I live in Leith now, so I thought I should go and see Hibs play, but this tiny thing changed my mind
I was on the cusp of buying those tickets
Now that I’ve moved to Leith, I thought I should get behind my local football team.
I never supported Hearts, when I was up the other end of town, but I wasn’t quite as near their stadium.
Being so close to Easter Road, means I get to hear the occasional gladiatorial roar that reverberates from their HQ. It intrigues me. I get When Harry Met Sally levels of FOMO.
I’ll have what they’re having. I imagine it might be therapeutic, like a primal scream session, to shout that loudly.
Anyway, if I go, it’d be my first time at a match.
Well, except for the time I was forced to watch a winter one at primary school, though I spent the whole time staring at my feet, because I thought I could witness the frostbite taking hold.
As the Hibs plan germinated, I started to fantasise about half-time pies, and wearing Hibs’ new strip, which I love because of the lower case Gothic-looking script. At the match, we’d also get to sing whatever jolly song is de rigueur.
I thought it might still be the classic “Comeon the Hibeees!”
However, apparently, it’s something else that’s sung to the rhythm of Staying Alive.
My teenage niece has told me this, as she has got into the fitba, even though she lives miles away from Leith. She’s already been to a handful of matches, and seems to have widened her vocabulary alongside this new interest, except generally not for the better.
Anyway, I got pretty close to going to next weekend’s Hibs versus Livingston match at Easter Road.
My sister was planning to book the tickets for a family day out. £26 each. Ouch, but okay. For some reason I thought it’d be about a fiver to get in, but I am naive in these matters.
And, then she added, it’s already almost all sold out, so we won’t be sitting beside each other. Well, at least I wouldn’t have to share my pie with a child.
Sadly, though, this triggered an almost instant reverse ferret. My initial intrigue became a hard no. It’s like I woke up, and thought, who am I anyway?
After all, I hate sports. Detest them. Apart from cheese rolling, they’re all rubbish and boring.
Yes, I could get into playing. I love a bit of pool, darts, badminton and I’ve even experienced a spot of pickleball.
However, watching is a whole different, well, ball game.
The only two sporting events I’ve ever been to included the Murrayfield Wasps playing ice hockey at Murrayfield Ice Rink back in the Eighties. My mum made us go. It was a bit like tripe and onions, in that I sort of liked it, though once was enough.
Also, I got free tickets to watch Scotland play rugby a few years ago, and I said yes for some reason. I had no scoob what was going on. It’s so boring, to watch a bunch of beefy men running around, muddying their shorts, and everyone frothing at the mouth with excitement. Meh.
I think you’re either into sport, or you're not. I feel like I have an innate disinterest. As soon as someone tries to explain the rules to me, their voice becomes illegible, like the adults in Snoopy.
My mum watches all of it. Her favourite sport is snooker. That’s why names like Judd Trump and John Higgins have entered my vocabulary.
Also, when we used to go on our annual fortnightly holiday to Arran, vast swathes of time were taken up by my parents watching Wimbledon.
Meanwhile, my sister and I were simmering with boredom and arguing with each other just to pass the time, while marooned at the secluded self-catering farm cottage.
Tennis meant no parental taxi service. Also, the telly was monopolised for hours, so there was to be no Glen Michael’s Cavalcade or whatever else we were watching at the time.
“Is it over yet?” was our near constant refrain.
Perhaps that partially explains my aversion.
However, I also often get left to fend for myself, as my husband is a big sports fan. He used to love watching the Tour de France, but he’s bored of it now that Tadej Podacar wins everything.
It’s American football that’s his first love, and he supports the San Francisco 49ers.
Every time they lose, I ask him why he doesn’t support someone else, but it doesn’t work like that, apparently. He’s a lifer.
He’s currently watching the NFL, and often disappears into the spare room to watch hours of the game. Sometimes with nachos, but he’ll go snackless, too.
Occasionally, I’ll hear a “Yasss!” shriek from down the hallway, and know that he’s enjoying himself. Other times, he’ll shout at the telly “What are you DOING?” and I’ll mutter, “They can’t hear you,” under my breath, while alone in the living room.
He has the T-shirt and even the red cap, though he wouldn’t wear it outside the house because it looks a bit Maga.
“You’d enjoy it, if you just tried,” he says. Bless his heart. His hope refuses to die.
He tells me a lot about it, since he doesn’t have American football buddies.
I just set my eyeballs to autopilot alert-looking-but-nobody’s-home mode, and nod occasionally at words like ‘wide receiver’ and ‘touchdown’. That does the trick.
Inside, I’m thinking about what’s for lunch or my weekend plans.
However, I have told him that I will go to see it, if we ever get to California. That is, as long as he can guarantee that a ticket costs no more than $26 and we get to sit together. And that there are copious pies.
Otherwise, I reserve the right to change my mind.
Read more: “I moved to Leith two months ago, and this is what I’ve learnt about Edinburgh’s ‘coolest’ area”
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