It’s been one of those seasons, and the visit of Tottenham Hotspur encompassed everything about it.
Normally something to stir the emotions, to prod life into the most mild mannered, it was simply of day of lethargy and inertia. Had it not been for a pre and post-match meet-up with friends, then it would have been a complete blowout.There was an eerie lack of energy all day. The trains seemed emptier than usual, while navigating through Stratford to the stadium was pain free. There was no spark in the air, no sense of occasion. It was the flattest encounter with the great unwashed from N17 in memory.
This season, had it been an American TV show, would have been canned in January. From the moment we conceded a sloppy 4th minute goal to Villa in our opening game of the season it felt flat. It’s been a long, hard slog ever since and barring the odd fleeting moment here and there, things haven’t changed.
I looked around the ground yesterday. Empty seats, empty hearts, empty dreams in abundance. Glancing up at the honours on the West Stand, it showed European Conference Winners 2023. Two years ago? It feels like two lifetimes.
With new faces, new leadership and new cultures, it always looked likely to be a season of transition, but no-one expected the transition to include the shift from eternal optimism with a gallows humour to one of apathy with universal erosion of fun.
What I loved about the match day experience, anticipation, a sense of escapism from life’s daily grind has been in truth part of what we seek to break free from. There’s no warmth, literally, if you stand on the concourse. There's nothing to make visits feel like you’re returning to a safe haven, an environment that fosters unity and togetherness.
And despite it being the ninth year of our tenure, nothing has changed to make home feel like home.
The spark of the Moyes era Euro adventure, which gave us belief, has been well and truly extinguished. Our board have failed us again and this time they’ve chipped away at the roots that embody our club. They saw the streets of east London, post-Prague. They saw what it meant. What it could be.
Now they see the flattest derby in history as the footnote to their mismanagement.
What transpired on the pitch echoed the atmosphere. Criminal defending from Max Killman gave a woeful Spurs side a foothold they in no way deserved. Despite us being the better side, asking the more pertinent football questions, it was all a mismatch of hopes, desires and application.
Ponderous to a tee in defence, as witnessed by the opposition goal, shooting ourselves in the foot. But when we do go on the offensive, things are almost like a state of panic. So much so that even calmer, intelligent heads get caught up in the maelstrom of confusion.
We’re in a weird situation. I don’t dislike any of our squad, but barring one or two exceptions, wouldn’t shed a tear if any of them departed. We need a rebuild, but look to have limited funds, scope or expertise, seeing as Comrade Dave is back in dictatorship mode, to make it happen.
Though the stagnant start to his tenure has led to dissent already, I have faith in Graham Potter to deliver and manipulate something. But patience (remember that, it was very big in the 1980s) and understanding at all levels of the club are needed.
We need a core of players at the heart of it who look committed, understand the club and have the heart to turn the tide of apathy. We’d like nothing more than to see George Earthy, Callum Marshall and Freddie Potts come back from successful loan spells, to be at the core of it.
But those at the top need to help provide a spark to reinvigorate us. Supporting this club has always been a rollercoaster ride, but it’s the constant being taken for granted that you’ll keep coming back to that grates.
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