The masochism of a football fan
18/04/05 | by Nick Miller

This is going to sound bloody stupid, but I’ve loved this season. Well, okay, I haven’t loved it exactly, but it’s been better than the anodyne, dull, spiritless, purposeless, dire crap that we had to sit through in the Platt years. I’ve felt involved.

We’ve had to endure some tripe this year. Every time King thought about chasing a ball, then decided against it. Every moronic decision from Rogers. Every player who trotted out at the start of the season resembling the manager in girth. Every time Johnson missed a chance he would’ve stuck away with his eyes closed two years ago. Reid and Dawson going. Jess staying.

And now, of course, the resignation to the fact that we, Nottingham Forest Football Club, will be in the Third Division next season.

However, having something to concentrate on – having something to care about – has been refreshing in a perverse sort of way. Half the point of being a football fan is passion. People think that it is just watching a game, appreciating the skill like you might a play or a film. But would you scream at an actor if he forgot his lines? Would you jump around screaming and hug a complete stranger when something explodes in a film? Of course not. You’d look like a plank for one thing. Therefore, without the passion – without something to care about – half the point is gone.

But you all know this and this is all stuff that has been said many times before, but it is worth re-iterating to explain why I prefer a relegation fight to mid-table obscurity.

The play-off season was obviously a more pleasurable version of this, but even that was different. We knew from about Christmas that, catastrophes aside, we would be in the play-offs, and everything was leading up to three (as we hoped) diarrhoea-inducing games. Last season was almost the same as this, but it was pretty clear from about February/March that we were going to stay up.

Admit it – it’s been exciting. Throughout the season the nerves have been back. You’ve been checking the table. You knew exactly who Gillingham, Coventry and Cardiff are playing. You’ve worked out how many games we probably need to win to stay up. And it’s great. You’re involved.

And of course, I would rather sit back at the end of the season to see us comfortably in away from trouble – not quite good enough for promotion this time but with a few signings we might get in the play-offs next year. But the nine months inbetween the blind August optimism and the quiet May dissatisfaction are drab and predictable. We pick up the odd win here and there – just enough to keep us honest – but you forget who our next game is against. As much as we still care, the passion goes. 

That is what makes us fans rather than just supporters. Supporter implies something more casual – someone who can shrug and forget about the shocking decisions or incomprehensible substitutions – who can avoid being a miserable bastard on a Saturday night when we lose.

A friend of mine (a Palace fan) and I were wallowing in a collective pool of relegation misery the other day, and trying to remain upbeat, we discussed how boring it must be to support Spurs or Villa. Every season you finish tenth or thereabouts – occasionally make the odd exciting signing, every now and then struggle or threaten the European places. But you’re never good enough to win much, too competent to go down – a lifetime of inevitability and lack of surprises.

We’re essentially a masochistic bunch. Why else did 28,000 turn up against Plymouth and 23,000 against Sheffield United? Most realistic and right thinking Trickies will have given up hope after the Coventry debacle, so what was the point other than to feel involved? It’s a disease, an addiction – whatever you like, but either way it isn’t enjoyable most of the time.

Incidentally, I forget who it was, but kudos to the guy who tore up his season ticket last Saturday then realised he would have to go to the Blunts game, and shelled out an extra £25 on a ticket. And he’ll be there for the last two games as well. I wouldn’t expect anything less.