, they had us sussed. Pressure the back four into long balls, leave Yak on his own and watch the late run of Welsh Cryuff. All this feeling was later confirmed by every result going for us, the sort of luck which only happens when you failed to make the most of it.
Personally I just reckon my Dad has just gone through the same thought process I have. It's not going to happen promotion, not even worth hoping (he has an incredible knack of hiding emotion related to football, I have only seen it showcased in last minute winners). All this thing about losing his faith with Football is just some disguise to hide the disappointment. He's just the same as all of us. Just like that nobhead three rows behind is too but he chooses to do it more vocally. Just the same as Flask Army and just the same as the twatty fifteen year old kids in yellow shirts at Glanford Park.
Whereas my Dad has cut the supply for hope off, I spent an evening this week playing around a spreadsheet working out required points etc. and then decided that a first visit to Middlesbrough in some twisted football logic is probably worth it (plus I have watched win twice along that coast of the country).
The same twisted logic which sees me visit Valley Parade over watching England play Wales.
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