In November 1980, at the age of 13, I journeyed alone to Farhill from East Kill Bride and arrived to find an empty dugout without a manager. It felt quite odd, and my shyness prevented me from reaching out to anyone while I was there; the next day, Bertie Auld resigned and moved to Hibs, as reported by Sunday Mail.

The news hit hard. Bertie was my first manager, and as a devoted supporter, I felt responsible for the team’s presence in the Premier League year after year. Now he was gone, and no one informed me.

I skipped the next match, but soon after, I noticed Peter Cormack in the dugout. No one had mentioned it to me. At 13, I was an avid reader of newspapers but lacked a radio—just a single ear headphone connected to it, not convenient for carrying around.

This memory resurfaced after a recent Thistle home game I watched on TV. In front of me, a young couple was intently focused on their smartphones, engaged with the match. Admittedly, the game was quite dull, yet they followed the action closely and commented on the referee’s decisions. “It’s definitely offside.” “That was a clear penalty.” “He should have received a red card.”

Meanwhile, the crowd around me buzzed as we collectively pondered: “What a bizarre situation.” Why pay to attend a game only to ignore the live action unfolding mere meters away?

Yet it made some sense. As the young couple focused on their screens, more necks craned forward, and soon everyone nearby was chiming in to affirm the referee’s calls. Many of us who lament the changes in football secretly yearn for a return to the 1970s. Thank you. Yes, it did prompt a question.

For that couple, utilizing technology during the match was completely normal. This reflects how we have been conditioned to perceive sports. VAR is now standard for viewers of top leagues, whether we like it or not. Social media informs fans about clubs and their products. The differences between my 13-year-old self and kids today are vast.

Our access to football has transformed dramatically. This isn’t about whether “it was better back then.” Such discussions are tedious. I’m not keen on debating how technology has altered the game. Rather, I’m intrigued by how it has changed us. How have our brains adapted? How has our capacity for patience diminished? Our perception of football has evolved.

In her recent book, “Extinction of Experience,” Christine Rosen posits that technology has personalized our life experiences to the point where we no longer tolerate waiting, unpleasant encounters, or situations that don’t align with our expectations.

As football fans, we anticipate news immediately. We expect access to games without hassle, including digital tickets. However, Rosen highlights that these conveniences come with hidden costs. As we become less accustomed to patience, our understanding of its importance dwindles, leading to frustration and anxiety.

Transportation, phones, appliances—like all new technologies that have enriched our everyday lives, including the Internet and, notably, smartphones—transform our relationship with time. In the past, attending away games required considerable patience. Long journeys were a test of endurance. Now, improved roads, trains, and buses make it easier for fans to travel across the nation to venues like Ibrox and Parkhead rather than supporting local teams. It’s now quicker and better in many ways.

Back in the day, when travel was rare and arduous, teams like East Fife, Cowdenbeath, and Queen of the South attracted crowds of over 20,000. With travel being challenging, it was easy to support local clubs—there were no alternatives.

However, when we are denied immediate access to what we desire, we often respond with frustration and seek distractions. Our impulsive reactions during football matches reveal that we frequently overlook the value of perseverance. This impatience extends to transfer windows: “January 3, still no signings? Typical.”

Following a loss, even during matches, we might see discussions regarding the manager’s future pop up on social media. “How is he still in charge?” Such reactions reflect poorly on us and neither solve the issue nor enhance the situation. Wanting someone to lose their job is an anomaly in a sport often labeled as a working-class game.

Like many aspects of our lives, we resist waiting for what we want. Nowadays, if you have the money, you can buy your way out of any queue. Why should football be any different? We’ve been conditioned to seek immediate gratification.

I no longer find the changing football experience bothersome. Discussing it feels fruitless. What truly matters is what we might be losing in the process.

The convenience of purchasing tickets via apps is undeniably delightful. I hold season tickets on my mobile, allowing me to buy last-minute tickets effortlessly. However, in this digital age, I miss the excitement of the turnstiles, the familiar banter, and the social interactions that kickstart the matchday experience. Those daily exchanges remind us of our humanity—the need to connect and inquire about one another’s day. But now, many of those interactions feel unnecessary, which is a bit disheartening.

For many, football serves as a sanctuary where they feel part of something larger. It offers comfort, camaraderie, and hope. While technology facilitates ticket purchases and program access, it risks undermining our shared human experience.

Our smartphones provide real-time updates from various matches, creating an immediacy that can feel surreal. Tweets about goals at Cappielow spread faster than moments unfold. Young couples verifying offside calls from their devices may confuse older fans like me, but they often provide information that isn’t readily available. What’s inherently wrong with that? I sometimes forget that I’m at the match, immersed in social media clips of “young teams” reveling in last season’s playoffs. My own enjoyment seems to fade into the background.

We often grow complacent with this mediated version of “being there” while not actually experiencing it. Engaging with distractions in the crowd often reflects our overexposure to social media. Football may involve long stretches of monotony, and our minds sometimes struggle to cope with that. Anxiety arises when we gravitate towards mediated experiences rather than fully embracing the present.

I previously mentioned in Nutmeg that 90% of all live sports events tend to fade from memory. It’s those remaining 10% that we come back to, reminiscing and cherishing. Perhaps boredom is a necessary component of the experience. Why should it be avoided? Football is a game that demands patience. We must concentrate on tactics and await the right moment. Only then can we appreciate the unforgettable, often breathtaking experiences that make it all worthwhile.

As the season begins, we hope for the best but remain open to various outcomes, allowing things to unfold naturally. A poor start may improve by October; thus, I’m willing to be patient. Or perhaps the season will see a slow burn, and we learn that much remains beyond our control.

Even if we face defeat and feel disheartened, we rally ourselves and anticipate the next match. The events of last Saturday will soon blend into history. In that spirit, we allow managers to make mistakes, grant players time to rediscover their form, and accept it all as part of a long season—a natural facet of the process.

We must embrace technology, though it doesn’t mean we should forgo our options. A little extra effort, whether it’s engaging more with our surroundings, initiating conversations, or fostering connections, can be rewarding. Only then can we uncover something extraordinary and unforgettable. That’s when we truly become real fans.

This is an article by Kenny Peeper for Nutmeg Magazine