The season is nearly over, our form is good, but why should you buy a season ticket or even be an Oxford United fan? Here’s a handy guide:
Because anything is possible
You are joining an institution which is 125 years old and has experienced everything there is to experience in professional football from national honours to the ignominy of falling out of the Football League altogether. Only one other club has done that, Luton, and, well, have you ever been to Luton?
Because it’s good for you
Life can be pretty overwhelming sometimes. School, college, work and home can get quite chaotic and become hard to process. But, there’s always a game on Saturday and the objective is always to win. You need this, because sometimes it gets you through the day.
Because you’re only truly alive if you mean something
Have you ever listened to people talk about the Premier League? It’s Ozil this and Aguero that, regurgitated opinions that have been replayed a thousand times on TV. Did you know Harry Kane is a good player? Opinions become worn out by relentless media coverage. When you’re not in the media spotlight and you talk about your football club, your opinion is yours, not that of some saggy ex-pro or wizened old hack with a deadline to hit. You mean something because it means something.
Because when you know, you know
You’re part of an undercover movement. If you see someone in a Spurs or Manchester United shirt, you don’t know whether they’re going to football or to Westfield shopping centre. See someone in an Oxford shirt and you know they’re part of the secret society. If you see someone in, say, a Rochdale shirt – preferably their away shirt from 1994 – you know they’re also part of the resistance network, a counter-culture people don’t understand.
Because you’re always on a secret mission
Let’s face it, people don’t care about your club; at best they’ll ask what division you’re in and shut down before you finish telling them. But they don’t know that your Saturdays are spent screaming for an undeserved away point at Scunthorpe courtesy of Jamie Mackie. They don’t even know what a Jamie Mackie is, and they are less of a person because of it.
Because you’re not just watching history, you are history
If you do get to Wembley, draw a big team in the cup, get promoted or have a moment in a game which makes national headlines, people suddenly want to know: were you there? You can say, heroically, that you were because you’ve invested the time and deserved to be part of that moment in a way they haven’t. Then you can watch the sadness in their eyes as they cower in the dawn of their meaningless existence.
Because they’ll never understand
Sometimes you’ll draw a big team away in the cup and join an armada of 3,000 or more on a pilgrimage across the country. When you arrive, watch as the opposition fans – mere extras in the Premier League media product – look at you like you’re an exotic, beguiling creature. And that’s because you are. They think you’re there for the day out, they don’t know you’re there for the win, and if not the win, then a glorious death trying, a death we don’t fear. They can’t figure you out, they don’t know why you do it, but they’re jealous that you do.
Because it puts everything else into perspective
You go to a game on a Tuesday night when you’ve got work or school in the morning and the world is fixated on the Bake Off quarter-finals. The next day, your colleagues talk about under-cooked macarons as though they’ve got a purpose in life. You have a meeting with your boss where you thank them for trebling your workload because you ‘thrive on the pressure’. Secretly, you don’t give a crap about their meaningless existence and hierarchy because last night’s point means you’re eight points clear of the relegation zone and that is life.
Because it’s the lows that make the highs
Don’t do it for the wins, do it for the mission, do it for the journey, not the destination. Week in, week out, you’ll be cold, you’ll be bored, you’ll be frustrated. Then sometimes, just sometimes, you’ll be deep into stoppage time, 100 miles from home in a game nobody else gives a damn about. All seems lost, when a final, desperate ball is launched forward, their full-back slips and suddenly your striker – four goals in thirty-six games and a contract that expires in four months – is bearing down on goal. He looks terrified, he can’t feel his feet, he scuffs his shot and it squirms under their keeper and rolls into the net. Suddenly he transforms into a god. And you? You’re tumbling down the terrace, arm in arm with a 64-year-old retired gas fitter from Wantage, careering into a steward like he’s a luminous crash mat in a gym. Your world becomes blurred and muffled because your face is embedded in the armpit of an overweight ginger teenager. Someone has their hand on your backside, and you can’t be certain that you’ve still got your phone. You gasp for clean air. When you surface all you can see is Sheila, a South Stand regular, whose been going to away games on the London Road coach for 30 years and insists Billy Whitehurst was a lovely polite boy, claps hysterically and waves the scarf she bought when Ron Atkinson was a boy. It’s a blissful momentary release from her sciatica. When you do finally extract yourself from the bundle and the final whistle goes, you want to tell everyone what happened, but the convenient faceless industrial estate where you’ve parked your car is empty. You go onto Twitter and share the moment with hundreds of others until the feeling fades and all that’s left is a vague sense of needing that moment again, and more. And so, despite the rain, despite the misery, despite the fact Saturday is your only chance to fix the broken guttering which threatens to wreck your house, you make a silent pact that you’ll do it all again next week.