If you have ever been to a game and wondered what you’re doing there, you will know what it is that makes football great.

I mean, sometimes we endure 90 minutes that rational people would consider better spend elsewhere.  Better spent peeling potatoes or ironing socks, for example.

By way of introduction to both this site and my footballing (or should I say football watching?) history, I would like to provide some personal examples of such occasions.

Which brings me to sore toes.  When I was about 11 or 12, my father and I regularly watched our local non-league teams.  Specifically, Littlehampton Town*.

For those who don’t know (why not?), the Golds at that time played in the 1st division of the Sussex County League, a stereotypical mix of plumbers and postmen.

Why did I feel that it was worth standing in the dark on a December Saturday so cold that my toes began to throb after about fifteen minutes?  There we were, watching players who were virtually our neighbours (or actually our neighbours in a couple of cases) playing a bunch of other blokes’ neighbours from five miles down the road.

Ten years later, I was able to get cheap tickets at Fratton Park thanks to a friend at university in Portsmouth.  There are two matches from this period that stand out in my memory.

The first was the worst game of football I have ever seen, including any match involving the above-mentioned neighbours.   Portsmouth, under Graham Rix, were battling relegation from the Championship (or whatever it was called back then).  They were playing Stockport, who are always fighting for their lives.

Both teams spent the entire 90 minutes playing long, diagonal balls to their wingers, combined height 4’6″.  Unsurprisingly, it was 0-0 and still would be if they were playing today.  The most remarkable thing about this match is that both teams thought that playing high balls to their shortest players was a sensible tactical approach.

The second example, from the same season if I remember correctly, was a match between Portsmouth and Trevor Francis’ Birmingham City, which I can only describe as having seen in a metaphorical sense.

It happened to be the same day that a tornado decided to attack Selsey Bill.  Whilst the good people of Selsey were having their garden furniture re-distributed amongst each other, I was sat near the half-way line literally unable to see either goal due to the rain.

I think that match ended 0-0 as well, but if it had been 5-5 I wouldn’t have known any differently.  To add humiliation to the misery, I had chosen to sit under the exact spot where the guttering overflowed.  At least the fans who had the sense to sit in the rows further back got their money’s worth, as was communicated to me through the laughter of 3,000 people.

The question of why football fans endure positively enjoy this kind of experience is of course rhetorical.  If you need telling the answer, you might not be a fan at all.

All of this is my long-winded way of saying “welcome to 2nd Yellow.  If you love football too, please visit often”.