Do you ever think about how much time we, as football fans, spend holding our breath? Waiting, bracing, hoping, dreaming (if we dare). 

In a single match, it happens over and over. When you’re waiting for the net to shake – that ripple of white squares behind a goalkeeper’s mistimed leap through the air to confirm that yes, YES, it’s a goal – time seems to still. It’s strange, the way you can run through so many thoughts in a split-second. There’s that eye-popping moment when you anticipate the pass before it happens, the slow shift forwards that has you on the edge of your seat as you notice an opening in the opposition’s backline, the glance at the person sitting next to you that mutually communicates ‘surely, this is it, she can’t miss from there!’ without a single sound, the loud brain whir of if this goes in if this goes in if this goes in, the intake of breath as the ball is struck…………….. and the net shakes, the crowd erupts, the defence deflates, and you’re hit with the most glorious rush of euphoria. 

It happens across a season, too. As fans, we’re always anticipating, always projecting. We’re trying to figure out if the manager is playing 4D chess or playing everyone for fools. We’re holding our collective breath for the next match, hoping for a win and fearing a loss. We analyse the newest signings for clues about the game plan. We long for our favourite players to extend their contracts, unable to focus on the in-between: the time we’re already promised. 

Patience can be hard. Staying present can be hard. We’re so conditioned to look ahead, to anticipate what’s next, to prepare ourselves.

It comes naturally, by now. Over the last two years, thinking about the future has been the only way to get through the present, looking ahead in the hope of better days. I’ve always been prone to doing it anyway, thinking, ‘In a year’s time…’ or, ‘In five years’ time…’ and wanting to skip over the hard stuff. It’s an impulse that comes easy when you’re at a low. 

I’ve experienced depression through a few different seasons of my life and, during the third national lockdown here, in the midst of a long furlough, I struggled through another. It’s hard to be depressed, of course, but I found it harder still to be depressed at a time when almost no one was doing well. It’s hard to find people to lean on; my friends and I were left like a bunch of folded-up, rickety, old chairs precariously propped up together, one slip away from a landslide. So, instead of talking, the coping mechanisms became a gently flowing back-and-forth of some particularly absurd memes and focusing on an imagined time in the future when, someday, things would be happier again. It’s hard, then, to know when to stop looking ahead and appreciate the now. 

It was this, and a few other factors, that meant I went into this WSL season with a different mindset. I felt determined to be grateful for everything, to savour the highs and let go of the lows. I wanted to enjoy every split-second moment. The heart-pumping anticipation before the goal or the save. The hoping. Not to enter my Eat, Pray, Love era out here in front of everyone but, put simply, I wanted to embrace the journey. The moments before triumph. The ones that make victory mean something, in the end.

Football can be heartbreak. It’s usually stress. But it can also be joy. Huge, immersive, jump-out-of-your-seat joy. Cheer-in-chorus-with-twenty-thousand-people joy. And the joy isn’t reserved for a title win, or even a match win. Every single goal is a chance to go wild in celebration, but have you ever experienced a 92nd-minute equaliser against City? 

There is joy in loving football even when it hurts. You have to endure the 91 minutes of struggle for the 92nd-minute equaliser to feel the way it does. 

I went into this season knowing it could be Viv and Leah’s last at Arsenal. But I didn’t want to spend that maybe-last season of a beloved player mourning them before they were even gone, or worrying all season long about the will-they-won’t-they of contract negotiations. I wanted to savour every good thing we get to watch them do. Every delicious point-perfect pass from Leah Williamson. Every sneaky run Viv makes. Every thrilling header goal from one of our own. Every flick. Every rocket from outside the box. Every tricksy fake-out and every fallen defender taken victim by it. Every impossible turn. Every sly pass. Every volley, chip, half-chance. Even the ones that don’t come off, or the ones that get saved. 

What’s the point if we’re not enjoying it? I was – I am – determined to love as much of it as possible. The moments on the podium can be counted in minutes but a season is months long. 

*

I’ve supported Arsenal Women as long as I’ve been watching women’s football. As far as choosing a WSL team went, it wasn’t much of a debate. I loved this team instantly and instinctively. It was Captain Dr. Kim Little’s ball control, and cheeky Jordan Nobbs lobs, and Leah Williamson long balls, and Lia Wälti’s cool head, and Danielle van de Donk’s hot head (miss you, gal), and Beth Mead’s crazy crots, and legend of the left flank Katie McCabe. And Viv. How do I even begin to explain Vivianne Miedema? 

There was also the fact that Tobin Heath – the player who really turned my growing interest in women’s football into true love – was a lifelong Gooner. I felt some strange comfort in that connection, even though I had long assumed she’d never leave the NWSL, having been the star player for the Portland Thorns since the team’s inception in 2013. No, she was destined to retire in Portland and I was destined to always wish I’d seen her become a North London legend.

Everyone who knows me well knows I’m a Tobin Heath fan. I’ll concede that it’s not a particularly edgy choice. I wonder sometimes if there’s a player out there who’s piqued the interest of more women’s football fans. Marta? Pinoe, perhaps? There can’t be many. It’s that combination of seemingly effortless cool, unpredictable wiliness on the ball and truly audacious flair. Who wouldn’t want to watch her pull a backline apart, collecting up defenders like Pokemon cards, to open up space for her teammates? When she assists, she creates chances out of nothing. When she’s going for goal herself, it’s rarely a simple tap-in; it’s a rocket or a back-heel or a nutmeg. Always with the perfect nutmegs. She plays like it’s a dance and she’s leaving everything out on the floor.

Before the pandemic, I’d planned to travel to Portland, Oregon. I had romantic ideas of that Providence Park crowd singing for Tobin Heath, myself among them. I’d get to witness the largest, most vocal fan support in women’s football. I’d get to watch this great player who had made me want to invest in football again, a mere 15 years after a crushing player transfer (and the general ennui of teenagehood) had jaded me. And then there was a virus. And suddenly there were no fans in the stadiums. And then Tobin Heath signed for Manchester United, still no fans allowed. And then there was an NWSL expansion draft so dramatic I had what can only be described as a full-scale Twitter meltdown – which was deleted practically as it was being posted. And then came a season-ending injury, before a just-barely resurrected Olympic dream. 

I grew increasingly resigned to the fact that not only would I never get to see Tobin Heath play in person, but that maybe she’d lose heart in the sport too. 

Well. Life comes at you fast. Or, in the case of Tobin’s journey to Arsenal, reeeeeal slow and then, at the last second, at the speed of light. 

Because she didn’t give up. Where there were obstacles, she saw opportunities.

I can’t remember the first time it became a real possibility. I remember that there were rumblings of a big midfield signing connected to Arsenal, something a little mysterious and intriguing about it. I’m pretty sure I turned myself into Tim Stillman from Arseblog’s reply guy that week while I semi-delusionally insisted to my friends, “Well, Tobin does like to refer to herself as a midfielder.” In terms of the message from Tobin’s side, word was that, having seen out her contract at United, she was looking to play Champions League football. Of course, that was met with a fair few “not Arsenal, then” comments – which have aged like fine wine. I remember trying to narrow down the teams that that left her with, and I kept thinking maybe, maybe, maybe. We had good forwards. Did we need another forward? All I could think was, if Tobin Heath’s available, you don’t pass that up. Turns out, Jonas felt the same. 

When it happened, it was like the last piece of a perfect puzzle slotting into place for me. It was – and I cannot stress this enough, whole earnest self on the table here – a dream come true. 

I texted my friends, “It’s just going to be so much fun to make the most of this season.” 

If the question marks over Leah and Viv’s futures weren’t enough, I had yet another reason to savour every match. It also brought me an uncharacteristic peace of mind, in a funny way. The worst happened: I wanted Tobin to have the opportunity to end her career on her own terms in Portland someday. It turned out not to be the worst – not for me, anyway. It’s led to me seeing her play in person more times than I could’ve hoped. It’s given me a whole damn dream team, playing together. 

That day I remember thinking, whatever happens this year, we’ll be playing good football, fun football. 

*

The way we started the season seemed to prove me right. The opening weekend set the tone with a glorious day out in blazing sunshine. There we were, my dad and I, with three of my friends: an Arsenal fan, a Manchester United fan and a Chelsea fan walk into Emirates Stadium. You can see us celebrating in some of the shots from after Beth Mead’s goal; there’s me with both hands in the air, absolutely loving life. If you look really carefully, I think you can see the moment my 64-year-old dad became a Beth Mead superfan in real time. 

It was a perfect start and the run of form that followed continued the trend.

It soon became a much-needed escape for me. A comfort. I was blessed with enough perspective to know that the bad matches were just matches, but the highs – of which there were so many – gave me something to smile about when smiling felt near impossible. 

In October, my nan suddenly became very ill. I left my house for a trip to watch Arsenal beat Everton at Meadow Park. Later that same day, she left hers for the hospital and never got to come back. 

I didn’t talk to anyone about it for a while. I didn’t even tell the friends I was with that weekend that anything was going on. I wasn’t ready to talk about it and I’m not really going to talk about it now, but having those friends and having that escape guided me through the emotional fog of it all. I can remember sitting in a hospital hallway sobbing alone, because we weren’t allowed to all be in the room at the same time, and, though I didn’t chime in with any replies, my friends filling our group chat with a flurry of silly Viv memes as I sat on that cold, plastic chair made me feel a little bit less lonely. Because I knew I had people. When I was ready, they would be there. For silly, distracting conversations, or warm company, or big heart-to-hearts. 

When my nan passed away, I felt very aware of how long I’d spent worrying about that moment. And then it happened. And all the worrying I’d done didn’t help. It didn’t soften it. It didn’t make anything easier, the fact that I had been anticipating it. It only clouded earlier moments that could’ve been clear. 

Now, I think the worrying is best pushed aside. Appreciate what you have. The fact that you won’t always have it is why it means so much. 

Cliché as it is (and, trust me, I know it is), I took a little piece of that with me once I started going to matches again. In fact, the matchdays helped provide the impetus for any kind of social life at that point. They offered a structure and a routine that I didn’t have when I lost my grandad and I can feel, in myself, the difference it’s made. My dad often drives the distance from Bournemouth to Borehamwood for the matches, or I’ll stay with friends in London for the weekend, and it’s a chance to spend time together. The wins and the goals are a bonus. 

It’s about the joy that can be found in making the most of what I have right now, with even my smallest wishes fulfilled. It’s about the comfort I find in my own little team: the friends I sit between at the matches who’ll laugh when my shrill voice strains through a heckle. It’s about the excitement I feel seeing individual players I love become a team together.

When I was at the Manchester United home game recently, I remember sitting with my head in my hands as we were 1-0 down with a player sent off. I was wondering to myself, was it worth the effort? Was it worth the two-hour drive? But I knew it was. I felt like we’d played well and, honestly, my friends and I getting rowdier than we’ve ever been before was its own kind of fun. I was frustrated, sure, but we were having a blast laughing at each other’s growing annoyance with Mary Earps’ time-wasting, and the fact that I’d been hit by an errant ball while eating my hotdog, and Viv swearing to herself within earshot. And then we scored. We scored one of the most satisfying, brilliant goals I’ve ever seen with my own eyes – the pass, the finish! – and the four of us who were sitting together just exploded. 

It was the goal, but it was also the fight from the players. That’s when I love them most of all. 

It’s impossible to express how happy I am every time I look at a team sheet and the names are Heath, Miedema, Williamson, Nobbs, Little, Iwabuchi, McCabe, Mead, Blackstenius, Rafaelle, Wälti, and on and on. When you get to see the individual talent manifest in a gritty togetherness that pays off, it’s magic. Pure magic. 

I hope every football fan feels about their team the way I feel about ours this season. 

*

For all the reasons I’ve mentioned and more, I would be having the season of my life even if we hadn’t spent most of it at the top of the league. If it was only moments, shiny little glimmers, of great players being great together, I’d take it. But instead we were gifted the most incredible early run in the WSL, and I think we’re rediscovering that same form now. There are so many highlights already – Beth against Chelsea! Leah’s header! Maanum’s worldie against Everton! Katie’s outrageous lob! Mana magic! Viv’s equaliser! Tobin’s equaliser! That Viv pass! Stina’s finish! – but imagine what’s still to come. 

By now, we know that Leah is staying. She’s in. And I am all for street parties in honour of that. As for Viv, we don’t know. A lot of people think they know or act like they know (me in my group chat after a wine), but right now it could go either way. No matter what, every single time I watch Viv play in an Arsenal shirt, I’ll cheer for her until my lungs hurt. I’m not going to spend the time we have her here – however long or short – thinking about when it’ll end. 

The season’s followed some familiar patterns so far. Katie McCabe yellow cards have come quick, the goals even quicker. There have been injuries, crushing and lengthier than planned, because aren’t there always? But the season opener broke with recent tradition. We beat Chelsea. We’re unbeaten against our top three rivals, having played all six of those fixtures now. We held down a clean sheet at Kingsmeadow. Not only that but, in three of the four draws we’ve had this season (Spurs, City, United), we’ve mustered late equalisers to rescue a point. In previous seasons, we’ve been the team that can’t seem to close out a match; the last-minute equalisers or winners have come against us, whether from a stinging own goal or a Caroline Weir rocket. 

The fight is there now; I truly believe it. It’s on. 

It feels as if the whole Eidevall build, and the fiery feeling in the belly as we push on, was effortlessly summed up by Tobin Heath’s succinct throwaway comment from the Manchester City post-match video: “Onward. We’re going.” 

Whatever the ultimate destination, the journey has been a joy.