Long-term relationships often come with sporting baggage. He gave me Sunderland and I gave him Adelaide Crows. One of us has done much better in this deal.
When we first started dating, I remember asking him, an Englishman, which Premier League team he supported. He was very well spoken so I was expecting a London club, or, because everyone else seemed to support them, one of the glamour teams. So, when he said Sunderland, he caught me off guard.
He explained. Sunderland isn’t a team you choose – it chooses you, whether you like it or not. It gets passed on. “My dad was born near Roker Park … it’s in the blood.”
I liked that answer. Norwood Football Club is in my blood. When my Papou died, the hearse drove down the Norwood Parade in Adelaide so he could have one last look at the footy ground. And now that we have a son, I like that he has passed on Sunderland, for better or for worse, to our boy.
Unfortunately, there has been a lot more of the worse than the better. Following from more than 16,000km away in Australia only exacerbates the cruelty. Setting your alarm for 5am and watching your team get beaten on a regular basis is not my idea of fun. At least being in a cult dangles the carrot of salvation.
Sunderland’s fanzine is called A Love Supreme. It’s an apt name for a supporter base whose devotion has been pushed to its absolute limits yet somehow still stayed strong. That love has never been more tested than over this past decade. If there was silverware for heartache, torment and despair, Sunderland’s trophy cabinet would be bulging.
Sunderland have returned to the Premier League for the first time in eight years. Photograph: Lee Smith/Action Images/Reuters
Their downfall has been as spectacular as it has been swift. In 2017 they finished bottom of the Premier League. The following season, in 2018, they somehow managed to repeat the feat in the Championship. And then, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, they spent three seasons threatening, but never quite managing to get out of League One. Three seasons trapped in footballing limbo, where no one can hear you scream.
In 2022, in their fourth season in League One, Sunderland finally won in the playoffs to climb back up to the Championship.
One statistic sums up the stability of the club perfectly: since 2017 Sunderland have had 18 managers (including caretakers). Yet during all the disappointments, fiascos and failures, the fans still turned out. Here’s another remarkable statistic: the club finished with the highest average attendances in each year during their time in League One – and for each year in the Championship.
But as loyal as the fanbase is, it craves success. If you’ve seen the 2018 Netflix documentary, Sunderland ‘Til I Die, you’ll know what this club means to its fans.
From its first historic home, Roker Park in 1898, and on to the Stadium of Light in 1997, Sunderland AFC has been part of the city’s DNA – its heartbeat. This city has endured plenty of economic hardships since the collapse of its once thriving shipbuilding, and coal mining industries – and is still doing it tough. Despite this, the one collective sense of pride has always been its football club. Its success – and failure – is felt deeply by all. It’s in the blood.
Sunderland players celebrate after winning the 2024-25 Championship playoff final against Sheffield United. Photograph: Hannah McKay/Reuters
So, in the early hours of 26 May, while the rest of our neighbourhood slept, we sat in front of the TV, stomachs churning, watching the Championship playoff final at Wembley. Sunderland v Sheffield United. After eight years, one match away from a return to the biggest football league in the world.
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Sunderland scored the winning goal in the last minute of time added on. For once a fairytale ending – and it felt just as magical, the final whistle acting like a flick of the wand, its shower of fairy dust magically erasing a decade of pain. There is no way we didn’t wake the neighbours.
Now the glittering lights of the Premier League await – which explains the new addition to my morning routine. As I make my son’s lunch for school with the kettle brewing, I check the summer transfer market. The last time I did this, my son, who is soon to be a teen, was crawling.
Granit Xhaka, the former Arsenal midfielder, is moving to Wearside. Fist pump! We need premiership experience. He joins a squad bolstered by eight (at the time of writing), mostly young, exciting additions. We’ve been busy – and for once we seem to be ahead of things. For a club whose motto this past decade could have been, Hope Springs Eternal, we seem, dare I say it, to be making the right kind of moves.
The bookies have us as favourites to go straight back down but, to steal a line from the terraces, “that’s utter bollocks”. Now is not the time for negativity. Now is the time to embrace the nocturnal hours. Now is the time to luxuriate in the build-up, now is the time to check out the new home and away strip (love it!), to pour over the fixtures (first up West Ham at home. Brilliant. Three points in the bag). Now is the time to dream.
The wilderness years are over, and the Black Cats are back. Their devoted fans are back too, soon to fill the best stadiums in England with their roar and their anthem – the sweet sound of Elvis’s, Can’t Help Falling In Love.
Amen to that. The countdown to midnight 17 August has begun.
