My life evolves around a football club I’ve never seen—or may never see.
It’s not just a match day thing. It’s a daily struggle.
Perhaps it would be easier if I had someone to talk to. Until this past Friday, I hadn’t met anyone from East Anglia, let alone had someone stop me on the street and notice a Norwich jersey or jacket.
When you’re living in America but support teams abroad, it’s the small things that matter. Everyone knows about Real Madrid, Chelsea and Manchester United, but what about Sunderland, West Brom or Stoke?
“What is the Championship? I thought that was Champions League? Wait, they’re different things? How does someone qualify? You mean you’re team can be so bad they go to another league?”
It’s different from the norm here. When things are different, people often have no desire to learn about the subject themselves.
So when I explain to people that yes, the club I support had a poor season and dropped to the second-tier, assumptions are made that they’re terrible and don’t deserve to be in the top division. Of course this mentality blocks out the concept of relegation altogether.
And that’s what makes it difficult.
City’s 1-0 defeat against Middlesbrough has a much different impact abroad than it does in Norfolk.
For English fans, it’s disappointment and thought of promotion hopes creeping away. For me, another year in the Championship means another campaign left in the dark.
I haven’t watched a City game in nearly a year. And if it wasn’t for YouTube highlights or Vines of goals, I wouldn’t see the squad entirely.
Saturday mornings have produced growing rituals that are growing uncomfortable. Here’s the standard:
Set the alarm for 8:58 to read the team news and personally grade the lineup.
Go back to sleep until 9:50.
Wake up at 9:50.
Go to my college dorm’s communal bathrooms.
Fill up a cup of water from the sink.
Bring it back to the room.
Microwave it for three minutes.
Add a teabag.
Open my laptop.
Go to Canary Player.
Plug in headphones.
Happy match day.
It’s actually not that bad—it’s just inconvenient. If this season had to be summed down to one word, that’s the one—inconvenient.
Yet it’s bearable. While I don’t get to watch the goals as they happen, the satisfaction is still there. And on days such as last Friday, my eyes avoid the travesty leading to inevitable heartbreak.
I can still hear Carrow Road roar after Bradley Johnson’s piledriver, a cliché fitting for his strike in the East Anglian Derby. I hear the renditions of “On the Ball, City,” steadily throughout the contest. With excitement I hear the “Come on You Yellows,” plea, even though it’s apparent Norwich can’t score off corners.
When City do get promoted, I’ll hear the same chants. I’ll see them, too. I’ll keep my match day rituals, only now I’ll actually get to see the team I have irrationally come to love.
But it gets better. With promotion, I won’t have to watch Hull v. Everton while listening to the Norwich fixture.
Then people can watch Norwich with me and ask how I can stand watching a lousy team. I miss those days every Saturday morning.
