Confessions of A Football Addict

I have to confess.  I’m coming clean.

I am a mess. I have hit rock bottom.

There...I said it.

I was born with football in my head - my first words were “Goal,” probably after I threw a spoonful of food at my dad.  Football to me was always less of a sport, and more of a battle. A battle to win, a battle for pride and respect. It wasn’t just a few men kicking around a football. Oh, how wrong I was.

When will I begin to see that football is nothing but a few men kicking a ball around? When will I learn? Every time I sit to watch a game, I think “Ok, now remember, it’s just a game. Just a ball being kicked around a field. It's on the television, they can’t hear you.”

Sadly half way through yelling obscenities at Liverpool players I remember my thoughts before the game, but it’s too late to stop myself, I’m already worked up, I’m too into the game now.

I can’t stop watching football altogether. I’ve tried. I end up curled up in a corner, trembling, thinking “Go Liverpool...you can do this.”

I watch an imaginary game in my head and, as soon as the opposition score an imaginary goal, I run to the television in hope that what I saw was just my over inspired brain and not a premonition.

I was going to the kitchen to get a drink and hit my leg on a chair. My exact words were “Foul, you bloody thing, you deserve an effing card!” At that time I was too angry and hurt to care, but looking back, I realise that I sounded like an idiot.

I didn’t cry when my dog died, I didn’t cry at the end of Titanic — maybe it’s because I’m not a normal girl. I’m an addict because the only time I did really cry was when AC Milan beat us in the Champions League final. However, that has to be excusable. I mean, it was the FINALS.

Here I go again, sounding like the addict I truly am. What am I to do though? I’m lost...falling into this bottomless pit, waiting to hit the floor. It might make me seem puny and pitiable but I have a dilemma and I need help. Can anyone contradict this?

You know...at some point...when you’re screaming at the TV, you stop and think, "What am I saying? Do I really think Rafael Benitez can hear me? That he’ll hear me telling him what idiot he was for losing Crouch and he should go back and beg for forgiveness?"  That’s when you’ll realise, you’ve lost it.

By nature, I’m not a violent person. But when I said I’d hire an expert to kill Riise, I really meant it. Luckily I couldn’t find someone on such short notice and I guess “YWNA” wouldn’t hold much meaning if I did that. Something in the back of my mind still says, “He’s not at Liverpool anymore, avenge him." But I’ve forgiven him.
This is a good thing—Riise’s murder would have taken this addiction to a whole new level.

Finally, even my mum realised the extent of my addiction when I said I wanted to get a tattoo. She wasn’t against me getting one, it’s the fact that I wanted the Liver Bird that made her look at me like i was crazy. See, at first I didn’t tell her it was the Liver Bird. “It’s just a bird with 'You’ll Never Walk Alone' written on it, Mum.”  

She fell for that. She agreed, but one day I couldn’t help but say “I’m getting the Liver Bird tattooed on me.” She got it then. Ah, once again I failed. She allowed me to get a tattoo, but the first thing she said to me is, “You better not get something to do with Liverpool because in a while you might change your mind. And they’re not that good anyway.”

I have to get rid of this addiction. I need rehab. I need to stop watching football. 'See, oh great Liverpool FC. 'See what you have done to me?

I’ve made up my mind. This time I’m overcoming this addiction. I’m ready for change. I’m...

Oh look, Arsenal are playing!