Ever wondered why you bother to queue up to pay between £40 and £100 on a freezing Wednesday evening to watch your favourite football team lose three goals to nil while the rain falls and the wind blows? What is it about football that makes grown men so fired up that if their team loses they go mad for a week. Perhaps it's the memory of those playground kickabouts when we all aspired to be the next George Best, Glen Hoddle, Teddy Sherringham or Steven Gerrard. Maybe it was the first big game we ever went to, the atmosphere before the kick off, the huge green pitch and the floodlights. Maybe it was the hot pie and tea at half time.
My first memory of attending a match was Aston Villa versus Everton many years ago. I was just a boy and not used to hearing the men around me swearing and cussing, it was all a bit scary! Then it happened. Aston Villa scored a goal from a corner and forty thousand fans jumped to their feet and exploded in to celebration. That was it for me. The jubilation of the goal has never left me. The feeling of joy and relief as the ball hits the back of the net is one of the greatest feelings I know.
Now we have players earning ridiculous amounts of money, many of whom lack morals and manners or have simply become so spoiled that they exist in a bubble. The clubs are owned by money grabbing suits who squeeze the fans for every penny and a small select few teams dominate the game. I sometimes wonder why I bother. What other sports could I enjoy? hockey, darts? I think not.
Despite the daft money, the pampered players and the world domination of the big teams, when the ball hits the back of the net, I just know that it's a game I'll always love.
