“How can you be afraid to be happy?”
- “Because whenever you get too happy, something bad always
happens.”
It’s a little bit funny,
these last few months. That is, oscillating between all of a sudden breaking
into laughter or breaking into tears. Cracking into a grin or crinkling the
eyes - abruptly and inexplicably so, any which time.
Ah, come on, you Spurs.
Never again #Spursy, or so this our Champions League campaign might - nay, must
- suggest, having us somehow grasp not defeat but victory from the jaws of not
victory but defeat, and just so incessantly.
And now here we are, this
weekend. Somewhere even the most optimistic Tottenham supporter - should such a
someone exist - could not have dared to dream, let alone see us do.
All while hoping my eyes do
see the glory of that cup at White Hart Lane, while also knowing to appreciate
all they are seeing in the meantime.
Beaming. And yet tear-ing
up, at the littlest thought of what’s ahead or maybe more all significantly all
those precisely-recalled moments of every goal, every assist, every near-miss,
every tackle or deflection or save or hoof or, er, VAR that’s added all the
more glory to the story.
Tears, eh - ah, 2019 and too
many years before have produced plenty, here, there and everywhere. Many as
vaguely unexplainable, if asked, as those suddenly smudging through even while
commuting by Tubes these last few weeks and simply thinking once more of those
magic words: “Here’s Dele Alli...here’s Lucas Moura...oh, they’ve done it! I
cannot believe it!”
