It's a little known fact that Nietzsche wrote Human, All too Human the night before the last day of the season, 1878. The year that Everton were founded, since you ask. Nietzsche was brooding on the cruelties of emotion and the manifold evils of modern football, or Pandora's Box as he chose to call it. Anyway, he knew what it was like to be just one point behind, against all probability or plausibility, with everything to play for on the last day, and it all out of your hands.
Not in expectation, not in belief, and against all scaramanzia, a tiny anguished nugget of hope is skulking deep in my heart, undetected by my sleep-deprived work-addled brain. In just over 17 hours it will be gone, for another year.
The newspaper today told us in loving detail what our boys will be eating for their lunch tomorrow. Yesterday someone went and anointed the entrance to the training ground with a kilo of salt. To ward off the Evil Eye. Now we have to pretend none of it is really happening. To sidle past Fortune, hoping she doesn't spot us under our invisibility cloak, woven from the finest and most ancient superstitions, and worn with carefree nonchalance and stony hearts. Here you touch iron, not wood.
I'm going to bed, to pretend that hope doesn't exist, and to work on eventually losing all interest in all kinds of competitive sports, and maybe moving to another city.
I can't work out which tshirt I ought to wear tomorrow, or how to believe it doesn't matter.