THE BEAUTY OF THE FOOTBALL LEAGUE

The World Cup’s done. Finished. And whilst the Americans bang on about it being the greatest of all time, anyone with half a footballing brain will tell you it was alright. Average at best. I’d say shite, but I’m miserable and negative. Right on the money, though. Entire tournament was ruined by commercialisation. Americanisation. VAR lads posing for the camera pre-match. Full squads lining up for the national anthems. Refs with their names ont’ back of shirts. Hydration breaks. ‘Soccer.’ Trump ont’ blower to Infantino getting Balogun’s ban suspended. Corrupt as fuck that lot. Robbie Williams. The halftime show. Winners’ rings. All dog shit. Crap.

Thankfully the good stuff’s about to return. Domestic football. Proper football. The English Football League. Optimism’s back. For a few weeks, at least. Hopes of promotion. Success. For most that’ll soon disappear. Evaporate. Ya Prestons. Ya Bristol Citys. They’ll both start well. Provide fans with a glimmer of hope. “Could be our year.” Won’t be lads. Sorry. You’ll always be mid-table. 14th and 15 respectively. Enjoy it. ‘Cause it could be worse. Could be in a relegation battle. Which nobody wants. Nobody needs. Ya owd man’s in his seventies, now. High cholesterol. High blood pressure. Doesn’t need the added stress. His ticker can’t cope with it. Can’t be doing with it. Got to look after himself. Football’s his escape. His release. Few hours out the house. Change of scenery. Can’t be giving it up. Can’t stop following ‘em. Loving ‘em. Hating ‘em. Once ya in, ya in. There’s no going back. From birth, typically. Rarely is it by choice. But that’s what makes the highs even higher. Better. More special. Years of disappointment. Misery. Can be forgotten. Dispelled. With a playoff push. Promotion. It’s worth ten, twenty times the pain of relegation. Memories for a lifetime. With family. Friends. Strangers. That’s what football’s all about.

The American mind cannot comprehend a format like it. Promotion and relegation. The ups and downs. The football pyramid. Nahhh. Maybe that’s why the sport’s yet to properly get going over there. Yet to take-off. Not enough jeopardy. Trepidation. It’s not for them. They don’t get it. And the fact they still call it soccer. Embarrassed for ‘em. Could be its own article that, though. So we’ll crack on.

Relegation isn’t just about ya team playing in a lower tier. A shitter standard. It’s ya kid’s favourite player being flogged for a cut price. ‘Cause they’ve not got a relegation wage reduction clause in their contract. It’s redundancies to staff. Carol int’ kitchen. Mike in comms. Keith int’ community outreach team. The club’s not in this position ‘cause of ‘em. It’s not their fault. Nahh. But they’re the ones who are hit hardest. The ones who feel the brunt. Players and gaffers at fault will find ‘emselves a new club if they’ve a half decent agent. Staff members ont’ lowest wages? They’ll be down the job centre. P45 in hand. Embarrassed. Struggling. Worried. Unsure whether they’ll be able to pay the bills. Stick food ont’ table. They’re the ones who suffer and feel the impact most. Fans too. The effects can be damaging. It can take years, decades in some instances, for clubs to recover. Some will bounce back at the first time of asking. Others aren’t so lucky. Could be the end of ‘em. Ya don’t get that in America. Knowing you can have another crack at winning a daft little ring the following season. Without any repercussions. Without any worries. All seems a bit pointless. Exhibition stuff. It’s not for me. Nahh. Imagine never being able to celebrate promotion. Seeing ya little tinpot club at Wembley. Lifting a trophy, despite finishing 5th. Imagine seeing ya little tinpot town buzzing. All out ont’ streets for an open top bus parade. Local butchers making club themed pork pies. Card shops struggling to blow up balloons int’ club colours fast enough. Cafes offering a free brew to season ticket holders. That’s community, is that. They all benefit when the club’s doing well.

Promotion brings increased revenue. For clubs and local businesses. Increased footfall. Bigger gates. Everyone in the area benefits. Except the street busybody John. Who’s fuming with an increase in random cars blocking his driveway every other weekend. Signs be going up. And he’ll be pacing the footpath in front of his gaff. Patrolling. Parking attendant job. Bought himself a little hi-vis and everything. Fair play. On the whole, though, ignoring John, promotion would be celebrated throughout the town. Throughout the area. Yeah ya might get battered every week. Playing in a better league. Against better players. But you’d rather that than playing for fuck all int’ division below, surely? Know I would.

Football without relegation. Without promotion. Is nothing. Jeopardy is what makes the game so intriguing. So addictive. It’s what keeps you coming back for more. No other form of entertainment brings the same emotions. The ups. The downs. Football’s different. Football’s class. And no matter how hard the owd boys in suits try their best to ruin the game. Selling it off. Diluting it. No matter how many times you think the game’s gone and ya done with it. There’ll always be the odd moment that pulls ya back in. Reminds you why football’s mint. Why you love the game. You’ve gotta hold on to those moments. ‘Cause they don’t last forever. Anyway, proper football’s back now. The English Football League. So we can all look forward to bang average pies. Bovril. And Big Keith attempting to bag himself hospitality tickets at Edgeley Park. Halftime entertainment. Crossbar challenge. Proper country. Proper sport. Into ‘em.