I think it was the fact that they were wearing white shirts that made it easier to swallow my pride and over thirty years of loathing and decide to support Arsenal for the day. In fact, after a while, with the chances clocking up and the West Ham woodwork rattling in the first twenty minutes, it was even possible to slightly enjoy the game, willing West Ham to lose, even if it meant a step towards the title for the Woolwich. During what for the Arsenal fans must have been an agonising VAR check in the dying minutes, all I could think of was, if it was going to be a draw, a 96th-minute West Ham equaliser would be the most deliciously sickening way for it to happen. But thankfully/sadly it was not to be.
Some two hours earlier, as I cycled with my son the 10 minutes down Tottenham High Road to the pub, I was still grappling with the kind of dilemma that is obviously on one level entirely ridiculous and trivial, but at the same time entirely inescapable. It is not so much a question of whether I think it would be better that Arsenal win or for them to hilariously bottle it yet again; it is more that I was worried about how I would feel when they inevitably scored, probably from a corner, maybe with some skilfully underhand grappling involved. Would I celebrate and if so, how? A mournful fist pump? A slight raise of an eyebrow? A weak smile and a stare into the middle distance? And more to the point, how would I be able to look my son in the eye?
In a season that has moved from disappointing to alarming, and then on to a carousel of slapstick mishaps, defensive comedies of errors and finally maturing into a growing sense of panic and desperation, there’s been one bright spot: my son has started to embrace the deeply immature tribalism of supporting a football club, and more importantly, understanding the hierarchy of who we dislike and how much. Arsenal first, due their proximity and their temerity in moving from Woolwich; Chelsea, for obvious reasons; and then in third place, West Ham, mainly because they hate us. His current favourite hobby is to point out people wearing Arsenal shirts and then boo them to himself, or else letting me know so I can share in his scorn. I couldn’t be prouder of the lad.
I have a particularly vivid memory of watching a game with my dad at the new White Hart Lane (I still struggle to call it The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium) a couple of years ago when my son was still a toddler; we were sat in the corner directly above the away section and, when Spurs had come from behind to lead 2-1, I saw a grown man ushering his young son all the way down the steps to overlook the mutinous away fans and then proceed to not only make unprintably crude gestures with his right hand, but teaching and encouraging his son to do so too. I’m not quite sure I want to take it that far, but it certainly seemed like a powerful bonding moment for the two of them.
And now, after a season of shaping my son’s loathing of Arsenal, this is where Spurs’ well-documented run of poor form has led us: sat in the spacious beer garden of The Beehive, that almost exactly a year ago was rammed nine deep at the bar, standing room only, for the Europa League final. Now, I am sat here on a cold Sunday afternoon, with a mounting sense of dread as West Ham attack midway through the second half, with a pint of amber ale, a half of pineapple juice, and a vague sense of shame that I actively want Arsenal to win.
But ultimately, when it comes to the crunch, I have no apologies for holding my nose, swallowing my pride, and feeling a deep sense of a relief heading into Monday’s game against Leeds. I might even have let out a muted cheer when Trossard’s shot hit the net on 83 minutes. It would be foolish to ignore the warnings of history: Leeds 2004, Sunderland 2016 or Leicester 2023; there’s always further to fall.
And so, after possibly the most consequential VAR goal check in Premier League history, I am deeply grateful to the interventions of Stockley Park that hopefully help us to avoid the most humiliating relegation in recent memory. And whoever mutters “The game’s gone” into their pint with a sad shake of the head is definitely not at the sharp end of a relegation dogfight. Onwards and up the spurs!