My absolute favorite time of the year has got to be July and August, right before football leagues all over Europe and the rest of the world kick off for a new season. Two words: Transfer Window. It’s the time of the year where football clubs open up their coffers, astronomical budgets are revealed and players – young and old, talented or average, are stalked, cajoled, bartered and auctioned.
If you’re a football fan or unfortunate enough to be related to or dating one, then you would know that transfer season brings with it an air of excitement. Pre-season banter is pure speculation, constant rumour-mongering and rampant gossip. It's almost surprising that transfer window drama doesn't have its own version of trashy TV’s favourite reality show: The Real Housewives of the Premier League? Cash rich cougar-esque clubs skulking around for the newest and freshest faces or just one that will make them look good (or sell some football shirts).
From bizarre UFO like sightings at airports (Maradona was spotted at Manchester airport and yes, he will be United’s new coach), to murmurings of unhappy families of expatriate football players (Mascherano’s surprise at learning Liverpool was particularly English, cold and constantly grey. What a shocker!), to emotional blackmail and particularly public displays to swing a transfer a certain way ala the Fabregas saga this summer (yes Puyol, I mean you and your conniving ‘Let’s pull a Barca shirt over his head’ tactics)
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It’s exactly like Diwali. Or Christmas. Or that birthday when you wanted a dog. You always know what you want but are almost afraid to hope for that young striker, fast midfielder or genius playmaker. And just like Christmas or even worse, our long awaited birthdays, the morning of it all brings – eternal disappointment and more often than not, a ‘why didn’t we just get a gift card?’ sentiment.
As a hugely vocal and oft frustrated Arsenal fan, all I asked for Santa and Coach Wenger for this festive season was a quality goal keeper and more importantly, a voodoo remedy to ward off all our consistent injuries. And as is now a customary feeling for a Gunner, I woke up with that necessary defender and a new centre-back, but no sign of that goalkeeper I asked for. And five weeks into potentially, the most competitive season of the English Premier League in the last half-decade, Arsenal are without their biggest stars, captain or a sign of a striker. Same story, every season?
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