It’s derby eve, and a quiet sense of purpose and intensity has settled on me, as it has done many times before this game.
I was brought up in Morpeth, in a house that was split between the Toon and Sunderland. I had good friends growing up who were every bit as daft on the Toon as I was on Sunderland. There was always more of them though.
I went to grammar school in Newcastle; there was a couple of Sunderland-daft lads like me in every year.
In my year us Sunderland lads were canny scrappers and good
footy players; we formed the spine of the footy team and were respected for it. There was always more of them, though.
Their sense of entitlement and air of superiority had little effect on me growing up; I saw them in their truest form. Full of bravado and billy-big-bollocks, casting nervous glances at their “little neighbours”, secretly dreading derby games, more nervous of losing than excited about winning, even when they were riding high!
I don’t hate all Toon fans; I count some of them as true friends. But come the derby, we don’t speak – it makes sense. I would not want to lose a good friend over their inability to see the error of their Toony-supporting ways.
I enter this game as I do every game, determined to give my best as a fan for ninety minutes and some. I expect it of my team and will give this also; the only condition being that my team tries its best and has a good go.
I know in my bones this game is just a bit different; it rattles my genes and teases my ancient memories. It is a matter of life and death.
So ha’way my bonny lads and lasses, bring the noise and bring the passion, bring your hearts and be ready to bare your souls, for tomorrow we do battle, and we stand or fall together, for we are Sunderland till we die and will be there. ’Til the End!
