Help! I think my partner is having a football affair

The first Christmas my partner Adam and I spent together, he gave me a copy of Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch in an attempt to explain his obsession with Arsenal football club.

His love for the English Premier League London club came as a surprise, given that in the year we’d been together the only time I’d said ‘football’ had been after the words ‘I’d rather spend 90 minutes listening to Boris Johnson than watch’.

His dating profile made no mention of any football codes. There’d been only a few pictures, and a notable reference to Robert Hughes’ 600-page Australian convict history classic, The Fatal Shore.

I’d recently finished my PhD on Western Australia’s convict era and was curious to know why any man thought Hughes’ induced-coma of a book would help him pull the chicks.

But, reading Hornby’s brilliant memoir, I grudgingly applauded Adam’s calculated move to hold back his revelation until I was too madly in love, not to mention too middle aged and tired, to consider looking for someone else.

To be clear, Adam is Australian. Although his dad arrived here as a teenager from Pontypridd, South Wales in the 1960s, he has no cultural connection to the colonising power other than the occasional weakness for a late-night run to the chip shop.

As a child in suburban Adelaide, he kicked balls around with a bunch of ‘ten pound pom’ English migrant lads and eventually got picked as goal keeper for his primary school team.

There he is, front and centre in the grainy photo: his beige-on-brown goalie’s kit standing out in the sea of pale blue jerseys; eyes obscured by thick 1970s specs; and the biggest smile in the squad – a grin I instantly recognise as belonging to both his youngest child and his long departed father. 

Much like those of us who simply married someone we got drunk with in the ’90s, Adam chose Arsenal on a whim. He idolised their then keeper, the legendary Pat Jennings CBE, and spent many hours trying to emulate him.

When music, booze and girls ended Adam’s playing days, somehow his attachment to Arsenal stuck. And along with dodgy eyesight and that megawatt smile, he’s passed his allegiance to the Gunners on to his own kids.

Once I’d accepted how many of us there now were, to paraphrase Princess Diana, in this relationship, I liked what it said about his values. My bloke was a one-team man, prioritising ideals and loyalty above so-called “winning”.

In fact, it was kind of sexy. We introduced something new to our Sunday mornings in bed: I asked him about the overnight results and he read me The Guardian’s post-match analysis.

Like the rest of the nation, in 2023 we watched the Matildas’ history-making World Cup campaign and perhaps it was then I noticed how much Adam talked about the former Australian men’s coach, Ange Postecoglou.

Over late night fried snacks, he recounted Ange’s gritty formative years in Melbourne, his history with the Australian men’s team, his innovative coaching philosophy, his bold approach to the game and his brilliant record with Scottish club, Celtic.

Adam is an uncompromising judge of character and as his eyes shone with admiration I wondered if, after decades of the hero’s jersey remaining unworn, he’d finally found himself a twenty-first century Pat Jennings.

I should have spotted the signs much sooner. Why was Adam suddenly checking his phone twice as often? Why was he getting up in the middle of the night for “a glass of water”, only for me to discover him on the couch with his device glowing treacherously in the dark?

Why was he inventing obscure ways to bring Ange’s name into conversations? The great man’s move to Gunners rivals, Tottenham Hotspur; the English media’s love for Ange’s unconventional style; Ange and Spurs; Spurs and Ange. Spurs, Spurs, Spurs.

‘Hey hon,’ I said casually one day. ‘You haven’t mentioned Arsenal in a while. Where are we on the ladder? Who do we play next?’

‘Oh, err, Arsenal’s going fine,’ he mumbled. ‘They’re playing, err, just let me check…’

Let me check? But worst of all: They? Since when did his beloved club get relegated to the third person?

‘Babe,’ I said. ‘I have to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Are you – following Spurs?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He couldn’t look me in the eye. ‘What are you saying? You know I’m an Arsenal fan.’

‘You said the other night you were going to get up and watch the whole Spurs match live at three in the morning,’ I accused. ‘You’ve never done that for Arsenal.’

‘Alright, you win!’ he spat. ‘Spurs –  Ange – it’s – exhilarating. New. Exciting.’ He looked at the floor. ‘I feel young again.’

‘I knew it!’ I shot back. ‘I’ve never seen you like this. Just because they’re a novelty doesn’t mean Spurs are going to be any better for you than the Gunners!’

‘You don’t understand,’ he whined. ‘I didn’t intend for it to happen. I’ve never felt this way before!’

I couldn’t believe it. The steadfast man I loved was, well, playing away.  But why did it upset me so much? I had no real interest in football beyond the fried snacks. Why had I – still getting away with being called ‘girlfriend’ – instantly leapt to the defence of the boringly familiar long-termers?

I had to admit this arrangement had made him happier and so, being a modern girl, I went along with it. We live in a very different world to the one Hornby wrote about. Twenty-first century football (as far as my half-hearted Wiki research can tell) is a 24-7, seven days a week, universal, borderless, post-modern spectacle that delivers high drama, heroes, heroines and above all, hope. Who would take that away from an Arsenal supporter?

As I write this, the North London derby looms menacingly on the horizon like a Trump second presidency.  If the legendary Pat Jennings could have a long and successful relationship with Spurs as well as Arsenal, can a myopic fifty-something Australian man do the same?

Spurs will play Arsenal on 28 April, 9pm Perth time, and already my bloke’s conscience is grappling with itself. I’m anticipating a tough contest, and I don’t mean the two of us fighting over the last mini-spring roll. One thing’s for sure: in the battle for one man’s heart, football will be the winner.