In *This* Own Write: "Things are happening..."

“This type of emotion - without football, I think it’s impossible to live...”

“And in the middle of the celebrations, I break down...”

“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!”

Decades of varying depression, sure, and a few recent years in which ever-present sense of failure and self-loathing and indeed self-harm have been topped up for bad measure by an ongoing ordeal inflicted by troubled ghosts of ever-present past. And only for extra embarrassment in recent months when friendly-firmly told at ever-helpful work to seek assistance, right now, after certain mordant musings were evidently taken as too macabre for comfort by all-too-concerned colleagues.

Of course any help helps and is appreciated, especially when remembering all too well just how many many many more people struggle with barely a possession of their own - or with so many stricken and pain and suffering any which way.

Yet at the risk of coming across as even more flippant and facetious than ever - it’s a fine line, trying to wear anything lightly in getting on with life - one memorable moment remains from when emerging haunted by one enforced counselling session, only to instantly slump all the more.

Yes, it was that Friday lunchtime in March when the quarter-final draw had of course pitted Spurs not against, say, Porto but rampant Manchester City.

Tch, trivial, sure. Insulting to think, very probably. And yet the depths of personal despair, for whatever cause, can gladly take any lift it might find - and for sure Spurs, it seems, can provide plenty after all, even it would transpire against the otherwise-all-conquering Manchester City. And how. No, really, just how?!

#Spursy is a hashtag these social media days but the idea - at least before MoPo pitched up - has long since resonated, especially since the Nineties: that decade when English football erupted and yet one of the traditional “Big Five” clubs chose then to turn so mediocre, even with a chairman who was meant to be our inside man with money-makers Sky.

The first game I attended was back in 1985, a 3-2 home defeat by Ipswich Town that was at least an instantly-intoxicating white-hot White Hart Lane adventure nevertheless. We had just won three trophies in the previous four years. In the 34 years since, we’ve won another ... three trophies.

It would be churlish in the joyous spirit of the now to namecheck any of those unfortunate players taunted across the underwhelming Nineties with the likes of old favourites “You’re not fit to wear the shirt” and “We want our Tottenham back”, amid excruciating away-day trouncings or emphatic home humblings.

Suffice to say that when Swindon Town tottered out of the Premier League traps to set an abidingly low standard for a newly-promoted, instantly-relegated top-flight side, they still managed to take four points from six against Tottenham.

Even when a nascent new era began under Martin Jol - and deck-clearing director of football Frank Arnesen - before surprisingly flourishing all the more under Harry Redknapp, we could always turn a corner to be confronted with a reminder of our apparent place and fate.

The supposed “Lasagna-gate” final-day game when on the brink of the fourth-place promised land in 2005 - proof of my daftness coming that morning when asking a friend bringing food-poisoning information whether it was us or opponents West Ham stricken so. Of course...

That surprise Spring 2012 tilt for the title stymied by Mario Balotelli scything through Scott Parker before surviving to score a last-minute winning penalty, seconds after - at the other end - Jermain Defoe’s “Gazza in the Euro 96 semi-final” moment in front of an open goal.

Followed hard on by a 5-1 FA Cup semi-final slapping by Chelsea at Wembley - one of eight defeats at that stage in a row now, in what used to be our tournament - with their defence playing pat-a-cake behind their own goal-line with what should have been a Spurs equaliser.

And of course, all manner of all other Tottenham teases up and until and even during this five-year plan under, not the long-forgotten David Buchler, but MoPo.

A new era that has provided the thrills not only of aesthetic passing pleasure and heart-surging pace but also admirably hard-working heavy pressing - yet also something beyond, something all so sympathetic.

Tottenham’s failure/refusal to spend any money on transfers during the past two windows can naturally feel frustrating. Just imagine what further magic Pochettino might have conjured, with reinforcements to a squad whose international contingent lasted deeper than any other at last summer’s (also-energising) World Cup.

Eyebrows raise towards the savvy/parsimonious boardroom, especially with Enic’s apparent improvisation not just when it came to constructing our new stadium but keeping us paying punters actually meagrely informed along the way.

And yet, and yet - those bland old days of Wembley, not all that long ago, somehow now feel so far away. The long-delayed and yet evermore-anticipated homecoming in N17 has helped wash away ill will, even before those scintillating displays put on right before our eyes in a shimmeringly stunning new home that looks like the old White HartLane, feels like the old White Hart Lane, and yet only all the much more immensely so.

Strolling along rows in the lower bit of that South Stand, you can’t help but catch the eye of fellow fans and when not cheering just chuckle: yes, we really are back here, and we really are here.

The home that might well have been the one setting (or thereabouts) to have felt both sad and happy more than any other place in the world else.

And “being here”, in shocked awe, sums up as well this run to a final we never expected.

Encapsulated best maybe by not only every player and staff member’s unrestrained celebrations after each knock-out of a final whistle, nor the sincere prayers of Lucas Moura, the crumpling tears of field-thumping Pochettino or Harry Kane sprinting in a straight line as if to show off his improving ankle.

But possibly perhaps that most instinctive runner and dribbler and finisher, Heung-min Son.

Look at the video Spurs posted on Wednesday announcing the squad safely put on to the plane to Madrid: purposeful strides towards the camera accompanied by serious stony faces from each one.

Well, except for one - and of course it was number seven, Heung-min Son, who did seem to try his steeliest yet couldn’t help but crack at the last split-second and flash an ecstatic smile.

Why, he can be just as endearing on those - thankfully - few occasions he does get caught distraught.

This does seem a happy, humble team. Extravagantly-rewarded, of course, as all elite footballers are, with weekly wages many fans might not pocket in a decade - although plenty of these Spurs players could easily receive far more for far less at any of our top-six rivals.

They yet connect, not only in their performances on the pitch and how thrillingly far they’ve taken us, but the fellow-feeling that resonates all the way along and far beyond.

Whatever happens next - and with a father and Spurs brother also in Madrid, but also another brother and a beloved nephew and niece all cheering on Liverpool back home - let’s only hope everyone can savour something assuring at least in the dramatic days ahead.

Liverpool have of course done this often. Tottenham, never until now, and never really really imagined doing so. So, er, enjoy. (Now watch us go and do a Watford in the final - no, that’s not the spirit. For now, anyway...)

When I find myself in times of trouble, two things - other than family, friends, loved ones - come to me: The Beatles for one, plus Tottenham Hotspur FC. They can help make the whole world feel, at least in the moment, a more comforting one after all.

To quote another musical act, mind, the late Jim Croce: “These dreams - they keep me going these days...”

(While, as he put it in a separate song: “...the hard way every time...”)

Or, from a similar era, Mary Hopkin sweetly chirping/warning/encouraging: “Sometimes it feels like the sun just comes up out of habit, goes down as quick as it can - these days you justhave to grab it as it goes by...”

Life’s sorrows and suffering endure for all, alas, much more for some than lucky-of-us others - but these few seize-’em-while-you-can moments can briefly convince that, yes, tomorrow’s going to be a brighter day.

In the wise words of Carlo Ancelotti, a manager who always seemed endearing even when doing the Double with Chelsea: “Football is the most important of the least important things in life.”

Ah, if you don’t, you don’t - but if you do get it, you get it.

“To dare is to do”, say Spurs - yet “to dare is to dream” is to do plenty too.

And if you can’t laugh, you can cry - or, of course, do both...