This blog is aware that it is sometimes unnecessarily glib about things. This blog is sorry and knows of its wider social responsibilities. Given world events this week it would be inappropriate to take anything other than a serious tone. We are beset by uncertainty, surrounded by menace lurking on every corner. Only a couple of weeks ago, the future seemed in some small way, if not predictable, then more assured at the very least.
But now, following midweek injury, neither Theo Walcott nor Cesc Fabregas will be fit for tomorrow’s Carling Cup final against Birmingham. Joining long term casualty Thomas Vermaelen on the treatment table, Arsenal’s procession to their first trophy in 6 years is in jeopardy. With the Champions League return match at the Nou Camp to come, this is no time for jokes.
What had promised to be a fond farewell to February and a merry morning to March, now takes on a very different feel. A sensational season finale was within reach – momentum would build from the trophy triumph and the glorious gooners would sweep majestically forward to crush all before them, heralding the greatest testimony to artistic endeavour since, well, Barcelona last year. Instead, the very opposite may now occur. Shameful defeat at the hands of relative minnows could set in motion a chain of events that culminate in a trophy-less campaign and the departure of our better players to Spanish shores. Most disastrously of all, Spurs supporters would be gifted an opportunity to gloat. The days and weeks ahead would be unbearable.
Unfortunately, you cannot control what others do (Shame! If only Andrei Arshavin and Samir Nasri regularly read this blog and were so moved by my plight that they were inspired to never before seen feats of greatness). Without bribery, the performance of players and match officials alike cannot be manipulated and the potential triumphant schadenfraude of Spurs supporters must remain uncurtailed.
But we can control our own behaviour. Others influence us, our choices and our experiences, but how we deal with these remains in our gift. In the event of a calamitous thrashing, I could chose to cherish the joy experienced by those connected to Birmingham at achieving their first success since 1963; I could endure the cruel taunts of gleeful Tottenham fans as expressions of jovial joshing, the essence of a competitive edge that keeps sport interesting; or I could affect an anthropological interest in the link between rivalry and the evolutionary advantage of tribal belonging.
I won’t of course. I will adopt one of the standard beaten stances:
a) Minimising the agony by pretending not to have watched or cared about the outcome as it’s ‘only’ the Carling Cup
b) Lament the injustice of the referee’s performance
c) Deflect attention to the number of years since Spurs last won a trophy of major significance or
d) (Least likely of them all) be gracious in defeat.
I have a multitude of options. The fact that I will choose to act like a child does not mean it is somehow anybody else’s fault or that I am powerless in the face of others’ actions.
It will just feel like it.
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