The Playoff Fever Hotline by Rainer Wiseman

I’ve always been a bit of a drama queen when it comes to health issues. In fact as a kid, I’d regularly hear my mum on the phone after another short term non-illness, saying ‘He was over-reacting, as usual.’ Bear with me, this does come back to Luton.

Have you ever felt like your head was going to explode?

There’s so much pressure in your face your eyes are shuddering? Your ears are about to melt, tongue so huge and throat so dry you can’t even squeak?

These, as I recently discovered, are the symptoms for a rare, seasonal condition called PLAY-OFF FEVER.

With just three minutes to go in extra-time at Wembley last Saturday, with Luton and Coventry locked in stalemate for a place in the Premier League; the ball broke to Luton’s 20 year-old virtually unknown substitute striker, Joe Taylor.

Penalties were looming like a plague of vultures. Luton and England aren’t good at penalty shootouts. I’m not good at watching them. One win out of dozens doesn’t fill you with confidence. To add to the squirming intensity, the Saharan sun was hammering down, making most of us question the eight pints of Dutch courage consumed earlier.

Taylor chased down a clearance just outside the Sky Blues penalty area. He’s only played about half an hour for us this season, and here he is, all shiny and fresh out the box, amid a swirling cauldron of noise, with a chance to put the non-league ‘ne’er do wells’ in the big time. The ball ricochets into his path. He knees it forward, clean through on goal. 3 minutes left. 36,000 hold our collective breath. He composes himself and shoots, right footed. The net bulges. What? He runs towards us arms outstretched, chased by his delirious teammates. Yes. YES. YESSSS! My glasses fly off, phone jumps out of my pocket. I hug my son so tightly I can feel a manly sob coming on. We’ve won. WE’VE WON!!!!

But, as we lift our heads there’s an immediate sense that something is wrong.

The players have stopped celebrating, the Coventry end comes alive as the giant screen displays those three dreaded letters:

VAR.

You’ve got to be joking. No. It can’t be. He was way onside! Things are starting to look blurry and there’s a high pitched din between the ears.

NO GOAL is displayed.

A sickening roar fills the air from the other end. My head erupts, then splits open. A smiling cartoon man in a lab coat, and glasses floats into view and starts talking.

‘Welcome to the playoff fever hotline. You are caller number 82,000. Please hold.

If you think your heart is about to burst open; press 1.

If you’ve run out of Gods to pray to; press 2.

Lost your lucky scarf? Press 3

Feeling miserably sick? It’s 4

For prolapse; press 5.

Disclaimer: superstitions and OCD’s will not affect your teams performance or the result but may provide some short term comfort, like Lockets.

Good luck. Sorry, force of habit. Luck won’t help either. It’s in the hands of the football fates and they’re even harder to reach than a GP.

Just remember, if you lose, there’s always next season.’

.

The little man vanishes. I rub my eyes, blink a few times and wonder what the Fraser Franks has been going on. Thankfully, my son grabs my arm and points to the pitch. Was I hallucinating? I desperately want him to tell me everything is going to be ok. I want a 15 year-old boy, who is probably also on hold for the hotline, to save me. What a role model I am. But, as Berry fires a header just wide and the final whistle goes, the pressure dims slightly.

Now we’ve just got to deal with penalties.

I go back into panic mode and immediately look for an exit but there’s no escape. Both sets of players line up along the touchline. At least they can affect the outcome. We’re impotent; chained-up bystanders thrashing at the shackles.

The first hero in orange steps down the pitch towards us, walking like he’s on holiday. Luton’s top scorer, Carlton Morris, places the ball down, looks at the keeper, then up at us, all cacking ourselves. Don’t look at us for crying out loud! He steps back, takes a short run up and scores. 1-0. Good start, but now all I’m thinking about is where my arms were positioned because we scored, and they need to stay exactly there for the rest of the pens, and did I watch the player or the goal? Did I pump fists, give a simple nod, watch the screen, look away, watch the Coventry fans, tap Elvett’s hat in front???? All this time, the pens are flying in, one after the other, keepers flailing left and right, and with every hopeful cheer the intensity notches up.

You are caller number 107,000. Please continue to hold - your nerve. The Playoff Fever Hotline is sponsored by Gaviscon CBD whale noise James Blunt blankets.

We’ve scored all our penalties. I’ve never seen Luton or England score all five pens before this is something else but oh no we’re down to the rubbish ones who never take them who’s stepping up is it Pottsy? Pottsy? Oh God no Pottsy’ll bottle it like Kane we just don’t have the balls for the big occass… YES! 6-5.

The sun disappears under the roof as Dabo makes the long walk towards us for Coventry. Not even the sun wants to watch now. Deafening boos ring round. It’s not even a cauldron any more it’s white, blue rocket heat insanity. I try for a deep breath and nearly collapse. He doesn’t look that confident. If he misses we’ve won. Miss mate miss miss miss miss miss miss miss neck veins throbbing miss keep hands by waist shallow breath miss.

He misses.

Limbs, tears, shuddering bodies, an outpouring of relief joy ecstasy YEEESSSS!

Luton have won. LUTON WILL PLAY IN THE PREMIER LEAGUE NEXT SEASON.

It’s all too much. My legs have gone. Now I can hug my son knowing we’ve done it for certain. All the emotion spills out and it’s not attractive but who cares. He’s wearing one of my old tops anyway and it’ll soon dry out. Grown men everywhere are in bits, letting it all out. I’ve never seen so many happy people sobbing. A great big, orange snot ball of catharsis for the -30 points, Conference, Football League, FA, York, Wimbledon, Blackpool, Huddersfield. UP YOURS!!!!!

You are caller number 37,000 - I hang up, knowing only the Sky Blue half of the stadium will be needing the hotline now.

The trophy is raised, scenes unimaginable. Those Titans on the pitch in suits, kits, tracksuits; jumping, lying, weeping, dancing, hugging have performed a modern day miracle. Gary Sweet, the board, Mick Harford, the staff, the players; thank you.

The pain in my head has gone, replaced with an unforgettable joy. So this is how it feels to win a monumental match. I was lucky to be at Wembley for the League Cup win in ’88, but somehow, this feels bigger. As we float away from the stadium and sit on the chundering bus, I wonder why I put myself through so much turmoil. I mean, what was I worrying about? I should never have doubted this team. And as for my desperate call to the play-off fever hotline? As usual, it was all in my head. As my mum would say ‘He was over-reacting, as usual.’