An official document for supporters at every level of degradation

5 hours before the match. You're still a normal person

You get up on the morning of the match and feel good. Almost too good. Something inside is already twitching, but you hold on: you eat breakfast, talk to your family, look people in the eye. You function.

Then you open your phone. And there it is — the match preview, the starting line-up, someone's column on "why we're definitely losing today". You close it. You open it again. Close it. This goes on for 40 minutes.

By lunchtime you've read everything: who hasn't recovered, who's fallen out with the coach, why the opponent has "historically good away statistics on Thursdays". You didn't want to know this. You know it.

2 hours before. You start preparing "psychologically"

This means: you sit down on the sofa and do nothing. Officially, you're "getting in the zone". In reality you just sit and stare at the wall, occasionally saying out loud something like "well, we'll see" or "the main thing is not to concede first".

Your family start asking: "Are you all right?" You answer: "Yes, it's just the match today." They nod and silently go into another room. They already know this is the beginning.

You move your mug to the "right place" — where it stood when the team won in March. Coincidence? Maybe. Take the risk? No.

15 minutes before. The bargaining-with-the-Universe stage

You switch the broadcast on early, because "you can't miss the team coming out". You watch the warm-up with the air of a military strategist. You analyse how they're taking penalties in the warm-up. You draw conclusions. The conclusions affect nothing.

The internal monologue begins: "If we win today, I'll stop reading previews", "If we score first, I'll calmly watch to the end." You've already struck a deal with the Universe in which you promise to become the best version of yourself in exchange for three points. The Universe says nothing. That's not a good sign.

First half. Controlled chaos

For the first 15 minutes you're still sitting. This is called "watching football calmly".

In the 16th minute the opponent shoots wide and you yell "well, what was that?!" at your own defender, who, all things considered, didn't let them score. Logic has left. You're standing.

If the team concedes, there's a short "that's it, I'm not watching football any more" phase. You get up, go to the kitchen, pour some water, come back 40 seconds later. You're watching football again.

If the team scores, you roar so loudly the neighbours are googling "earthquake today" in a panic. Then you stand in the middle of the room with your arms raised and don't know what to do next. You just stand. Triumphant.

Second half. Personal disintegration

In the 60th minute, at 1:1, you stop being a spectator and become an accomplice. You start coaching the team out loud: "Why there, why didn't you make the run, what kind of pass was that." The players can't hear you. This doesn't stop you.

You're already ringing a friend — not because you want to talk, but because you need a living human being to share the suffering. The conversation goes like this: — You watching? — Watching. — Well? — Well. — Yeah. Pause. You both keep watching. You feel better.

In the 80th minute, whatever the score, you start looking at the clock more often than at the pitch. If you're winning, every second lasts a school year. If you're losing, time flies at a mocking speed.

Final whistle. Two ways this goes

A win. You're magnanimous, kind, ready to hug the whole world. You write in the chat: "Legends, I always believed." You genuinely believe you believed. The evening's a success, you're socially fit, you can go out among people.

A defeat. The first five minutes: silence. You sit and stare at the darkening screen. Then it starts: you read the comments, get angry at the comments, write a comment yourself, delete it, write it again. You fall asleep with your phone in your hand, the league table still open.

Post-match rehabilitation

The next morning you're "fine" again. You're an adult. It's just a game. You tell your colleagues: "Well, it happens, we'll see next match." You smile. Inside, you're already reading the breakdown of "where exactly it all went wrong" and making plans for how the team should reorganise for the next game.

You're socially fit. Five days until the next match.

Hang in there.

Dedicated to all supporters =)