One weekend last spring, I was taking my three-year-old and his preschool friend to the carousel when she mentioned that she had been watching an Arsenal match with her father. Without missing a beat, my son turned to her and said, “We support Spurs.”

Neither child, of course, had any real conception of what had just transpired. The rivalry, the history, the decades of mutual antagonism compressed into that single exchange were entirely lost on both of them. But the delivery was, in its way, immaculate, and I found myself sitting there, concurrently proud of my son and slightly ashamed that I’d already managed to brainwash him so thoroughly.

At that moment I decided I needed to do some self-reflection on how I arrived at this point. Unlike my son, this was not a fandom inherited through generations. I grew up far from north London, playing a sport on a different surface, with no idea that someday I’d be hiding in an office conference room at lunchtime in tears watching Lucas Moura miraculously power Spurs to a Champions League final.

The Origins … or lack thereof

I played a modest amount of soccer as a young boy, in the manner of most American children. We were coached by dads with no experience, we bought cleats from hidden stores in rundown shopping malls, and the highlight was orange slices dispensed at halftime (we unironically wore orange shirts one memorable year). My genuine sporting devotion as a child belonged to ice hockey, and more specifically to the New Jersey Devils, whom I followed with the particular intensity found often in children who pick up a sport when they are five years old. I was fortunate enough to be a fan during the team’s heyday, witnessing Stanley Cup victories in 2000 and 2003 (I was too young to recall the ‘95 win). I lived & died inside the rivalry with the cross-town Rangers every winter on the school playground. 

Like many Americans, my initial (re)connection with football came through the international game. Tobin Heath, the legendary US attacker, was born and raised in my hometown. I was in a high school art class with her younger brother when she went on to win a gold medal at the 2008 Beijing Olympics. Two years later we watched on as Landon Donovan’s last gasp goal in South Africa sent the US into the World Cup knockout stages. Beyond that, I had no context for football whatsoever, and, if I am honest, no particular ambition to acquire one.

New Jersey and USWNT legend Tobin Heath in action against Paraguay (Photo by Erik Drost Wiki CC)

Enter London

That changed gradually, and almost imperceptibly, during a year spent studying abroad in London in 2013. Through a friend-of-a-friend, another student scrounged tickets to a Premier League match — a cold, damp, January midweek affair at White Hart Lane. Sergio Aguero opened the scoring early for visiting Manchester City before going off with an injury at halftime; it hardly mattered, as City put four more goals past Hugo Lloris in the second half (an incorrect, pre-VAR-world Danny Rose red in the 50’ didn’t help). It was hardly the recruitment reel one would dream up, though perhaps representative of the pain that often comes with supporting Spurs.

If I went home unimpressed that night, my next encounter was hardly more glamorous. I had become friends with a committed supporter on the golf course, of all places, during our University matches. Eventually, I found myself following along to attend another midweek match — this time a Spurs U18 fixture at Leyton Orient. A hundred-odd supporters in the corner of a mostly empty stadium, watching boys fighting for a chance to break through to stardom. It was unpolished yet deeply genuine, sparking a connection to days I had spent at the ice rink as a kid.

My view from the stands at Brisbane Road

Three years later, I returned to London for a six month work assignment. By the time I left, I was no longer merely aware of Spurs. I was following them in earnest.

Timing or Torture?

Let’s step back a decade. After the 2005 lockout, the NHL introduced new rules designed to open up the game and increase scoring. The suffocating neutral zone trap that catapulted the Devils to three Stanley Cup finals and two wins in the early 2000s was no longer effective, and the team struggled to find a new identity. Following an unexpected Stanley Cup Final run in 2012, the Devils qualified for the playoffs just once in the ensuing decade. My hockey team, in short, was nearly unwatchable in the 2010s.

Fortuitously, Spurs were entering the glory days of the Pochettino era. The team played fast, exciting football, creating memories seared in my brain that unlocked some inescapable chemical reaction. I distinctly recall watching on during New Year’s Day 2015, as Harry Kane scored twice, won a penalty, and assisted another as Spurs took down Chelsea at the Lane. Hardly a month passed before I watched his second half brace topple Arsenal in the North London Derby, arms raised as that majestic header looped over the helpless David Ospina to nestle in the back of the net. The phrase “he’s one of our own” entered my lexicon; I started to join the supporters who took glee in watching Kane repeatedly proving his doubters wrong. 

Harry Kane will forever be “one of our own” (Photo by Ecco4k Wiki CC)

There’s only so far that experiencing sport over television can take you. During my second stint in London, I was fortunate enough to attend the final game played at White Hart Lane prior to demolition in 2017. The atmosphere was something I never expect to experience again in my lifetime. Fathers holding small children on their shoulders to rip cockerel-clad signs down from around the concourse; smiles, tears, and endless flag-waving. It certainly didn’t hurt that the team went undefeated at the Lane that season (how we could use that home form nowadays!), sending her off in style with a 2-1 win over Manchester United. A brief rain shower gave way to sun, with a rainbow providing a fitting send-off for the stadium during the post-match festivities. 

What It Actually Means Now

As a (now) capital ‘A’ adult, with two small children, finding the time to do anything frivolous is a challenge. Watching Spurs remains one of my few guilty pleasures. It is a means of remaining tied to friendships, including the one that led me here in the first place, more or less by accident, over rounds of golf. And, increasingly, it is something I am able to pass along. Hearing my four-year-old declare his allegiance — to a pre-schooler entirely unaware of what she had just stumbled into — is, unreasonably, among the more affecting football moments I have experienced. Not because of what Spurs mean to me, but because they now mean something to him as well, and I was the one who got to hand it down.

Describing myself as a fan of Tottenham Hotspur may carry a somewhat different meaning than for someone who can’t recall a time “before Spurs”. I do not automatically possess the history of the club in the way lifelong supporters do. With this club, frankly, that may be liberating. Occasionally there is a tiny voice in my head asking, do you really want to put yourself through these emotions? This one usually only comes out when kick-off is 4:30 am local time on a Saturday morning here in San Francisco.

Regardless of whether I can fully answer that question, I am fully in it now. My son already is too, even if he does not yet quite understand it. And somewhere out there, a pre-schooler who watches Arsenal with her father has no idea what she is in for.

COYS!