SECOND TEAM SYNDROME

There’s a strange little quirk in football that nobody ever talks about: the idea of a second team. Not your club — not the one that breaks your heart, ruins your weekend, and shapes your childhood — but the other one. The one you quietly keep an eye on. The one you like for reasons you can’t fully explain. Growing up, having a second team felt completely normal. Or maybe it was just me.

For a long stretch — late 1970s into the mid‑80s — mine was Leicester City. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was their FA Cup runs. Maybe it was those shirts with the white bands at the top of the sleeves. Maybe it was seeing Keith Weller in tights (and hopefully, as a trans woman, I’m allowed to say that). Whatever the reason, Leicester became my unofficial “other” club.

After that, I flirted with West Bromwich Albion. I remember watching the 1978 FA Cup semi‑final at Highbury — Albion in those glorious yellow‑and‑green stripes against Ipswich. It was the match where John Wile and Brian Talbot ended up covered in blood after a clash of heads. Proper football. Proper drama. I always planned to get the Subbuteo kit, but never did. Years later I saw the kit again, funnily enough at Portman Road, and thought, “Mmm… I’m not sure.” West Brom never reached the status Leicester had as my second team.

Other clubs drifted in and out of my orbit. Bristol City had a moment, but it never happened. It was like looking at a girl you can’t quite make your mind up about — and so nothing ever starts.

But here’s the truth I’ve only recently admitted to myself: I had a connection with Glasgow Rangers long before I ever fell in love with Arsenal.

That connection runs deep. If I’m honest, it goes back to around 1974 or 75, when I was about six. Something about Rangers lodged itself in me before I even understood football properly. They were my first “other” club, even before I knew what a second team was.

Then in the early 90s, it was the turn of Cowdenbeath — the “Blue Brazilians”. They didn’t win a home game for two years, and I loved them for it. I was working at the Post Office at the time and sent off for 15 mugs from the club. I’d asked the night shift who wanted one. The club probably couldn’t believe it — this was before the internet. I must have found the phone number in an old programme or something. It was pure, daft affection.

More recently, I’ve thought about Falkirk, but nothing sparked. Even now I’ve been toying with Motherwell, but again… nothing quite sticks.

And that’s the thing. I’ve analysed this behaviour, and I’ve come to a simple conclusion:

A second team doesn’t carry the trauma.

Your real team brings love, hate, despair, hope, fear, joy, heartbreak — the full emotional weather system. A second team is different. It’s lighter. It’s an escape. You can enjoy them without the weight. You can like them without being destroyed by them. You can follow them without the emotional contract.

Maybe that’s why second team syndrome exists. Maybe that’s why it mattered to me. Maybe that’s why it still does.