Should I stay or should I go?

Picture the scene: your team is 2-0 down at home against one of the premier league’s top four. You haven’t won for eight matches and the last two fixtures have been particularly soul destroying – first drawing against ten men despite having a man advantage for the majority of the game, and second losing comfortably to one of the league’s also-rans. There are fifteen minutes to go; do you stay and pray for a fightback? Or resign yourself to another defeat and leave the ground?

On Sunday, I opted for the latter and have been paying the price ever since. For almost as soon as I exited the turnstile, West Ham’s fightback began with a Carlton Cole header. A few minutes later they had managed an equaliser and only a harsh red card prevented them from turning the game on its head and emerging with all three points.

Now obviously I’m delighted that my team has picked up a point against a London rival and one of the league’s title contenders. That they showed such spirit and determination to do so is even more encouraging as we look to edge away from the relegation places. But a big part of me is ashamed of my actions, and I feel uncomfortable celebrating my team’s apparent turning of the corner.

I feel like I’m on the outside of an in-joke – the one that wasn’t there “that time that thingy did that thing” down your local. Scanning the papers and watching the news after the game was like seeing coverage of an alien game – one I did not attend and know nothing about. The game I attended was a drab, pedestrian encounter where my team looked like playing for days on end without ever troubling the opposition’s goalkeeper. This match they keep playing on the news had goals, mistakes, red cards and a sense of a new beginning for my team.

This is not the first time I have left the ground early only to miss a vital goal or incident, and it almost certainly won’t be the last. There is a school of thought that a loyal supporter should never leave a game early. But by virtue of being a loyal supporter, it’s likely that you would have experienced as many (if not more) disappointments as you would have triumphs. You have seen games turn from good, to bad, to worse and others peter out into something akin only to a training session. Sometimes, it gets too much and the lure of the early train home or a cold pint of lager and big screen analysis of the match becomes too much to resist.

At this point I’d like to make it clear that I am not one of those supporters who tucks their programme into their pocket and heads for the exit at the first sign that anything less than three points will be coming my team’s way. Almost sadistically, I’ve sat through many dreadful performances where the opposition seem to score at will. I’ve optimistically stayed in the vain hope that we’ll battle back from 3-0 down against the champions, and I’ve sat rooted to my seat when the majority of the crowd are probably listening to the rest of the game in the car on the way home.

Two games stick in my mind when I think of the question Is it ever acceptable to leave a game early? The first concerns good old Wimbledon and dates back to 1998. The game was played of an evening, although away from the glare of the TV cameras (West Ham Wimbledon not attractive enough to put on TV shock). West Ham raced into a 3-0 lead and looked as comfortable as is possible for a team with a history of comical defending. Just before half-time, Wimbledon scored what we all assumed was a consolation goal.

The start of the second half saw a new Wimbledon emerge – one full of running and endeavour. Unfortunately, the same old West Ham decided to play the second half instead of the uncharacteristically ruthless one that took to the field in the first half. Before we knew it, it was 4-3 to the visitors and the stadium was almost empty. I refused to leave – foolishly believing that having already scored three we could muster one last successful attack. I was of course mistaken.

The second involves our new-found rivals Sheffield United. This was back to our Championship days and was a much more prosaic affair. So prosaic in fact, that I can only assume that the mind-numbing nonsense served up by both sides that day had set me into a trance, and rendered me incapable of leaving my seat. It was as if both teams had agreed to a reverse of the 1914 Christmas Day armistice, and were point blank refusing to play football.

These are just two examples of many games I have endured until the final whistle, where I know for a fact my time would definitely have been better spent heading for the tube, the bar or the dentist for the extraction of all my teeth without anaesthetic. And yet, I still feel I have let my team down with my actions on Sunday.

I hope to God I have learnt my lesson and will not leave a game before the fat lady has began the first verse again, but the ghosts of Wimbledon and Sheffield United still loom large and can see Sunday’s events happening again, and again, and again.

Gambling: a mug's game

As most of us know only too well, gambling is not big, clever or funny. And when it comes to football, gambling is probably even smaller, dumber and more humourless than it is in all its other forms.

For not only can the outcome of a match be dictated by a strange man dressed in black who often appears to be blowing his whistle completely at random, the sheer number of people who can prevent your hopeful punt coming off means betting on football makes very little sense at all.

At any one time there are 22 players on the pitch who are in control of your destiny. Just one moment of outrageous quality or equally unbelievable incompetence can put pay to any hope that your brief visit to Ladbrokes will finance a very good Saturday night out.

When betting on multiple teams as part of an accumulator, there’s even more opportunity for one fool to ruin your chances of success. If betting on seven teams to win, there are 308 players on the pitch at any one time. 308 people you need to do as you say. 308 people with genuine potential to both make and ruin your weekend.

I’m well aware of all this, and yet the seven team accumulator is my bet of choice. I have been placing £5 on my chosen seven teams pretty much every week for three years now. I have only ever won once – reeling in the princely sum of £181. I could quite easily work out how much I have laid out on accumulators over the past three years, and it would be just as simple to work out my profit/loss margins. It would be easy, but also depressing and a little scary so I’ll refrain from doing so.

Losing accumulators is something of a science for me though. It’s not a case of picking seven random teams and hoping for the best, oh no. My teams are picked based on a usually-losing combination of current form and random soft-spottery, whilst some clubs are excluded from my list because of a number of perfectly reasonable rules.

For one, I never bet on my own team - which has nothing to do with a misplaced confidence in their ability. In fact, it’s the opposite. If I had to trust one team to always perform to their ability it wouldn’t be my team, and willing them to win is stressful enough when there’s no money riding on it to be honest.

Rival teams cannot be picked either. Otherwise, you find yourself in the gut-wrenching position of having to scream at the TV in support of a usually hated team and no amount of money will make me do that. The same goes for teams placed in a similar league position to my team. Willing them to win will damage my own team’s chances of success this year, and that’s not something I’m prepared to support.

So after studying the league tables and reminding myself of the accumulator rules, I headed to the betting shop this weekend hopeful of repeating that famous day in August when I found myself £181 richer. My chosen list looked a little like this:

Everton v Wolves (home win) – a choice made based on form. Everton are strong at home and Wolves are weak pretty much everywhere. Result – 1-1.

Cardiff v Crystal Palace (home win) – a fairly irrational hatred of Palace and Cardiff’s good recent form led to me putting my faith in the Bluebirds. Make that misplaced faith. Result – 1-1.

Doncaster v Barnsley (draw) – the most random choice of all this week, based largely on Barnsley’s recent revival. Believing I’d picked the Tykes to win I celebrated their late winner. Until I remembered I’d lost my bottle and selected the draw. Result – 0-1.

Ipswich v Swansea (home win) – Ipswich are a regular fixture on my list, even despite their dreadful start to the season. This week I genuinely believed they’d turn the corner and get that much needed win. Thanks guys. Result 1-1.

West Bromwich Albion v Reading (home win) – my Dad has a genuinely irrational soft-spot for West Brom. He makes no attempt to explain it, and openly cheers them on despite having no connection to the West Midlands. I put this result down based on this and it turned out to be one of very few correct predictions. Result – 3-1.

Accrington v Bournemouth (away win) – after reading an article about Accrington’s dire financial situation and seeing Bournemouth were topping League 2, this was an easy choice to make. Although admittedly a completely unsympathetic one. Result – 0-1.

Hibernian v Kilmarnock (home win) – my one foray into the Scottish league strangely does not involve Celtic or Rangers, who are usually safe bets. Hibs luckily come up trumps though, although it’s all in vain. Result 1-0.

So all in all not a successful weekend, but one definitely made more enjoyable by the placing of my £5 accumulator. It allowed me to enjoy the novelty of cheering on such footballing heavyweights as Bournemouth and Hibernian and for one small moment midway through the second half of Saturday’s fixtures, I began to truly believe I might just have a chance of success. I’d already started to plan how to spend the £629 I was due, and was perfecting the look of smugness I was planning on wearing across my face as I approached the counter to collect my winnings.

Alas it was not to be, and it’s another £5 to add to the “loss” column. I’ll be back next week though, placing my hard-earned fiver and ready to lend my support to the great unwashed of English football for 90 minutes.