Dear Ange, I think you're swell. Love, an Arsenal fan
Why we should all cherish the "Big Ange", even us lot
This coming Sunday, at 2:00 p.m., Arsenal will face Tottenham Hotspurs in this season’s first North London derby. Revered by supporters and detested by disinterested pub employees, the match is a pageant of football rivalry.
Above the Thames, its repercussions will echo for months, as victorious supporters will needle and laud over those who are empty-handed come 4:30 p.m.
I will be firmly placed near a television, droplets condensing on my Guinness glass, wringing my hands. I’m always antsy before the North London derby, and little can put a grey cloud over my week like watching the Gunners lose it. I can rationalise all I want, but I really do care about this silly 90 minutes of football.
But, you may ask, why do you care? You were born in South Africa, live in East London, and have about as much connection to the plains of Islington as the innumerable chains which clog its highstreets. Why are you, a stranger, invested in a rivalry so rooted in geography?
These are valid questions, thank you for asking. It’s true. I am what Florentino Pérez termed, in the aftermath of the Super League debacle, a “fan of the future”.
Mine is a fandom borne out of the Premier League’s slick international coverage and ubiquity. I am a pawn of globalisation. I know little about the Premier Soccer League – South Africa’s domestic top flight – yet can wax lyrical about Adam Le Fondre and Nikica Jelavic.
“Legacy fans” – another Perezism describing locally based supporters – often pour scorn on us international fanatics. I notice it during my watercooler chats, that initial hesitance when I first mention I’m an Arsenal fan to my colleagues. Is he really? How much of a fan can you be from 10 000 miles away? Does he even know who Sébastien Squillaci is?
Well that is rubbish. Anyone who has read this blog with any regularity will know what Arsenal can mean and has meant to me. From the age of four my identity has been intertwined with that of the club, and part of that identity is detesting Tottenham Hotspurs.
Sport, at its core, is about competition. Winning, and therefore beating others, is satisfying. The communities football produces are rooted in schadenfreude and tribalism.
This often spills into ugly group-think and bullying, but to not indulge in healthy, victorious ribbing would remove a crucial aspect of football fandom. And, again thanks to the Premier League’s global dominance, there are plenty of Cape Town-based Spurs supporters who have been subject to this aspect of my fandom.
I am an Arsenal fan, and Arsenal fans dislike Tottenham. It sounds simplistic, but us football fans have a tendency to be simple. And, it’s why I love beating Tottenham.
It’s also why I should be nervous; as painful as it is to admit, it looks like the lads from Seven Sisters are getting their act together. How? Well, they’ve hired Ange “Big Ange” Postecoglou.
Since Mauricio Pochettino’s sacking in 2019, Spurs have hired a procession of uninspiring managers. There was Jose Mourinho’s petulance, Nuno Espírito Santo’s essential absence, and finally Antonio Conte’s condescension. It was the footballing equivalent of waterboarding.
However, they now have Postecoglou. The Australian is the current darling of the British sports media, being described in the same way hipsters would a grotty café: words like “rugged”, “honest”, and “full of character”. And, from what I’ve seen, he seems to be a brilliant manager.
Gone is the turgid football from the past years. Spurs, with the likes of James Maddison, Yves Bisouma, and Destiny Udogie – possibly the best name in football, after Elias Chair – are playing liquid stuff, the team expanding and contracting like a slinky down a flight of stairs. In a few months, Postecoglou has transformed the team, and done it all without Harry Kane.
Spurs appear to be exiting their banter era, and I should be miffed.
But, I’m not. Not at all. I am, in fact, happy Big Ange is with the other lot. I think it’s great.
I have two reasons.
First, being a football fan is hard work these days. I – and many others – have written about the game’s toxic treatment of women, particularly those who are victims of sexual assault, a dynamic perfectly illustrated by the recent controversy surrounding Luis Rubiales and the Spanish FA.
Add to this the game’s peddling of gambling and NFTs, and the blasé presence of sportswashing (as excellently unpacked by James Saunders in his column Saunderisms), and you’ve got a wholly unappealing environment in which to enjoy your pastime.
For a decent human to be in position of prominence is a balm to the rash that is so much of football. Postecoglou’s handling of Richarlison’s mental health issues was immaculate and – surprise, surprise – actually aided the player’s on pitch performance.
And, if you’re not warmed to the core by this video of Big Ange answering a young fan’s question at a recent forum, then I recommend falling off a boat in deep water. Just look at the hugs, man!
Big Ange being at Spurs is great for them, but it’s also a good for us all. We all need many more like him.
My second reason is inextricably linked to being an unbearable football idealist, and a sporting romantic. Yes, I listen to Stadio, and I read Mundial, and a half-finished copy of Futebol lies on my bedside table.
It’s the prism through which I consume my sport; I see it as an expression of physical prowess and mental dexterity; it is clashing ideology, and a battle with chance; it is contemporary history, it is human nature.
I romanticise football, moulding the chaos into some grand narrative. This image is shattered when my team’s eternal rivals are intermittently managed by Ryan Mason.
Spurs being terrible is like sticking your younger cousin in goal at the family barbecue. There is no glory in that triumph. But, with Postecoglou at the helm, there is something to strive against. He is Sisyphus’s boulder, and we Arsenal fans will smile as we roll him up the hill.
Therein lies the true majesty of sports; these lot are good, so we ’ave to be better. Then, win or lose, there’ll be a handshake and a tap on the bottom.
Many Gooners will scoff at this way of thinking, others will doubt my loyalty to the cause. Perhaps it’s the distance I have as a foreign fan, and the positive relationship with tribalism that it facilitates, but I believe it is more compelling to battle competence than incompetence.
And, if that means a good person is able to exert their influence on a game straying from any semblance of virtue, then all the better. So, good luck to you Ange, I wish you the best. Except for two hours on Sunday afternoon. I hope you get absolutely battered.