Getting my mojo back
When Conor Washington’s shot hit the back of the net on Tuesday night, I was up punching the air, office chair flying across the room, didn’t care who saw. I was back.
I watched all of Nigel Adkins‘ games in charge. I really didn’t want to, but it was like rubbernecking at a car crash, I was drawn to it like a really bad horror movie. I was emotionally unattached watching Adkins’ team play. There was nothing to hold onto, no style, no identity, no nothing.
Jacko has allowed us to daydream, to expect, to punch the air in unabridged delight. It’s been only three games but long may it continue.