So yesterday’s match against Southampton. A depressing affair. A tie never felt so much like a loss.
The usual reason for that feeling is that you had a win in your pocket, and then let the other team back in. But in this case, it was a scoreless draw. And not a boring, old scoreless draw where two joyless teams bumble around. Arsenal had shot after shot on goal and Nothing. Went. In.
And then there were a few tense moments in which Southampton made their way down the field and looked like they could easily take all the points. I had to remind myself to not be at all thankful for the one point we got. It was in no way enough.
Remember how tight the league has been at the top? Leicester City, Manchester City, Tottenham all won yesterday. This tie (and those wins) pushed Arsenal down to fourth place.
One of the things I truly despise about this feeling of losing is that it makes me all philosophical. But a weirdly, shallow philosophical. All day, I’ve landed mentally on the strangest cultural references. Like this:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Seriously? The Dylan Thomas poem about his dying father? This is a not-fun situation, this tie that feels like a loss, but it would certainly be taking it a bit far to suggest that a) Arsenal need to rage against the dying of our season, or b) that this is anything like a dying father. I’m not even sure I agree with the poet’s sentiment when it is a dying father we’re talking about. Going gently into that dark night is nothing to sneeze at.
Or this one:
Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the circle of life.
Yes. The words of Simba’s ghostly Lion King father in the clouds–when Simba was hanging with Pumba and Timon living the hakuna mata lifestyle–actually crossed my mind today as I was fretting over Arsenal.
I think we can all agree that winning the Premier League is no circle of life. But it would be awfully darned nice.
And this song has been stuck in my head, ridiculously.
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
At least it’s a good song, even if it has no business being stuck in my head. This is NOT our last dance, Arsenal, although we are certainly under some pressure, here. (Thank heavens the song in my head is not Muskrat Love. Other days I have not been so lucky.)
It is my fervent hope that this philosophical streak won’t stay with me until we play again on Sunday.
But if it does, please don’t let me think about the movie Titanic. I hated that movie and it would annoy me to no end if I spent my day with this on my mind:
Winning that ticket, Rose, was the best thing that ever happened to me… it brought me to you. And I’m thankful for that, Rose. I’m thankful. You must do me this honor, Rose. Promise me you’ll survive. That you won’t give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless. Promise me now, Rose, and never let go of that promise.
Yes, Arsenal. We will both survive.
No Gloria Gaynor I will survive. Please.