We first met in 1969, a chance encounter that ignited a passion that would last a lifetime. Or so I thought. We didn’t see much of each other, in the early days, until four years later when our affair became serious after that thrilling 2-2 draw at Leicester City against Leeds in 1973. You captured my heart, and Leicester City became my club in your exhilarating, unpredictable world.
You were everything I wanted: exciting, fast-paced, thrilling, and enthralling. And cheap! You were my weekend escape, my midweek daydream, my reason for living from one matchday to the next. I loved all our rituals. The anticipation of boarding the coach, meeting up with mates, parking outside the Leicester Working Men’s Club, and downing a pre-match pint with a tray of mushy peas and mint sauce. Then off we’d go, piling into Pen 3 behind the goal at my beloved Filbert Street, always just before 3 o’clock. A frantic 45p at the turnstiles and a sprint up the steps. I could already hear the roar of the crowd, our fans shouting for the team we loved, and I’d shove my way in, eyes darting up to the gantry to see if the cameras were there, hoping to relive it all later on BBC’s Match of the Day or ITV’s The Big Match on Sunday.
And when we won? Oh, the Saturday nights out were electric. Pints clinking, jukeboxes blaring, the sweet taste of victory lingering long after the last call.
Away games were their own brand of madness: up and down the motorways in a coach that rattled like a tin can, blue and white scarves flapping through the windows, jeering at rival fans like we were Spartans on the battlefield, and always, always that desperate bladder-busting race for the nearest loo when we finally spilled off the coach. But who cared? A programme in my hand, change left over from £2.00, and the thrill of knowing we were all in it together.
I was just 17 when you seduced me. We’ve been through so much together: the ups and downs of relegation, the heartbreak of losing cup semi-finals and play-off finals, even after clawing our way back from 3-0 down. But we kept fighting. We finally won that play-off, clambering our way to the promised land of the Premier League. There were glorious League Cup final wins, and then the humiliating tumble down to the third division. But we fought back, didn’t we? All the way to the top.
And then, against all odds, against every pundit and naysayer and even my own cynical heart: Leicester City, my Leicester City, became champions of England. It was the dream I never dared dream, the greatest love story in football history. We had a European adventure that left us all giddy and proud, followed a few years later by FA Cup glory. It was magical. We were invincible.
But even in those halcyon days, I sensed something was wrong. You started turning away, didn’t you? You found a new lover. Television. No longer could I just rock up to a game and pay at the gate. Everything became all-ticket, a hassle, a scramble, a ritual for the privileged few who could jump through the hoops. But you didn’t care. You were too busy cozying up to the cameras, doing everything to keep your new partner happy.
Gate prices skyrocketed from 45p in 1973 to £35.00 a ticket. Even allowing for inflation, it should only be £8.50 or thereabouts. What happened, football? We’ve had our share of tragedies, but this feels like robbery.
And you’re obsessed with pleasing your new fan. You’ve sold your soul to the devil’s TV Guide. You’ve slapped distracting moving electronic ads around the pitch. Eyesores that light up like tacky Las Vegas slot machines. Matches are still all-ticket. I can’t just decide on a whim to go; I have to sign up to some soulless website, book days in advance, and wave goodbye to spontaneity. Kick-off times change at the drop of a hat, all for the demands of TV. Once, all was sacred at 3pm. Now, it’s a scattergun of times, as erratic as a toddler’s sleep schedule.
And television doesn’t actually care, does it? The schedulers sit in their glass towers in London, reshuffling fixtures like they’re pieces on a chessboard, with no thought for the poor souls who actually have to travel. Exeter away to Carlisle on a Tuesday night? Newcastle down to Southampton for an 8 p.m. kick-off on a cold December evening? It’s madness. Fans have to take time off work, rush to catch trains or drive long distances, fork out for hotels they can’t afford, or stagger back home at 4 a.m. All so the cameras can beam a match into living rooms that don’t care either way. The real supporters, the heartbeat of the game, are treated as nothing more than set dressing for the broadcast. And what’s with the after-goal jingles? Fans don’t need a soundtrack to know when to cheer!
And while we’re at it, what’s happened to honesty on the pitch? I used to admire players who’d take a knock, brush themselves down, and get on with it. Now we’ve got millionaire athletes throwing themselves to the ground like they’ve been shot, clutching their faces after the faintest brush of contact. Rolling around in agony one moment, sprinting like Olympic sprinters the next. It’s cheating, plain and simple, but you turn a blind eye, football, because the spectacle, the drama, sells better on television. The diving, the feigned injuries, the constant play-acting… it’s embarrassing. The game I fell in love with was about courage and commitment; now it’s about conning the referee.
But the final straw, for me it’s the nail in the coffin of our relationship. VAR. It’s destroying you, but you can’t see it, can you? Back in the day, the scoring of a goal was a euphoric eruption, a spontaneous combustion of joy. Thirty thousand people united in a moment of shared ecstasy, a collective roar that could shake the heavens. That’s what it was all about. That’s what we paid our money for. And now, thanks to VAR, those moments are dissected, delayed, and drained of their soul. We sit, waiting, wondering, then celebrating tentatively, only to have our joy snatched away by an invisible hand drawing lines on a screen. Goal scored or goal cancelled, that magical, unfiltered moment is gone. Remember that goal by Agüero? The one in the dying seconds of the season, when Manchester City F.C. snatched the title with a strike in stoppage time? That was pure adrenaline, totally raw emotion and spontaneous ecstasy. But imagine if that moment had been delayed, checked, dissected by cameras, whistled back for marginal offsides or a spurious hand-ball, the roar cut short while we waited for the verdict. That’s what VAR threatens: not just the goal, but the gasp, the instant eruption, the shared delirium. The magic would soil itself under review, the reaction contained, the moment forfeited for accuracy. And in losing that, football loses something irrecoverable.
So, football, at least premiership and league football, I’ve had enough. I’m done. I want a divorce. I’ll always look back fondly at what we had, but my Saturdays will now belong to non-league football. No VAR. No irritating adverts. No players pocketing £100,000 or more a game while barely breaking a sweat. No, I’m packing my bags, and by the time you read this, I’ll be gone.
Goodbye, football. I wish you well, but I’m moving on.