I’ve tried to approach all of these Throwback Thursday columns as if I’m telling a bedtime story. Which I realize isn’t everyone’s cuppa. I end up painting in perhaps overly-broad strokes and leaving out key details. Of maybe focusing too much on aesthetics and feelings.
But that’s basically what we all do. When you tell your kids— or your grandkids— about the first match you ever saw, you don’t write up a gamer for them. You don’t name the referee or show them a heat map. You tell them a story. A story only you can ever tell. Because it was you in the stands that day, or you on your living room rug in front of the TV, or nervously checking your phone because you were couldn’t get out of whatever social obligation you had committed to. Football is always as much about how your heart as it is about the scoreline.
So, this week, I’m going to tell you one last story. It’s a story of how I fell in love.