Radicalized by a Foreign Power
From small-town New England to diehard Tottenham Supporter
I am in my home in Hillsboro, New Hampshire, in the United States. Over three thousand miles away across the Atlantic lies Tottenham Hotspur Stadium in North London, England. I have never been there in my life. I don’t have family there, and any relations I may have in North London are the same distant ones any native New Englander whose ancestors came across on the Mayflower has. When Tottenham beats our archrivals Arsenal, I am quick to plaster my social media with graphics stating, “North London is Ours!”
Why? In 2013 my marriage ended, and I found myself with more free time than I had in over a decade. I needed something to fill the time. Previous experience told me alcohol and drugs would be poor choices, especially since I might be single, I was still very much a dad. Following a soccer team would be cheap, easy, and low stakes. Unfortunately, I wasn’t following a soccer team; I was supporting a football club. I had no idea what I was getting into.
I did some initial research into choosing a club. I knew this was a crucial decision. I didn’t want a club that won everything. I didn’t want to be a glory hound. Yet, I didn’t want to pick a club that would likely get relegated. Tottenham Hotspur had a great history, but some wondered if they had any future. The team always came up short. “Spursy” was every other supporter’s favorite pejorative. As a former stand-up comedian whose act reveled in self-loathing and misery, it seemed like I found my tribe.
I acclimated myself to the role of Spurs supporter very quickly. To support Spurs is to hate your sworn enemy, Arsenal. I took to it like a duck to water. I jumped in with both feet. On Twitter, I’d go at Gooners, “Go back to Woolwich!” A ground they left in 1913. Frankly, it wasn’t always healthy. My children and I would be out having dinner, and I saw someone in an Arsenal jersey, and my blood would boil. I am trying to eat my buffalo chicken sandwich, and all I could think about was fighting this Gooner in the street. Luckily, I am not an actual psychopath, and I would calm down and eat my spicy fries. After all, we live in a society, and the person representing Arsenal is nine years old.
It became my identity much in the same way I was the punk rocker in high school. If you are going to be into punk or European football in a small town in New Hampshire, you’re going to get some attention. I spent plenty of time discussing the nuances of Tottenham with my coworkers in the factory. Why did it say COYS on your license plate? It stood for Come On You Spurs. Why do you call it football? Because it is. Why do you have a chicken standing on a basketball on the back of your car? I think break time is over.
I was all in on Tottenham and European football. I had followed sports when I was much younger, but not fanatical unless you count my elementary school years of worshiping Red Sox legend Jim Rice. I was reading blogs and listening to almost a dozen podcasts a week. I co-parented my children. I worked in a factory. I slept poorly, and the rest was Spurs. When the results went badly, my weekend was ruined. I’d complained to anyone who listened. The advice I got from family and friends may be to pick a different club. I couldn’t select another club. As far as I was concerned, I took an unbreakable oath. I sucked it up and thought about where on my body my “Tottenham ’Til I Die” tattoo would go.
I started supporting Tottenham right when the club sold Gareth Bale to Real Madrid, and we bought a truckload of players with the cash. Andrea Villas-Boas was amid his collapse. My first memory of AVB was him demanding respect from the English press. That went as well as you would’ve expected. I was already putting a positive spin on our Europa League results as we got hammered 6–0 at Manchester City and pumped by Liverpool 0–5. AVB and Tottenham left due to “mutual consent,” which sounded a lot like the drummer going due to “artistic differences.” Soon Tim Sherwood was leading my club. I started to think I might’ve made a mistake. Should’ve I have gone with Everton? Sherwood was moved on quickly. Still to this day, I believe Tim Sherwood is only on this planet to troll me. I know that’s ridiculous. Clearly, he’s here to troll most.
May 27, 2014, Mauricio Roberto Pochettino Trossero took over Totten Hotspur Football Club, and it changed everything. The next years were my favorite as a supporter. Did we win anything? Hmmm, the Audi Cup. No, we didn’t win the league or any silverware of actual importance. Poch transformed this team. Consistent top-four finishes. The Miracle in Amsterdam and a Champions League final. The rise of Harry Kane. A side that was tough and played Beautiful football with talented players. Dele, Son, and Erickson were terrific. Under Pochettino, Tottenham had become a big club with a fantastic stadium I hope to visit one day. Like all good things, it came apart spectacularly. I have already given my opinion on Jose Mourinho’s take over in a previous piece. It wasn’t the football I loved, but managers and players leave. The club remains. To live is to suffer, especially when you’re Tottenham ‘till you die.
