20 may 2026 - holy shit

This is a stream of consciousness. Just words flying from my brain to my fingertips. What. The. Fuck. I gave myself a night and a full day at work to process it all. It doesn't feel real. Arsenal Football Club, The Arsenal, champions of England. Over two decades of "is yours gold?" being my only possible response when my friends chat shit. I was 3 years old when last we won the league. I have vague memories of that period. I remember losing a UCL final two seasons later far more vividly, unfortunately. My brain was forming clearer memories by that point in my life. I remember my 5th birthday well, which was just 2 months before the UCL final in question.

My football club, the club of my father, and the club of his. Arsenal Football Club, top of the pile once again. As I watched the players celebrate receiving the news and the gathering of pure human emotion at the Emirates that followed, I couldn't help but think of my grandfather. How he'd have loved to see the trophy lifted by players like Bukayo Saka, Noni Madueke, and Ebere Eze. He had chosen Arsenal because they were one of the first clubs in England to employ black players.

I think of my cousin Tyson, also no longer with us. The last I had seen him in person was in New York in 2018 or 2019. He had come over from London with a few of my other cousins that I rarely get to see, on account of being on the other side of the planet. We got to talk football, of course. Arsenal were deep in the worst period of our modern history. He understood how badly it hurt more than anyone else I've ever met. He was proper Arsenal. His voice notes in WhatsApp to my dad during and after games made me feel so seen. We lost him during the 23/24 season, when it looked like we would surely win the league that year. That fact brought me great peace, but I needed them to do it for real, for him. Now, they have done.

I have spent my life feeding on scraps, sometimes literally, but especially in a footballing context. I think part of this is why I am so moved by football. I told Nina last night that as a fan of a football club, 3 times a week, you are born and you will die over the course of a 90 minute period. Football manages to distill the human experience into these two 45 minute halves in a way that no other sport really can. Watching American football feels like consuming a slop product. It feels like scrolling Instagram. It feels like watching YouTube without an ad blocker. 

I should have chosen American football, because these past 22 years could have been a lot less stressful. If your NFL team is dogwater they just get to suck with no consequences.

On Sunday afternoon, Martin Odegaard will lift the Premier League trophy at Selhurst Park. I, a registered club member, will be at Gus's in Richmond. That's the bar that houses the Richmond, VA chapter of Arsenal America. I'll sing, dance, and cry with my people. 22 years we've waited for this.

It gets better, doesn't it? Surely this must mean that it does, in fact, get better.

Thank you, football. Thank you, Mikel Arteta. Thank you, Arsenal Football Club.

Thank you dad, through blurry vision now, for giving me this thing to fight for my entire life. There is no feeling like this. There is no love like this.

When I die, cut the cannon off of my arm and preserve it. Keep it next to my wedding band, because those will be the two most important things I will have had in this life.

Geoff