Being a Coventry City fan is abject torture.
I’ve just this minute finished watching a poor Bristol City completely outdo a much poorer Coventry City 3-1 in what can only be described as the archetypal relegation six pointer, and honestly I feel like I’ve had my face sliced up Reservoir Dogs style.
Cruel, isn’t it, when your team fights it’s way back from almost certain Yuletide oblivion to go on a seven game unbeaten streak, raising everybody’s hopes and expectations, only to go and lose in such a unspirited and meek minded way at the single most pivotal moment.
Yes, credit where it’s due, the players have played out of their skin in recent games to at least put us in charge of our own destiny, and there have been some gallant performances to boot (most of all from poor old Richard Keogh, who even got the warpaint out to assure us, if we didn’t know it already, that our boys were willing to go out of their way to look like a bunch of tits in our name), but after all’s said and done it was always going to be about today and they totally bottled it.
It’s blown a hole in the soul; tangibly can you feel the deflation amongst a support resigned to a fate seemingly sealed if not yet signed. Once again, we stare relegation in the face like we’d stare down the barrel of a .45 Beretta (Bewetta) clasped in the steely, anti-perspiring hand of an East End gangster with a speech impediment you once mocked.
The chink of light we’ve hung onto feels like it’s narrowing, stained red through bloodshot eyes, watching as the lock up door we fought to force open slowly shuts once more.
You fear the end is near; what fight do we have left?
Written by Paul Martin, We Are Going Up’s Coventry City Blogger