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.