The Tingle

Russell A
Russell A
Jul 27, 2017 · 3 min read

The trudge back to the car never gets any easier. You’ve uttered the usual platitudes about not returning next week and your Dad nods solemnly in agreement. The rest of your journey plays out like a visit to a half-arsed haunted house — clowns to the left of you, bedecked in the colours of the enemy laugh and smile; whilst your fellow beaten comrades traipse by with expressions so pained they may as well be holding a mirror to your face.

The radio offers no relief. The perennially chirpy presenter reads out names of far-flung towns followed by numbers that would be inconsequential to the uninitiated but that further darken your mood. Your brain turns itself into a Casio calculator as you figure out next week’s permutations with a speed and accuracy that wouldn’t be needed if your new striker possessed either of those two traits.

“We’ve blown it.”

A pensive nod is the only reply.

The queue of traffic slowly plods along past houses lit up like Christmas trees, showcasing a family laughing and joking by the fire. They only knew a football match was on when they saw the traffic — you only knew these houses existed because a giant metal structure happened to be built nearby.

Suddenly you both reach for the dial. You react first, but allow your Dad the honour of turning the volume up as the voices filling the car visit the now empty shell that less than an hour ago pulsed with life and energy. The ex-pro sitting himself in the press box waxes lyrical about today’s visitors, unburdened by any affiliation to either competitor.

You scoff as details from the game are relayed, laid bare in front of the nation with rose-coloured glasses removed. Goal after goal is discussed, and with each passing sentence the fresh wound is gouged even deeper. The pain is fresh but for some reason unbeknown to anyone outwith your bubble it must be re-lived immediately.

The man from the dugout who was tasked with herding cats grumbles about a decision that went in the opposition’s favour. Cliches and general hokum is followed by the volume being lowered again as the car begins to pick up pace.

Then comes the tingle.

Your toes begin to wake up from the cryo-chamber that is 90 minutes spent in a concrete and metal skeleton during winter. Blood pulses to your extremities and you begin to feel human again.

Maybe we weren’t as bad as I thought. I mean, if the big man had angled that header slightly more then we’d have been right back in the game. The kid from the youth team that came on for the last five minutes had some great touches — he’s got to start next week. Surely that error from the ‘keeper means his time is up and I’ve heard nothing but positives about the understudies performances for the reserves.

There’s no need to ask if your Dad is returning in a fortnight. The tingle caught him a good five minutes before you. You part by telling him you’ll see him next time, the twinkle in his eye tells you all you need to know.

Russell A

Written by

Long-suffering @OfficialKillie fan and @oneteamayrshire podcast mouthpiece. Fond of the ol' wrestling. You'll probably not like me.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade