Hello Football my love, how have you been? It has been a long time. I really want to tell you how watching old clips of volleyed goals and lobbed finishes are sating my yearnings, but that would be utterly dishonest. I wish I could feel that familiar rush that accompanied the sound from a net rippling or the adrenaline coursing through my veins every time I waited in suspense for a VAR check to finish. Oh how I miss dodgy officiating and the conversations that ensued from the unmissable contoversy. I miss the fine margins, was his foot offside?, did it hit his arm, or did his arm hit it, was that a red or is** Howard caught up in his Webb again**.
I miss you, dearly, sorely, everything reminds me of you. Your absence is akin to a protracted bout of cheating, and it is all befuddling because you are a partner I never fathomed I could be unfaithful to. If I tell you what I would give up just to experience you again, you may think of me a reckless fool, and in many ways that is exactly what I am.
There is so much uncertainty in the world right now, but I am mostly certain that there are many like me who are going stir crazy at your little death, however, I must tow a different path and look forward to your glorious re-emergence, please tell me this is not a foolhardy enterprise. I understand that most things will be different, and how different they will be is another thing that has me positively ponderous. I cannot divorce my concerns from my excitement, and truthfully I have come to understand that I am almost willing to sacrifice all my strongly held opinions on the form you should take, at the altar of your return. I can not bear to be separated from you any longer, for I am like a fiend itching for a fix, even if it means watching a team play longballs out of defence with their target man continously embroiled in scrappy aerial battles. I would watch crude hold up play, and see the beauty in goal mouth scraps. I would readily watch a goalless draw in a third tier league between the bottom two teams. If this does not tell you how much I miss you, then there is very little I can do to make you come around. I now appreciate the drama and unhappiness you continously brought me. I miss my favorite protagonists, I respect the villians and their necessary antagonism, hell. I almost have kind words for that other team in North London, almost.
It is imperative that this treatise must contain a reaffirmation of my affection, as nothing rekindles age long romance like fresh commitment. In the likely event of your return, I promise to jettison my inate disdain for some flaws in your system, at least for the first couple of weeks. In the segmented ninety minute duration of pure athletic orchestra, in the famed battles of domestic rivals set in Europe narrated by men who even gods listen to with marvel in their eyes, I promise to make the shrill burst of the kick off whistle my Pavlov bell as I will proceed to enjoy the ensuing spectacle in a state of almost spiritual reverence. Until we meet again, up the Arsena.