After 35 tortures’ years of being a Spurs fan, I fully understand that what kills you, right before a ball is even kicked in anger, is hope.

That’s what fools you.

Every year, sometime around mid-August, it starts, that little feeling, that tiny voice in the back of your head that says:

“Hang on… this year could actually be our year.”

Most of the time, I have absolutely no logical reason whatsoever to be optimistic. Legends leave, Harry Kane went and then Sonny. We’ve had a conveyor belt of managers comes and go, each one apparently arriving with a five-year plan before being given approximately five minutes to implement it. Apart for Mr Frank obviously, who was given more time than a bottle of wine needs to become vinegar.”

And then there’s the board.

Let’s just say they’ve occasionally acted like they’ve got a fork permanently stuck in the sugar bowl yet every summer, I do exactly the same thing.

I start believing again.

We all do it. That’s the brilliance and stupidity of football. During the summer, we dissect everything, the transfer window, the money spent along with the money received. Player profiles, tactics, formation, age, height, hair colour.

Whether a new signing has Premier League experience or whether we actually need him.

Why we’ve let a player go and, more importantly, why on earth we’re still keeping the players we affectionately refer to as ….well, a bit shit.

Every football fan becomes a Premier League manager during the summer. We all know exactly who should play. Exactly who should be sold, exactly who should be bought and exactly what formation the manager should be using.

And if he doesn’t agree with us?

Well, obviously he hasn’t got a clue then.

I’ve never managed a professional football team in my life (although I am pretty outstanding on Football Manager ’26) but that doesn’t stop me confidently explaining to the television where the manager is going wrong. I have absolutely no coaching qualifications whatsoever but apparently, I’ve been overlooked for some reason, I don’t understand why to be fair.

Then comes the first game.

And suddenly, everything is possible. Every team starts on zero points, nobody has lost, nobody has won, nobody has been relegated and Woolwich haven’t bottled anything, yet.

Even I, the man that’s been kicked in the face every season especially the last one, the one Spurs fans wish was scrubbed from the history books where we finished 17^th, I can still convince myself that a European push is entirely realistic.

And for a few brief moments, we’re all equal. We all believe but we don’t learn, We absolutely don’t learn. And I’m about to prove that.

Because this year feels different.

Yes.

I said it.

The same ridiculous nonsense that tumbles from my mouth every August. “This year feels different.” I’ve said it so many times before, just ask my Brother-in-Law.

I’ve probably said it while sitting in exactly the same chair.

But this time…

This time…

We’ve got one of the best managers in Europe in De Zerbi. We’ve signed quality. Maybe we’ve spent a pound or two more than we should have. Okay, maybe considerably more than we should have.

We’ve shifted some of the deadwood and we’ve completely revamped the starting line-up. It’s been brilliant to watch the board running around like a spoilt teenager who’s just been given Daddy’s credit card and discovered that it doesn’t have a limit.

Transfers everywhere.

Money flying around, new players, new ideas and a refreshed hope.

And there it is.

They pull me back in! (Ooo, I felt a bit like Al Pacino then…)

I’ve got a feeling, I’ve bloody well got hope again and this is how football gets you. It doesn’t matter whether you support a Premier League giant, a League Two club or a team playing somewhere in the Conference.

Come August, we’re all pretty much the same.

We all start again, we all look at the fixture list, we all pick the games we’re going to win while at the same time trying to identify the difficult ones. We all calculate how many points we should have by Christmas. And then, somehow, we’ve already started discussing where we could finish.

I’ve done it.

I’m not proud of it.

I’ve probably looked at the table before we’ve even played a game and thought: “If we win these first six, we’re right in there.” Right in where? I don’t know. The Champions League? The title race? Europe? Somewhere vaguely above Hull?

Who knows. But I’m invested. And that’s why I love football. Because football does something to people that very few other things can.

It stirs something in us. Passion, anger, Joy, frustration, hope and despair. Occasionally all within about ten minutes.

You can be having the worst day in the world, but when that football starts, for 90 minutes, none of it matters. For me, anyway, football is an escape from real life. For those 90 minutes, I’m completely invested in my club. I feel every tackle, I celebrate every goal like I’ve personally contributed to it, I head every ball. I make the appropriate hand gestures at the television. I pace around the living room all the while simultaneously shouting at the referee, the players and the gaffer. Occasionally I shout at nobody in particular.

And somehow, despite having absolutely no influence whatsoever over what happens on that pitch, I behave as though I’ve been involved in professional football for the last 30 years.

My tactical knowledge is apparently incredible. My ability to spot a poor substitution is unmatched and my ability to criticise a player from 200 miles away is exceptional.

Football fans are a strange bunch. We spend money we probably shouldn’t. We travel miles to watch our teams, we buy shirts and we argue with complete strangers online, sometimes amongst ourselves. We defend players we’ve never met, we despise players we’ve never met and we become emotionally attached to players who have absolutely no idea we exist.

And then, when the season ends, we do it all over again.

That’s the madness of it. You can finish the season absolutely devastated; you can watch your team throw away a lead. You can watch a terrible performance. You spend the final few weeks wondering why you bother and then you swear you’ll never put yourself through it again.

Then…

 The fixtures come out and then you notice the new shirt appears. The transfer rumours start. A new player signs and the manager says something vaguely positive in a press conference.

And suddenly…

You’re back. Hope returns. It’s ridiculous. It’s irrational and I wouldn’t change it for anything. Because football isn’t really about logic, if it was, we’d all support whoever had the best stats  and be done with it.

Football is about belonging. It’s about identity. It’s about being part of something. It’s standing next to somebody you’ve never met and celebrating together like you’ve known each other your entire life. It’s grandad telling me stories about players I’ve only ever seen in grainy YouTube clips or old VHS tapes.

It’s remembering where you were when that goal went in. It’s the conversations the next day, the arguments, the banter and then, in my case, the inevitable heartbreak.

So here we are again, another season, another opportunity. Another transfer window we’ve overanalysed. Another group of players we’ve decided are either world-beaters or absolute donkeys before they’ve kicked a competitive ball.

And another manager who, depending on how it’s going in the first nine minutes of the first game, will either be a genius or apparently have no idea what he’s doing.

And me? I’m hopeful. Against my better judgement, against years of evidence and everything I’ve previously promised myself.

I’m hopeful.

Because that’s what football does. We don’t learn, we don’t become sensible. We don’t look at history and think, “Perhaps I should manage my expectations this time.”

We simply come back every August with bucket loads of blind optimism and see ourselves as fully ready to believe, ready to hurt and equally ready to celebrate.

And if it all goes horribly wrong, I’ll be here next summer doing exactly the same thing.

I’ll tell myself I’ve learned my lesson, I’ll analyse the transfers, I’ll question the manager. And I’ll definitely blame the board. I’ll convince myself that this time we’ve finally got it right. And then I’ll sit down in front of the television, probably shouting at somebody who can’t hear me, convinced that I know exactly what I’m talking about.

Because that’s football.

And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Or it could just be me.

Come on you Spurs!