When I was in Brighton for the first time seeing Saves The Day a few months ago, I stumbled into a cool little second hand shop and started talking to the guy who owns it about American football. Turns out, he was a big fan of the college game, and would go so far as to wait up until 3 or 4 in the morning to watch the games that ESPN would broadcast over here. He told me briefly about his trip to the US and how he met someone who took him to a game, and how he thought that was the coolest thing.

So he offered to essentially repay the favor by taking me to an English football (soccer) match.

Me, hungry for experiences, thought it would be awesome to see a game. Who gives a shit about the size of the team or stadium—the English invented the fucking thing! So we made tentative plans, and over the course of the past month or so, had corresponded about the specifics, and it turned out that Brighton’s team was playing their rivals, Bristol City, soon.

Soon meant yesterday, and frankly, I was pretty excited. He had basically described the day as being half drinking, half watching. I was preparing myself all week for the unknown. Would I get stabbed with a knife fashioned out of a bottle? Piece of plastic cutlery? Punched in the face?

I bought my round trip ticket from London to Brighton the other day. 10 pounds, because I agreed to essentially take the worst trains at the worst times. This involved waking up at 5:30, walking to Victoria Station at 6:30, and boarding the train at 7, all of which I did. I was supposed to meet up with the guy at 12:30 at a bar for a 3pm game, which gave us enough time to get nice and fucked up.

I get into Brighton at 8, and immediately head to Starbucks, hoping that he had emailed me a name of a bar, directions…something. Well, turns out there was nothing, and after waiting around there for a few hours sipping on a coffee and trying to stay awake, I decided to brave the extremely cold Brighton air and walk around a bit.

Having been there several times now, the tourist sheen has worn off, so I was visiting shops that I knew about and liked, etc. This went on for a few hours. I bought a baguette, walked through the mall…you know. Killed time.

I start to get a little worried around 11:30. As I was leaving the house, my uncle Derek says, let’s hope they don’t forget you! I had that kicking around in the back of my mind, but it seemed so unlikely. The guy is a really nice/cool guy. He wouldn’t. No way.

I decided to walk to his shop at 12:15. As I’m standing maybe 30 feet from the door, I get a call on my new English cellphone. Cool. Finally. Here he is.

It isn’t. It’s his friend.

“Yeah sorry. (Name) told me to call you to tell you he won’t be able to make it.”

“Really?

“Yeah. He went and got himself arrested. He’s in jail.”

Jail?

A siren blares down the street. It comes in through the phone, so I know that I’m close to the person speaking. I thank her for letting me know, and hang up.

I walked into the store anyway just to make sure that he wasn’t just hanging around there, looking for a way to get out of going to the game. He wasn’t, and everyone in there was kind of frantic. He had used his phone call to tell his shop that he wouldn’t be there for a few days and to call me, which was a superbly nice gesture. I wouldn’t have called me if I had one phone call.

So he got into a fight the night before, turns out. Couldn’t make it. All was for naught. I couldn’t go to the game, had to buy another ticket to get back earlier, and had woken up at a pretty ungodly hour for, turns out, no reason at all.

On the train ride back, we were diverted to London Bridge station as opposed to Victoria, which is near our house. The train driver told us the tickets would work on the Tube, so I gave it a shot. The machine took it, so I figured we were in the clear.

But when I got to Victoria, it wouldn’t let me back out again. So, seeing an opening to get through the turnstile, I go through, and walk up to the person working there, asking her what the deal was.

She looks at me, dumbfounded, and says, “well, you’re out. Why not just run?” She kind of smiles. I say ok, and walk away. I worried for the rest of the day, because in a CCTV state, I’m inclined to believe that something like that is a blatant form of entrapment.

I get back to the house, exhausted, and crack open a beer. My Uncle comes back, and asks if I want to go catch a movie, get a drink…make something of the day. Awesome. so we go out and watch Shame, the Michael Fassbender sex addiction movie.

Jesus fucking christ.

Brighton won 2-0.

Niners won on what is being called the best playoff game in years. I haven’t watched a down after I turned on the game and watched Arizona rifle off a 70 yard TD pass in what turned out to be one of the Niners’ only losses. My mental fortitude/devotion to the team should be written about.