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"The depression that I had been living with for the best part of the 1980s packed up and started to leave that night, and within a month I was better.Inevitably part of me wishes that it had been something else that effected the cure – the love of a good woman, or a minor literary triumph, or a transcendent realisation during something like Live Aid that my life was blessed and worth living – something worthy and real and meaningful. It embarrasses me to confess that a decade-long downer lifted because Arsenal won at Spurs in the Littlewoods Cup (I would be slightly less embarrassed if it had been an FA Cup win, but the Littlewoods!), and I have often tried to work out why it happened like this."
So wrote Nick Hornby in “Fever Pitch”. It's something I can relate to – except for me it's not a cup win for Arsenal at Spurs, it's a midweek league win for St Mirren at Queen of the South.
Towards the end of 2016 I was getting increasingly frustrated and down with life. On the face of it, there didn't seem to be much reason for that. I had a decent job which, for once, wasn't driving me too mad. I had a nice flat, loving family and no money or health worries. What did I have to be depressed about?
For some reason my love life – or lack of one – was becoming increasingly annoying. Why this was manifesting itself now is not clear as it was no more or less existent than usual. Perhaps it was because more and more of my mates were getting engaged, getting married and having kids. It was getting to me to the extent I'd constantly be losing sleep as I began to convince myself I was heading for a life of loneliness.
What I had probably wouldn't officially be categorised as depression, however in hindsight I know I should have sought help – be it by speaking to someone I know or a professional. The closest I got was when I looked at the health and wellbeing section of the work intranet and I ticked off the majority of the symptoms of depression, only to do absolutely nothing about it. That was stupid and I'd strongly advise anyone who finds themselves in that situation to take a different approach.
It's far better than the alternative. On a few late nights when I was driving home from meetings the demons would come out to play and I'd have some dark thoughts. It didn't get any more serious than “Would anyone really miss me if I'm gone?” - which was probably based on my belief that if I fell down the stairs it would be days before anyone came to check on me – but that was probably bad enough.
Not helping my fragile state of mind was the fact St Mirren were bad. I'm not talking about losing the odd game here and there, the sort of run of form that would have Manchester United fans calling for their manager's head. I'm talking about so bad it was bordering on being impressive. The team was on the verge of breaking the club record for most games without a league win with a run that stretched back to April.
This run had extended to early December and a failure to beat Queen of the South at Palmerston would see the record matched or beaten (I can't recall which). I don't normally do away or midweek games but as I live and work in Dumfries, this was effectively a home game. Given that Stephen Dobbie had effectively bodied Andy Webster into retirement when the sides last met, I was all set for history to be made.
Unsurprisingly, Dobbie opened the scoring. Kyle Magennis equalised with a scorcher, only for Dobbie to score again. In the second half, Ben Gordon equalised with a shot that seemed to hit off about seven folk as well as the pole in the middle of my vision and trundled into the net in slow motion. And that seemed to be that. Another game without a win. A new record.
And then Saints got a corner in stoppage time which, as is often the way, was cleared. The ball ended up with Stevie Mallan who, Hibs fans may have discovered, is a bit handy from long range. He hit it. It hit the post. It went in. This was such a shockingly seismic turn of events that at least two video clips of the goal stutter at exactly the same moment, as if the very fabric of the universe was being torn apart by the prospect of St Mirren winning. My pressbox celebrations weren't that much more restrained than the ones on the pitch and in the away end.
It would probably be pushing it to say that the sadness I'd been battling “packed up and left” that night. However, it was maybe the night it decided it was time to look out its bags, just in case.
I'd already planned a date with someone for a few nights after the trip to Palmerston. It was the first time we'd met in person and it seemed to go well in the romantic location of a drive-thru Costa. A second date the following week was the most I'd laughed and smiled in a long, long time. Just to prove things were changing for the better was that between these two dates, St Mirren won again. The sadness had been served with an eviction notice.
And so, aside from a return to form in January (that was Saints getting crap again rather than something going wrong with the relationship), things went from strength to strength. For the first time in years I was enjoying my personal life. I had met someone who was amazing, who I enjoyed spending time with and – even more remarkably – who felt similarly about me. The dark days of December were increasingly becoming a thing of the past. I was having great weekends, going places I'd never been before – despite living in Dumfries and Galloway for a decade. I was enjoying life.
And while this was going on, Saints were going on a remarkable run of form. Remarkably good, rather than the almost record-breakingly bad run that had added to my troubles. Midweek nights alone were often spent following progress online as Jack Ross' overhauled squad won another game that would have been a damage limitation exercise months before. Hibs, Dundee United and – perhaps most gloriously of all – Morton were demolished, the latter coming the same night I'd driven home from a meeting, the sort of drive that would bring the demons dancing out just months earlier. It also came just a few days after I'd been reduced to tears in the early hours of my birthday as Sergio Garcia finally, finally, FINALLY won a major – but that's another story.
The Great Escape Things came to a head in May, exactly six months on from that night at Palmerston. A draw against champions Hibs would complete probably the greatest of escapes and ensure Saints survived – and thanks to Rory Loy's goal that's what happened. There were celebrations in the away end and in the pressbox once again. And two days later - so exactly six months on from when we first met – me and my girlfriend (a phrase I was still getting used to using) booked our first holiday together. The depression, if that's what it had been, wasn't being asked to pack its bags to come with us. Instead, it had been shot twice in the head, thrown in a bag with some concrete bricks and chucked in the Nith.
Just over a year on from that night in Dumfries, Saints were back at Palmerston. There was no Stevie Mallan this time but the Buddies were now challenging at the right end of the table. As if to prove just how much things had changed, this time they decided a headstart of two goals, rather than one, would be far fairer on Queens. Having provided this inside the first 10 minutes they decided it was time to get the finger out. Gavin Reilly scored twice before half time to level things up before Gary MacKenzie completed the fightback from a corner. Job done – and by early April the job really would be done as Saints romped to the title and promotion.
Champions
There were no exuberant press box celebrations this time (although I did nearly put my foot through the wooden wall when Reilly rattled in the equaliser) but I, like Saints, was in a much better place than I had been 12 months earlier. The relationship was still going strong, we had met each other's parents and were spending more and more time together. Work may not have been as good as 12 months ago but everything else was great.
I used to think Hugh Murray's goal against Stirling in 1998 was the most important I'd seen from a Saints player, however from a personal point of view I'm becoming increasingly convinced it was Mallan's at Palmerston. It seemed to be a turning point for but me and St Mirren. That goal was two years ago today – Saturday I'll be celebrating my two year anniversary with my wonderful, lovely , amazing girlfriend.
As I said, I've no idea what I had can officially be classed as depression or I was just feeling a bit down. Whatever, if you find yourself in a similar situation then please, please, PLEASE talk to someone. If you can't speak to a friend or relative then contact the Samaritans, CALM or one of the other many similar charities who do incredible work every day.Don't just wait in the hope a midfielder will fire those dark thoughts on their way.
