I feel like I said that title as if I had just announced “I am an alcoholic” in front of willing listeners at my first AA meeting. But yes, I’ll admit it: “I work in sports.”


I won’t get into which sport at the moment, but I believe most sports carry the same highs and lows. It’s what makes sport unique. What happens is played out in front of you in real time. No rewinding or rage quitting. Nor can you just go “you know what, I think I’m happy with just the first two seasons.” You are either a fan or not a fan. You care or you don’t. And that, there, is what makes sport unique.


Now go one further and work within it. For a club you actually support. That, my friend, is a recipe for a world of pain, or maybe jubilation, who knows.


So how did I get here? Well, I always wanted to work for this club, and when a new position came up I jumped at the chance. I could watch all the games for free… yes please, sign me up. And they did. How exciting.


I have to admit I had never worked in sport before, and I personally thought, what’s the big deal, it’s just another job, right? I understood the general gist of my role and knew I could make a difference, so that was pretty simple. Yes, it would have its own unique challenges, just like any other job. But boy, was I in for a rollercoaster of a ride.
For the first few weeks I felt like Charlie in It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, working out who Pepe Silvia is. It felt like I’d arrived in a superhero comic book where everyone played pretty normal roles during the working week. But come game time, your CRM Manager was suddenly DJing the in-stadium entertainment. Your Head of Finance was the mascot. And your Head of Marketing was delivering bucket hats. I’d just started to understand everyone’s normal role. Now I needed to work out their alter ego too!


So there I was, notebook and pen in hand, thinking, what have I just signed up for? Thank goodness my manager could guide me… “So, Mr Loose Ends, I’m leaving.”


Wait, what? Great.


Someone new did arrive eventually, but not for a while. In the meantime it was a lot of nodding confidently in meetings while quietly thinking, right, I need to work out what the heck I’m doing. The post-it notes did a lot of heavy lifting.
The good news, and there is some, is that we’re quite a successful team in some areas. We made the final of both cups for the men, and one of the women’s too. Great. However, sport has a habit of bringing you back down to earth. In my first season we lost every single final. And you know what’s worse than not making the final? You got it. Losing in the final. They say it’s the hope that kills you, and each game we were so close. Bested in the very last few minutes. You tell yourself, well, to lose a final you’ve got to be in the final, so that’s success, right? There’s some truth in that, as I pull the dagger with writing written on the side saying final loss pain out from within me. Thank goodness I was there for it. Without being there I wouldn’t have the luxury of pulling this very nice dagger out of me as I slump to the floor, wheezing and coughing.


But no biggie. We win and lose. Brush yourself off and move on. The problem is that’s not quite how it works when you work for the club. There are things to do. You can’t just switch off. Imagine: “Sorry, boss, we lost and I’m really upset about it, so I can’t come in this week.” I think I’d be marched back out the doors. So you go back to your notes and carry on working out how many alter egos each person has.


Then came the off-season. You might think that means a chance to breathe. No sport no stress right? Not quite. One of our greatest ever players passed away, a man with an entire stand named after him. It put every lost final firmly in perspective.


Then the next season arrived. In the short, sharp competitions we’re a force. Both the men’s and women’s sides made it through to their finals. All three lost, by the finest of margins. And the league, the long one that tests you week after week? That’s a tougher story. We got relegated.


I’m starting to wonder if I’m the problem. Even worse, I’m a fan! I really badly want to see us do well, but I have zero influence on that happening, and all I can do is watch from afar.
Which brings me to the players. I spend my week at a desk thinking about the result. They actually have to go out and play in it.


They train in the dark and the freezing cold, then play through heat that would have me sprinting back to the office. Me? I’m in there with an iced latte in the summer or a hot cocoa in the winter, calling it a tough day. Then they walk out in front of thousands of people where every mistake happens live. There’s no Ctrl+Z. No undoing it. No restarting the level and promising yourself “this time it’ll be different.” And when it slips away in those last few moments. They can’t just shut the laptop and shuffle out the back door and get into their cars. They have to stand there, shake hands, and turn up on Monday to do it all again.


So when I say I’m gutted, I should probably keep it in perspective. I’m a fan with a lanyard. Whatever I’m feeling, they’re feeling it ten times harder, and they’ve got the bruises to prove it.


So here we are. Final after final, all lost, a relegation on top, and I’m still holding the same post-it notes, no closer to working out anyone’s alter ego.
I can’t pick the team. I can’t change the score. I certainly can’t rewind it. All I can do is watch it play out in real time, like everyone else in the stands.


And that’s the thing. It hurts because it’s real. If I didn’t care, none of this would sting, and I’d probably be in a much easier job. So I’ll keep turning up, keep telling the stories, keep getting gutted in the last few minutes. Because one day we’ll win one, and I want to be there when we do.