I Married Into This

I did not grow up a Tottenham supporter. In fact, I didn’t grow up a football supporter at all, although I used to claim Liverpool purely because where I came from that was what people my age were supposed to say. Either Liverpool or Manchester United. I used to go to the eye hospital in Liverpool, so I firmly planted my allegiances there and felt vaguely justified.

The last time I actually watched Liverpool play properly, John Toshack was still involved, which should tell you everything you need to know about the depth of my commitment. That changed, briefly, when Andrew and I went to Anfield to watch Liverpool play Atalanta, just for the fun of it. We sat so far up I nearly got a nosebleed, which is not my preferred style of sports viewing and did nothing to deepen my sense of belonging.

I married a Spurs man.

I am now, apparently, a Spurs supporter. I say this carefully, the way I admit to having an autoimmune disease that flares up unpredictably. You can’t see it, but it’s there, and sometimes it’s really irritating. I have discovered that I cannot actually watch matches without becoming absurdly stressed, so I listen instead. This feels more dignified, even if it is essentially emotional avoidance.

What has surprised me most is that it’s not the football that has kept me here, but the people. The camaraderie. The warmth. The way Spurs supporters find each other on the other side of the world and immediately behave like extended family. I’ve come to really love the OzSpurs crowd.

I used to love the ritual of walking into the Surry Hills Hotel, the spiritual home of Sydney OzSpurs, and being welcomed like a regular even when I still felt like a late arrival. Cam, our chapter leader, was always there. Calm, kind, generous with his time and his welcome, which for me was always a bear hug and a seat. Before cancer, and before voluntary assisted dying took him from us, he embodied what I came to understand Spurs fandom really is. Community first. Football second. Shared suffering softened by humour, loyalty, and the sense that you are not doing this alone.

That is what has kept me coming back. Not the results. Although I did have a short hiatus and quietly withdrew my support for a while, not that anyone would know or care. This was entirely because of Ange, and the way he was treated.

Under Ange, I was all in. Not because we were winning everything, because obviously we were not, but because he spoke like a leader who understood people rather than assets. He talked about players as humans. About trust. About responsibility. About standards that went beyond the league table. He sounded like someone you would follow into something difficult, which for Spurs felt refreshingly on brand.

It mattered to me how he spoke. It mattered that he defended his players publicly and demanded accountability privately. It mattered that there was a sense of direction, even when the road was bumpy, and that he had faith in himself and his system. Angeball. I liked the culture he was building, or at least the one he was trying to build, despite the naysayers and the shareholders.

He should have stayed.

Instead, we now have Frank. I realise this is where I may sound unreasonable, but I simply do not like him. I have no solid evidence beyond the obvious sense that things feel worse than before, that we are playing poorly, and that we look more Spursy with every passing week. Also, and this is important, Frank chews gum with an intensity that makes chewing gum look like an Olympic sport.

I know it should not matter. I know it’s irrational and personal. I really hate hearing people chew or seeing bad table manners. I haven’t seen Frank eat real food, but I can imagine it would be painful to watch. Am I being mean? Possibly. But leadership presence is not just about tactics. It’s about how someone makes you feel, even from a distance.

I like Ange. Ange made me feel calm, even when things went wrong. I don’t like Frank. He makes me feel like everything is slightly out of control, including his jaw.

I am married to a man who lives and breathes this club. I have watched him suffer quietly, loudly, optimistically, pessimistically, and occasionally all at once, usually accompanied by a heartfelt “for fucks sake!”. Supporting Spurs is not about trophies for him. It is about identity, history, loyalty, and the belief that one day it will all make sense. I admire him for it. In fact, I think I’m slightly jealous. I don’t experience passion the way he does.

But as someone who came in late, without childhood memories or inherited allegiances, I notice different things. I notice leadership. I notice whether players look trusted or tense. I notice whether the culture feels coherent or brittle.

Right now, it feels like the latter.

Still, here I am. Listening rather than watching. Caring despite myself. Missing Ange. Side-eyeing Frank’s rabid chewing mouth. Remembering Cam and the warmth of his welcome at the Surry Hills Hotel.

Because once you marry into this, there is no exit clause. Only commentary, loyalty, and the strange belief that next season will be different, which I am told is the most Spursy thing of all.

For Cam, who made Spurs feel like home.