Dreaming of Wembley Way

I awake after a night of fractured dreams, wide awake at three, then four and six, before eventually giving in at seven. Then I force breakfast into a stomach tied in knots and begin to wish the day away. You’ve all been there. Just transport yourselves back in time to every childhood Christmas eve, or the night before a holiday or birthday and you will instantly identify. You want time to race ahead, because the anticipation is too much to take. All that matters is tomorrow.

So what’s the point of today?

Rivals say the Cup doesn’t matter. They’ve got bigger fish to fry. They’ll spend today scrapping for points, fourth place, survival, or dead rubber. Deep down they know it’s a lie. It’s easy to say the cup doesn’t matter, unless you’re still in it.  How many would walk in my shoes tomorrow.

Seriously, what’s the point of today?

Why invest so much passion into the fortunes of eleven men. Why devote a life to the good times and the bad. Why empty pockets and bank accounts, if not for the chance to experience days like tomorrow. To come together in our thousands, to win to lose and to never walk alone. Tomorrow’s another fevered dream away.

What’s the point of today?