There’s a feeling of helplessness that comes with being a football fan. Sitting in the stands, hoping that roaring nonsensical ramblings in the direction of the action might have some kind of impact on the game. It becomes all the more ludicrous when your rants and ravings are aimed towards the TV or the radio, as they are all too often in my case. ‘They can’t hear you, you know?’ That’s not the point. The point is it hurts when we concede. It hurts even more when lose. It hurts like hell when we’re relegated. But the sentiment is true. What difference can we, the fans, make? I’ve spent the majority of my 25 years following Barnsley with that horrible feeling of helplessness; hoping that we could just be that little bit better than we are but knowing there's not a great deal I can do about it. There have been plenty of highs over the years. I love the club and I always will, so the lows that we’ve experienced this season, culminating in the pang of being inevitably downtrodden by this final day whimper with which we were relegated, bring as much pain as those highs bring elation. It’s horrible right now, but the days will pass, and I’ll undoubtedly be spending the majority of the next few weeks checking every source possible for the smallest indication of who the next Head Coach/Manager might be. Regardless of who it is, I’ll still manage to spend a pre-season and an equally disheartening World Cup campaign convincing myself that, let’s say Ken Monkou, is the man to take us straight back up out of League One in his first management role*. Having said that, I’ve lost some connection with the club in recent months. Patrick leaving was inevitable and his passing heartbreaking. I still have faith that he sold to the right people for the long-term future of the club (because it is about the long-term, remember) and that the connection diminished only because the relationship we had with Mr Cryne was so special. It took another hit with the Heckingbottom ‘developments’. I, like many, was proud to have a local man in charge, and I was guilty of affording him more patience than I would have done if he had just been any other Head Coach. See: Jose Morais. It all brings me back to my original point. It doesn’t matter who the owners are, who the manager is, how little or how much we spend on developing talented non-league teenagers into profit-making saleable assets. I’ll be there as often as I can next season, shouting helplessly at the people we hope will be the ‘new heroes’. Or shouting at the commentators for making me think we’re about to score when actually we’ve just wasted another corner. I’ll still be pleasant to be around when we win and an absolute arse when we lose. That's the life of a football fan, and I wouldn't change it. And at the end of it all, I still probably won’t know how to express myself any better than to write a rant about how helpless we all must feel. Hopefully next season’s will be much more positive. That’s all. I hope some of you can relate but I’m not posting just for responses – you’re a much-appreciated audience for this overly wordy coping mechanism. ‘They don’t know you, you know?’ That’s not the point. See you next season. Ken Monkou’s red army. *Disclaimer: I haven’t researched Ken Monkou’s managerial history.
I know big Ken well - he’s a lovely bloke. He’s still in and around the game. His pancake venture....flopped.
