Through thick and thin: Why I love Leicester City
The recent cup quarter final, and a probing line of questioning from his significant other, got Mark Hardy thinking about how his love for Leicester has changed over the years.
“I just don’t get it, what is it you love so much about football?”
A question virtually every football fan up and down the country, and likely worldwide, has encountered at some point in their life, this was one I had thrown my way by my football-agnostic wife a few days ago.
The question was instigated by an advert for the upcoming FA Cup quarter final weekend, with scenes of jubilant fans in ecstasy in celebration of their respective sides finding the net.
Those same set of images were met with contrasting facial expressions between me and my wife, with me adopting an almost lustful gaze as I bathed in the nostalgia of Wembleys gone by, and my wife resembling that Alan Partridge shrug as he discovered he hasn’t got a second series.
Generally speaking, the aforementioned question is rhetorical. One usually accompanied with a smug grin by somebody who considers themselves to be somewhat above sport, but this time I could sense a genuine interest in my response. I was left to consider why indeed it is that I loved the ‘beautiful’ game.
Were I asked as a child, I think the answer would have burst out of me, but now I would probably find it easier to list reasons I dislike football. It’s not that I’ve fallen out of love with the game, though there’s certainly been some rocky spells and perhaps even a trial separation, it’s more that my love has developed into something completely different from what it once was.
Scaling the peaks
As a child my passion for football was at fever pitch, regardless of whether it was playing or watching. I’d play for as long as sunlight permitted, sometimes beyond that if the local council forgot to turn the floodlights off, and would eagerly await any Leicester game regardless of opposition, competition, or jeopardy (or lack thereof, in the barren years of the noughties).
Most of my formative years were spent with City in the doldrums. The heady days of Martin O’Neill were a distant memory, and the prospect of playing in the top flight, let alone winning it, were the stuff of crazed dreams. Rather than Rome, Madrid, Porto, and Eindhoven it was Crewe, Blackpool, Scunthorpe and Rotherham for us.
Did it matter to me? Absolutely not. I can still picture Dion Dublin scoring from 25 yards at Millmoor just as easily as Riyad Mahrez twisting and turning through the Manchester City defence at the Etihad. The feelings, the emotion, the dedication was no different. If anything, I think Leicester winning the league and the cup is partially what changed my love of football.
We achieved the unthinkable, the unimaginable. In a competitive sense at least, we’d reached the pinnacle. Were we a Liverpool or Manchester United, or were we owned by an oil state, then the next steps would have been fairly obvious. To paraphrase the late Brian Clough, we’d want to win it again, but better.
But, we’re not.
We’re a club that has spent the majority of its existence teetering between the top two divisions and often punching above our weight. By winning the title, we superseded that. We were a rookie that had floored Ali, Frazier, and Tyson in one fell swoop.
Realistically, what was there left to do, for a club of our size? That, perhaps, is where the evolution developed. Sure, I still care about winning as much as ever and I still hope we win every single game we play in. I still get irritated when things go against us and I doubt that will ever change, but, if anything, I’ve fallen more in love with the story of football, rather than the game itself.
In fact; when lockdown hit I thought I’d really miss live football, and I did. However, I found that it wasn’t the action that I missed. It was the occasion. There was plenty of substitutes for the action, and I was content enough with watching re-runs of Football Italia and other pieces of 90s nostalgia. I couldn’t however replicate the feeling of belonging to a club.
Changing times
Leicester winning the league in 2016 also coincided with my move away from Leicestershire, and much like Nick Hornby in his wonderful book, Fever Pitch, my life circumstances changed and had a knock on effect with how I consumed football. I was in my mid 20s, and had recently moved in with my now wife.
My career was beginning to take off as I moved from graduate to an actual, full-time, employee. The work wasn’t anything ground-breaking, but it didn’t afford me the same luxuries of time as being a school or university student had done. My priorities changed, and I could no longer justify heading to Burnley on a Tuesday night to see the Foxes play.
Living and working outside of the county I became ‘the Leicester fan’ to any new colleagues, neighbours, and friends. Something which, of course, didn’t set me apart in Leicester. It made me more tribal and protective of my home town and as close to a nationalist as a Guardian reading liberal leftie would happily be. I now find myself bragging about everything from Richard III to Daniel Lambert, like a self-appointed rep for the city.
I don’t love the club any more or less than I ever did, the relationship is just different. In the past it was all about the football on the pitch. Were they around at the time, I’d have been listening to every podcast going that featured us, even in the most remote context. Nowadays, I couldn’t care less about large quantities of football ‘content’.
What I do care about is the occasion. I still get excited to visit new grounds or ones that I haven’t seen for a while. Going back to the Bescot last year was a minor personal highlight in an otherwise forgettable season.
I still want the club to become world champions and dominate football forevermore, but ultimately, I just want to have a club to support. A club that I feel represents me, the fans, and the area. I want the club to be revered off the pitch as much as on it.
And, in answer to the question ‘why do you love football?’… I can’t quite explain. I just do.
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