In my family, football is a somewhat contentious topic.

My mum grew up in a flat equidistant from Highbury and White Hart Lane, and is ostensibly an Arsenal fan although “I quite like Tottenham too, I could never understand how people could like one and hate the other”.

It’s a viewpoint I struggle with but at least she supports her local team(s), unlike my Cornish Manchester United supporting father. To give him credit he has a qualifier: he grew up with his Mancunian grandmother who showed him their 1976 FA Cup final loss and hooked him for life.

My brother, though, is perhaps the worst offender. He believes football is the root of all evil and would be quite happy to go through life never hearing another word about it, throwing his hands over his ears and sighing as my dad and I have our latest “no, OUR game was the most embarrassing” argument.

Rivalries dictate the way my family enjoys football. Seasons where Norwich find themselves in the top-flight are some of the most difficult, bringing with them the knowledge that I’ll lose out on bragging rights at least four times over the course of the year.

My interest in my parents’ teams is limited mostly to watching them after a gruelling Norwich defeat, hoping for a weekend like one early in October 2020 where the pain of watching Norwich stagger to a 1-0 loss against Derby was eased by watching my dad come to terms with Spurs’ 6-1 battering of his beloved Man United. There’s nothing that makes you feel better about your own team’s faults then seeing someone else suffer with you.

Resigned to never convincing my parents to don a yellow and green scarf, I spent a portion of my brother’s formative years dragging him to Norwich games in an attempt to show him that a day out at Carrow Road could be enjoyable.

For a while I thought I’d been lucky: the first game I took him to was Norwich 3-1 Rotherham, a game which saw us come from behind to enjoy a very decisive victory, and he asked to go back for the next one. Again, Norwich delivered in the form of a late equaliser for Bolton, a later Bolton red card, and an even later winner from Teemu Pukki. Surely, I thought, I’ve won him over.

The Pink Un: Supporting Norwich City is always full of highs and lows

Roll on Portsmouth in the FA Cup. Grant Hanley was sent off after a quarter of an hour and the only goal came from Portsmouth in the 94th minute. As the Pompey fans upped their noise levels my brother turned to me and smirked, giving a look that said “I knew it wasn’t always that good.” Suffice to say he remains unconverted, although his only Carrow Road outing since then did see him witness Jacob Sørensen’s screamer against Birmingham.

Although watching football with someone who has no interest in the sport isn’t the most enjoyable experience, it can be worse watching with someone who has a vested interest in you doing well for their own gain.

Such was the situation I found myself in on Sunday as Norwich fell to a disappointing, disjointed loss against Liverpool. My dad sat next to me, rolling his eyes at every misplaced pass (no mean feat, that), critiquing every turnover of possession, asking for “just one more goal, just to put the scarers on them” as we made it 4-2. Oh, how smug I felt later for those few minutes where it looked like Newport County would pull off a shock result.

I have wondered whether it would be easier to come from a family who all supports the same team, to know you’re all pulling in the same direction. Still, there’s nothing better than revelling in a victory while your family member watches their team limp their way to a dismal loss. Schadenfreude, I couldn’t give you up.