In about 36 hours the summer transfer window will slam shut with the sound of a thousand clichés (and the weeping of a million twitter users). In years past, I've dedicated valuable brain power to analyzing why it's okay to let a favorite player go and spent hours trawling social media for hints and hopes as to what special deal is going to change our season.
I spent the weekend in a fog of depression that started sometime after 9:30AM on Saturday and ended sometime Sunday afternoon as I walked through New England watching the turning of the season. The snow is melting, the sugar maples are beginning to bud, the sap leaking through the cracks to be collected in buckets and then boiled for hours and hours until it becomes sap. The Metaphor, says the inner-movie-narrator, is that from death comes something new. But the truth is winter isn't death and neither is drawing with Woolwich... even when it feels like it is.