If I have to know this, so do you: this week Arsenal won the first leg of their Champions League quarter-final against Real Madrid 3-0. It’s no exaggeration to say that my husband wasn’t this happy when our son was born. It’s also something of an understatement to say that winning – especially this comfortably – is quite a unique experience for Arsenal, so the fans always go in with low expectations, which only adds to the joy now.
He wasn’t just thrilled on the evening it happened, and the morning after; he has been a complete ray of sunshine ever since. Positive, cheery, upbeat. It is absolutely infuriating. His new, improved mood only makes me resent how much of a hold the other, much more important, influence in his life has over him.
There are three of us in this marriage, you see, so it’s a bit crowded. I’ve never asked my husband to choose between us, but only because I’m pretty sure that ultimatum wouldn’t work out well for me.
He’s a season-ticket holder – cheapest seats possible, he can only see half the pitch – and home games are, to him, non-negotiable three-line whips, a basic human right it is simply unthinkable not to attend. Now and then Arsenal schedule a match on my birthday, once on Mother’s Day, just to remind all the football widows who is boss, as if there was ever any doubt. If I die before my husband, I only hope I’m considerate enough to do it during the off-season, so my funeral can’t possibly conflict with the fixture list.
Sometimes I think I’d rather he were having an affair, mostly because if another women treated him as badly as Arsenal do, he’d surely have ended the relationship years ago. The Gunners cost him a fortune, but like a masochist he pays up over and over again to go and stand in all kinds of weathers and watch his worst nightmare play out slowly but surely in front of him.
They get his hopes up – maybe this time will be different! – only to repeatedly dash them, disappoint him, break his heart. He leaves the house, eyes shining with belief, excited, enthusiastic. He comes home, shoulders slumped, head down, full of despair. We have a glass panel in our front door, and I can always tell whether they won or lost when I see his silhouette, purely from the shape of him.
Once back, he sits on the sofa, the grey cloud above his head almost visible to the naked eye, reading endless pundit and fan theories about why Arsenal lost on his phone. Helpful hint for anyone whose partner does the same: saying it’s because they didn’t get as many goals as the other team does not bring this exercise to a close any faster. It’s like a death; he has to process it properly, absorb it, go through all the stages. After every single game. Also worth noting: suggesting he just supports a different team, who win more often, tends not to go down that well either.
We have a glass panel in our door. I can tell if Arsenal won or lost when I see his silhouette, purely from the shape of him
It’s entirely my fault that my husband has to go to the pub to watch all the away games – this means matches that don’t happen at Arsenal, so he doesn’t have a ticket for them, and if you needed me to explain that, you have no idea how lucky you are. I am the sole reason the Gunners lost so much when he used to stay at ours for them. This is a man who laughs at me not walking under ladders and saluting magpies, because superstition is so silly, but also, that time I came into the living room, saw Arsenal on telly and asked what the score was is the reason the other team got the winning goal.
Now – clearly – he can’t risk me doing that again so for the good of the club, all its players and fans, he is forced to make this massive sacrifice. Obviously I carry a huge amount of guilt about this, Sisyphus-style, wherever I go. Wonder if there’s a dartboard with my face on it at the Emirates Stadium? No less than I deserve.
The next episode of this Champions League saga happens on Wednesday, and it’s hard to know what to wish for. Do I want my husband depressed immediately or eventually? Those seem to be the only options when it comes to Arsenal. Maybe I should just send sincere condolences to all Gooners now… while reserving the right to claim that was a double-bluff later, of course.