Nothing quite epitomises the one-eyedness of football supporters more than the issue of empty seats. It is a cause of mockery, for which a fanbase should be embarrassed. Can’t sell out your tickets at an exorbitant cost to people who have been priced out of doing something they love? Small club, aren’t you?
Yet there is a tipping point. Four hundred empty spaces in an area fit for forty thousand is cause for ridicule, but forty thousand empty seats is a cause for concern, even for those who are wilfully blind to the problem. Gaps in the crowd are an emphatic reminder that something has gone deeply wrong.
In 2010, over 82,000 witnessed Blackpool’s 3-2 victory over Cardiff City as a community club from a seaside town reached the Premier League for the first time. It was a joyous, raucous occasion, Blackpool a reflection of their charismatic manager Ian Holloway. Having beaten Nottingham Forest 6-4 over the two legs of the semi-final, Blackpool twice fell behind but were victorious by the end of a breathtaking final. The Premier League welcomed its smallest ever club.
Seven years on, and Blackpool are the same club in name alone. That they are even in League Two is proof of their miserable stagnation, a collection of short-term managers and shorter-term players unable to halt a decline. The sea air may freshen along Blackpool’s pier, but the smog hanging over Bloomfield Road is impossible to shift.
A few thousand supporters cheered a chance at promotion back to the third tier, each with their own reasons for attending, but vast swathes stayed at home and stuck to their promise to boycott all of the club’s matches until the Oyston family cease their ownership of the club. Owners who have repeatedly proved themselves incapable or unwilling of building bridges have burned them for the final time.
For those of us who dream of promotion, it is unthinkable to miss your club’s hours of greatest need. Play-off final day should be an occasion that causes sleepless nights, bizarre superstitions and a day out in the capital. Fans should be congregating on Wembley Way to take pictures of the arch and each other. Lasting memories should be forged and cherished.
Instead supporters were dotted around Lancashire trying not to think about their eternal love. Some wanted their team to win but could not bear to take joy in anything that assisted the Oyston’s continued ownership. Others wanted their team to lose, if only to emphasise the futility of their club’s current existence. Yet most were caught in an impossible quandary, neither actively yearning for their club to lose, nor wanting them to win either.
All shared the same message: This is the only way to make a difference. Protest has not worked. Pleading has not worked. Ploughing on regardless has not worked. This is the last resort. For them, taking even a day off from their boycott lays bare their loyalty to their owner. That loyalty only makes them more ripe for exploitation.
The worst emotion that a football supporter can feel is not hatred or anger, but apathy. Anger is indicative of damaged love, but love all the same. Apathy is indicative of emptiness. Where Blackpool supporters once felt love, there is a void that nothing else can fill. Nothing quite captures your spirit like following your football club. Nothing quite crushes it like lost love.
It is deliberate that this piece was published before the League Two play-off final had even finished and Blackpool’s fate was determined, because this is a club for whom the division is of secondary importance. Perhaps, one day, these Wembley tiers will be filled again with the sound of joyous Blackpool hearts. For now, there can be no Tangerine dream.

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