the world's greatest drama

At approximately 9:40pm on Tuesday night, my phone experienced an earthquake.

This was no disaster, however. It was a seismic rush of uncalculated expression charging through an array of group chat feeds. WhatsApp, Twitter and iMessage notifications cascaded into eachother. Unfamiliar vowels and consonants came face to face for the first time. Everything was in capitals. Nothing was spelt right. No-one cared. Football was on stage, and it just hit the top note.

In the stalls, anarchy ensued. Drops of lager sprayed the dried memories of the summer. Tribal divides were broken. Jaws dropped. Neanderthal semantics rose from extinction. From the ashes of genius-induced defeat in Barcelona, Liverpool's phoenix was soaring into the Champions League final.

"Did you see the game last night?" The question reverberated around work spaces, classrooms, playgrounds, lecture halls, kitchens, everywhere. Every football fan wore a glint in their eye, one that showed the pride of witnessing something special. Marvelling at Trent Alexander-Arnold's genius, smirking at Divock Origi's heroics, admiring the Kop's noise. As relentlessly as tribal forces contracted, it was difficult to hide a smile at Liverpool's achievement.

24 hours pass. You've caught your breath from the theatre of the night before, finally given a moment to reflect, when football cranks it up again. Liverpool’s titans could not be matched. No one would come close. Their place in history was cemented. They walked the path of success. Alone.

The follow-up act has come close but, of course, it would never be able to replicate the magic of Anfield. As the second semi-final enters its 96th minute in Amsterdam, Tottenham Hotspur aim a speculative aerial towards the Ajax battalion. Home fans clinch their fists and squeeze their eyes shut anticipating the best moment of their lives. It never comes.

The pendulum swings violently towards North London. As Lucas Moura - the wonderkid that many thought had failed his potential - rolled the ball into the corner of the net, an aftershock hit. More notifications. Worse spelling. More capitals. New words of expression. The world of football blacked out.

“I’m just glad I was around to see it”

The words of Glenn Hoddle, a Spurs fan from the age of eight who recently experienced a triple heart bypass, wouldn’t look out of place in an Oscar-winning script. Neither would the performance of Mauricio Pochettino as leading man. The Argentine manager, one of the game’s most composed figures, became a beacon of raw, unadulterated joy. Embraces. Smiles. Tears.

Pochettino conducted the post-match celebrations like an army general celebrating victory. Such was the energy of his delight that even the players looked surprised at every new fist pump their leader threw towards the cavalry. His interview was a monologue of the highest order. A man from Santa Fe, Argentina, telling the world about how he was feeling at the peak of his life. Meanwhile Lucas, the hero, was crying at footage of commentators from his homeland celebrating his goal. It was more than just a game.

Thursday night brought more pride for the Premier League. An Arsenal win in Valencia and a Chelsea penalty shootout victory against Frankfurt set up the second all-English European final in the Europa League. Joy, for everyone. Yet football begins lifting its hood and sharpening its scythe, for it knows joy is merely a moment in this turbulent sport.

When you’ve seen Sergio Aguero’s goal against QPR, Didier Drogba’s against Bayern Munich, Vincent Kompany's against Leicester, you expect immunity to football’s drama. But, no. Every time feels like the first. It has the narrative. It has the protagonists. It has the sound. It has the setting. It has the villains. It has the underdogs. It has the heroes. Football is your favourite Netflix drama, just better.

As the oak tree of European football grows another year older, this season’s ring pulsates truer than any other.