Good morning, Hank. It's Tuesday. 

Woke up 30,000ft above the Irish Sea and started reading a great book about tuberculosis called Breathless. Then landed in London. Train was cancelled, so I caught a cab into the city. I was pretty tired, but looking forward to the magic of AFC Wimbledon football. Specifically an away game against Bromley.

That's right, Hank.

Others may visit England to go to Stratford-upon-Avon and see Shakespeare's second best bet or whatever. Or they marvel at castles five times older than my country, et cetera. Except boring.

Dropped my stuff off at the hotel, took a 27 minutes nap, then met up with my producing partner and fellow Wimbledon fan Rosiana. Got on a double decker bus, which always feels to me like a tourist thing, even though I know it'll Londoners. It's just a bus. And then we walk to the train station for Bromley.

One of the great joys of following AFC Wimbledon is that I get to visit new and exciting places that tourists usually miss out on. Like Bromley. Bromley, once home to David Bowie, Charles Darwin and HG Wells, which would make for an interesting dinner party. Bromley, home to a TK Maxx because that's what they call it here. Bromley, Hank, where you can get a tan. The white hot center of British culture. When I looked up on TripAdvisor what to visit in Bromley they recommended-- I'm not making this up-- A Christmas tree farm, two different graveyards and the home of Charles Darwin, which is actually a 35 minutes drive away.

I'll confess a I started out pretty negative on Bromley but then it charmed me a bit with its miniature carnival and little vegetable market and lovely walking paths that culminated in a small horse farm and then a tiny, tiny stadium called Hayes Lane which fits 5,000 people but with only 1,300 seats. The rest of the fans stand while they watch the games. This is Bromleys first season in England's professional football league and its a proper old school football experience. From the narrow turnstiles to the away fans lounge where you can order a meat pie but the chicken nuggets aren't available today.

I enjoyed my cheese and onion slice in a blonde ale before finding my seat and appreciating the new DFTBA logos enlivening the Wimbledon uniform in the liminal space between left thigh and buttock. God, I love football, Hank. This is our 11th year sponsoring AFC Wimbledon and I genuinely fall deeper in love each year. Football fans often sing a song that goes, "Wise men say only fools rush in but I can't help falling in love with you," and I can't help falling in love with Wimbledon. It's only the sanctity of my marriage and whatever remains of my sanity that prevents me from selling my home and giving all the proceeds to AFC Wimbledon to buy a box-to-box midfielder who can chip in some goals now and again. In the face of AFC Wimbledon, I am utterly and deliciously irrational, which is maybe the defining feature of love. And football loves you back. Or at least the people you love football with love you back.

Over the years, new faces appear in the stands, old faces get older. I think of the Wimbledon fans who've died, who passed the club on to us, who fought their way up the leagues at tiny grounds like this one. After all, a community present tense includes its ancestors. But there's also the small matter of the football. A weekly attempt at putting a sphere over a line without using one's hands. The outcome of the individual matches doesn't matter much. I'm reminded of that old comedy sketch:

"Manchester United return to Aston Villa for a game of football to determine the victors for this year at least, and indeed at most."

But of course in the moment it feels significant. And so I cant pretend I enjoyed Bromleys first half goal. Rosiana and I stood in the stands. Oh, I just realized the etymology of that word to try to change our luck in the second half. But alas, the home team added a second goal and handed us our first defeat of the season. The general agreement seemed to be that we are, for lack of a better term, a bit shit. "Long way to fly for that one," several folks told me. But I wasn't there for the goals. I was there for this, the pleasure of being with a few hundred people whose love is oriented in the same direction as mine. I was here for the hope. The hope that kept Wimbledon alive when the English Football association said our club shouldn't exist. The hope that brought little Bromley up to the football league. The hope that kept me here in hard times so that I might enjoy some football. What a great word enjoy is. Even when we lose with this football club, I'm in joy. And what a relief to be able to feel in joy again.

Hank, I'll see you on Friday.