I was always him. In my heart of hearts, no matter how hard I tried to visualise myself as something else. Even when I reached my early teens and realised that I was far too unfit (aka fat) asthmatic, and shite at football to ever be a professional footballer, I tried to see myself as something else, but it never happened. I got really fucking good at winning the Champions League with Celtic in various football games, and thought that maybe one day I could overcome the odds and come from no footballing background to one day manage the club I supported, or indeed any club. Even when reality took over and last embers of that dream died out, I thought I could fill that void by writing about football. It was all a distraction. Plastering over open wounds. The wound of realisation that you would never pull on the jersey of the football club you supported since you were too young to know better, and run out in front of your people as a hero. I was always him.
I told anyone that would listen that Lubo was my favourite ever Celtic player, and I still maintain that he is, but when I kicked the ball about out the back as a young yin, I was always Larsson. The one who always made folk cling on to the edge of their seats. The one who made it count when it mattered the most. Scotlands beeeeeeeest footballer. Scoring when it mattered a fuck. Juventus, Barcelona, Caley Thistle, Juventus, Liverpool, Blackburn, Porto, Dunfermline, Livingston, Juventus, Bayern Munich, Rangers, Hearts and fuckin....Juventus. All put to the sword. Did I mention Juventus aye? Fuck Juventus btw. They're the ones who shattered that illusion in my daft young brain that Celtic were the most important entity in the world. When Juventus were given a late penalty in Celtic's first Champions League game under Martin O'Neill, my whole world collapses. Celtic had pulled it back to 2-2 from being 2-0 down, and I don't mean to sound anti-establishment and bitter, but fuck that referee, fuck Nicola Amoroso for being a diving arsepiece masquerading as a footballer, and fuck UEFA for fixing that match, and every other match Celtic have lost in Europe. Penalty wrongly given and converted. 3-2 to them. Bastards.
Its always a conspiracy. The thing is, when you're still clinging on to that forlorn hope that one day you'll make it, these injustices become personal. Most people mistake a deep feeling about a football club as being a loyal supporter, when in reality, we feel it so deeply when our favourite team loses because it feels like we got beat. It feels like we missed that vital penalty. It feels like we got caught up in the heat of the moment during a big game and got sent off. It even feels like we're the ones being slaughtered on the internet for slipping and letting Demba Ba in to score the goal that broke the hearts of so many complacent Scousers (neverending cringe at the amount of Liverpool fans who were interviewed giving it big licks when it looked like they were going to win the league. You've not won it for 20 odd years dafties. Shhhh)
Fans capable of pouring copious amounts of adulation of their favourite footballers are the ones who crave it the most. They give the team and individual players that amount of backing because that's the noise they'd want to hear when they step out in front of their people. No matter what colour the shirt is, everyone relates to that. Craving the day that allows you to show your people that you play for them. You represent their club. That's why in an era where an ever increasing amount of footballers have no personal affinity to the clubs they play for and truthfully they'd go to any club as long as the money's right, its the fans who keep stadiums packed. The dreamers. Wishing they were born with the god given talent of a Neymar, or a Bobby Petta. Minus the daft haircuts and penchant for going down like you've struck by a sniper anytime an opposition player comes within 5 feet of you.
Honestly, I thought I'd given up the dream. After turning 26 (which is past middle age in Glasgow) and realising it had been many a year since I visualised myself stepping out at Celtic Park in front of 25,000 screaming fans (official attendance 55,450) but then I remember John Guidetti scoring the equaliser in stoppage time to snatch a 3-3 draw with Inter Milan and for a split second I was there again. A different era, a different Swedish striker, but that was my right boot that smashed it into the back of the net, and when I jumped about my living room delivering celebratory superkicks to my dug and doing the Klinsmann slide in the hall, I imagined I was superkicking the dug in front of 60,000 people. I imagined overdoing the Klinsmann slide and bashing my heid off the advertising boards, but the concussion would be well worth it. Its stoppage time in the game anyway. The job's been done. Hero status sealed.
Most of us have probably given up on the dream by now, but we still have those moments. Even if its not football, everyone still pictures themselves doing the thing they love long after it has died as a realistic opportunity. We might not go around telling people about these wee daydreams. The most powerful deterrent to these dreams being public knowledge is the fear of ridicule for being a 26 year old man who still thinks he's going to be WWE Champion, but the dreams are still in there. If its football, wrestling, or you harbour a long standing desire to be the new Michael Flatley, I don't think any of us will fully give up on those dreams until we're rotting in a box, or we've been literally reduced to ashes. Only then will the dying embers of the dream fully die out. So as much as I feel duty bound as a human adult to be in touch with reality, I hope that never stops. I hope I'm that daft auld cunt in the pub. Screaming and shouting at the tell because he knows better than professional athlete's who have played the sport at an elite level their whole lives. When did you give up on the dream? If you're currently in the process of chasing it. Good on ye. Life would be a lot duller without the dream-chasers, even if that lack of attachment to reality comes from being a drug-addict, or simply a dafty. Keep chasing that high. Maybe one day you'll be the person you always wanted to be. Maybe one day I'll wake up, some Freaky Friday shit has occurred and suddenly I'm Henrik Larsson. Doubt it though.
