Once, there was a small boy who loved football so much that he vowed one day he would travel half way across the world to see his favorite football team play. However, as the boy grew up, he forgot how much he loved his football. As the years passed and he was no longer small in size, the boy dismissed his once all consuming passion as nothing more than mere distractions. Sadly, he never gave much thought about what he lost when he did that.
A couple of weeks ago, I watched F.C København draw with their stiff rivals OB. The game had a couple of goals, wide wing plays and the usual football strategies. To anyone who is used to watching football, it was just another ordinary game. However, for me it was anything but ordinary. Quite hard to be impassive when you are standing next to a legion of diehard fans that were chanting and singing their hearts out. Before I knew it, I was cheering with the best of them. Hoping our collective will was strong enough to secure F.C København a win. We shared pain when OB scored and jumped with joy when F.C København grabbed the lead. It was eventful, fun and best of all, it was full of passion.
As the final whistle blew, I felt something old and forgotten stir. It was a part of me which has been lost for a long time. It was a part of me which I really wanted back. Since then, a new entry has been added to my list of 100 things to do before I meet the Big Guy…
“Pilgrimage to Old Trafford to watch Manchester United take on Liverpool”.
It was long overdue. A forgotten promise to a passionate small boy who loved his football.