A Bergkamp Wonderland

Gazing upwards on a cold, clear night in early October, millions of visible stars stare back from the celestial darkness like pin pricks on some piece of carbon construction paper, held aloft to a desk lamp.  They shine back against the blackness, connected only by the billions of light years that separate them in the void of space.

Football feels like this sometimes, particularly during breaks for International games. Thirty-eight games separated by the vast distances of life and work and sleep and traffic jams and reruns of X-Factor. We lurch from bright spot to bright spot, awkward at times in our sub-light speed travel: a week can be an eternity after a poor result or it can be seven days to savour after a North London Derby win.

As an Arsenal fan for more years than I dare to name, I’ve grown accustomed to the feeling on a Monday morning of a dramatic belter for the win or an Eboué injury time penalty conceded. The patterns of a season are all too well known for me as well as Mrs. OG – who can expertly gauge a result based on a Sunday mood swing.

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