I (still) care too much

Time to finally disengage, but how?

Get your tiny violins out for the glory hunting Man Utd fan.

If you’re into football, you’ll know that ‘my’ club – like I have any involvement at all – has been diabolically shit for ages.

I arbitrarily pledged my allegiance to United at around the age of 5. Despite the fact Old Trafford is situated 250 miles away from my southern dwelling, I liked David Beckham, the whole Red Devil thing, and the fact that our 90s and noughties squads won a lot.

Right up until 2013, the end of my first year at sixth form, United were always in and around the top of the table and making a fist of Europe. Right as Sir Alex Ferguson retired from the dugout to the executive box in the stands, however, everything changed.

More than a decade later, United haven’t come anywhere near challenging for a Premier League trophy, much less a Champions League – but you know that already. That’s not what I want to write about.

I’ve ranted long enough about our unholy decline at family barbeques, and school, and work, and pubs, and online, and by kettles, and pitch sides, and swimming pools, and bouncy castles, and cinema projectors, and roller coasters, and hospital beds.

I’ve even written on the subject for several football news outlets - and once for Thred.

The undeniable truth is that we’re bad. In fact, we’re so mediocre that rivals don’t even laugh at us anymore.

A condescending smirk is just about all Jamie Carragher can muster these days, Mohammed Salah swanned around OT barefoot like he owns the place (he basically does at this point), and Ed-fucking-Sheeran interrupts our manager in post-match interviews after we’ve failed to beat relegation fodder. It’s insanely grim.

As the club’s standards continue to plummet, I’ve grappled with my own emotional and mental investment in Man Utd, no less, my embarrassing hair trigger temper. Breaking part of my hand after a shocker against West Brom in 2014 was a particularly low point.

These days, my maximum reaction is to mutter expletives and bury my face like Pattrick Stewart, or so I thought. At the weekend, while United trailed 1-3 to Nottingham Forest, an inexplicable misplaced pass caused me to spring out of my seat and catch my shoulder on a living room shelf.

Ashamed of myself, and with my girlfriend and sister frozen still as though not to alert a burglar, I turned the game off and thought ‘wtf am I doing.’ United aren’t getting back to any semblance of success for years - and that’s not guaranteed, either – grow up, manchild.

Why do I still care so deeply? I still have no agency over this aspect of my life despite having zero influence on how Man Utd perform. Countless weekends ruined and yet I always arrive in time to hear ‘United Road’ ring out from the speakers, as I scoff at the quality of players walking onto the pitch and wearing that shirt.

This isn’t exclusively a Man Utd thing by any means, but I do feel as though the fall from grace for 90s reds is about as rough a peak to trough can get in sporting terms… there’s far worse but leave me alone.

Seriously, though, there’s no delusion on my part. I know we’re awful. I’ve gone from watching Ronaldo, Rooney, and Tevez, to Hojlund, Garnacho, and Bruno… I’m not an idiot.

My own expectations for the club are low, but I’m hoping that any future upturn in our fortunes won’t drag me in so drastically. Surely, I’m a little wiser and better at practicing restraint? I really don’t know though. United were my first love and have developed their own lobe in my brain.

Fandom, obsession, or just straight up glutton for punishment? You decide.

Either way, it’s sad and I want out.