No one was airing the Chelsea fourth round FA cup match today (and we still have internet powered by lethargic squirrels) so I had to follow gameplay by scrolling through a live feed on my phone. Chelsea scored. Then Chelsea scored again. Excellent. Perfect. All shipshape and Bristol fashion, as we football fans say when we suffer not only from anglodelerium but also a touch of 19th century Royal Navyitis.
So I had breakfast, did a little parenting, put away some socks and returned to my phone to find that Chelsea had lost 4-2. To a team called The Bantams. I have never even heard of The Bantams. Granted until about two months ago I had never heard of the FA Cup either but that's not the point. When we Hippogriffs give our hearts it is like that. Quick, intense, forever. If Chelsea wanted to win the silly cup then, damn it, I wanted it too.
Four. Two. At first I thought it was one of those weird European things, like when they write 02/01/15 when they really mean 01/02/15. Or perhaps the score was a joke. You know the English - so witty, so dry. But no. Chelsea lost; Bradford City won and will go on, one hopes, to even greater glory. Godspeed, small chickens, I bear you no ill-will. Four unanswered goals, my god. Against Chelsea. At Stamford Bridge.
I went into Steve's office and flung myself onto the floor next to him, resting my head on his knee in my grief.
"You don't know what it's like to have your team be eliminated from further competition after a painful loss," I whuffled into his pants.
Steve removed his black ribboned Cheesehead and stared at it while his right hand stabbed a pen convulsively into a map of Seattle.
"At least your team only lost a chance at one of the many cups they play for and not even an important one at that."
I brightened. "Yeah, true, sorry. It's not like the Packers just lost to the Seahawks in a bake-off with the NFC championship still pending, is it?"
Then I noticed Steve's expression and scurried away, covering my throat protectively with both hands as I fled.
What? Too soon?