Being a Tottenham Hotspur supporter is like having a feverish addiction to a harmful drug, sporadically elevating you to a euphoric high while mostly causing ruinous pain.
Every weekend I feel the buzz of anticipation in the air, an arresting and stimulating sensation that only Tottenham Hotspur Football Club can evoke. Excitement soon leads to apprehension, usually culminating in disappointment and frustration.
And I’m not speaking solely about this season. This season, admittedly, is significantly more torturous, the abundance of lows swallowing whole the fleeting highs.
Qualifying for the Carabao Cup Final can’t even be considered a high, such was the club’s rudimentary route to Wembley. Knocking off Brentford in the semifinal doesn’t exactly constitute a glorious conquest.
In truth, Harry Kane and the first half of Son Heung-min’s season, along with thrashing Manchester United 6-1 at Old Trafford, were the only mind-altering highs of the season. It would be one thing if it were a discouraging season in silo, a one-off miserable campaign.
We all know that is certainly not the case.
Thirteen, going on 14, years without a trophy puts the seemingly perpetual misery in perspective. Yes, Spurs, prior to last season’s sixth place and a Europa League berth, qualified for four Champions League competitions in succession.
And while it’s thoroughly enjoyable seeing your team do battle on Tuesday and Wednesday with the titans of the sport, I would have, other than our odds-defying run to the Champions League Final, sacrificed all of those achievements for a single trophy, a fleeting taste of glory.