For Jim and I, the month of March went alot like Richie Tenenbaum's last tennis match.
The "something" that happened was the combination of a few things. The Carling Cup final on February 27th left us confused and reacting in such a way that had psychologists scrambling for more notepads. Then there was the second leg of the Barcelona game, a 90 minute thesis on the 7 steps of grief; I promise we still haven't reached step 7. I'll throw in the FA cup too, you know, because I've never seen such an overt mockery of Wenger-ball. You realize Ferguson put out 7 defenders right, but I digress.
We ignored losing the first set 6-love, carried on to lose the second set 6-love, and at four-love in the third and final set, Jim and I looked up in the stands and saw Manchester United marrying the EPL trophy.
There we were, wandering around our respective lives without shoes on, and having lost one sock. The commentators could very well be Franny and Emily, not truly understanding what the hell went wrong.
Soon, cognitive dissonance will take over: We want to win trophies but we don't want to pay market-price for experienced players. So we tell ourselves the market is all screwed up, and rich russian and oil tycoons are ruining the sport. But before cognitive dissonance, and near the end of the season, we'll instead morph into Royal Tenenbaum, asking ourselves what the hell happened. Just like the season before that, and the season before that.
If it's possible to reach the last stage with only hope and not acceptance, then perhaps we have reached stage 7. I doubt it. Still, somewhere, in some pleasing dream world, I imagine Arsenal beating United, Chelsea exacting their revenge the next week, and then, on the final day of the Premier League, Ian Holloway will finally be rewarded for encouraging positive, attractive football, and force a relegation-saving-draw which just so happens to be a title-winning-one too.
I'm still allowed to dream right?