I started supporting Arsenal when I was still living in the deep south of Italy, and televisions came in two colors: black and white. Back then, I didn’t choose Arsenal—they arrived in my life like a broadcast signal from a distant world, slightly blurry, but impossible to ignore.

There I was, a kid squinting at a flickering screen, while everyone around me followed Juve, Milan, or Napoli. But I liked the team with the strange name, the red shirts, and the aura of quiet defiance. I didn’t fully understand what offside meant, but I knew loyalty when I saw it. And I gave mine to Arsenal—freely, naively, and without any idea of the emotional rollercoaster I had just boarded.

Fast-forward a few decades and a change of country later: I finally made it to London, and like every fan who’s ever thought “this is the year,” I bought a season ticket. Just after the Invincibles season, of course. Because naturally, I missed the best party in modern Arsenal history by about five minutes. Typical.

Still, I made up for it by traveling up and down England, from Stoke on a Monday night to Sunderland in the freezing rain, and I’ve watched Arsenal play in stadiums across Europe—from beer-stained terraces in Germany to cathedrals of football in Spain. I’ve sung, I’ve shouted, I’ve wept, and once I even argued with a steward in Holland about whether “we always bottle it” was a chant or a cry for help.

Every new season begins the same way. That faint, idiotic glimmer of hope. I look at the fixture list with the optimism of someone who has never been hurt. “Winnable,” I say, circling matches like I’m planning a holiday and not preparing for weekly heartbreak.

And then it starts. The possession stats look lovely. The build-up play is art. And the finishing? Let’s not talk about that. I’ve seen more decisive moves from pigeons crossing the road. But still, I watch. I cheer. I scream at my TV like a man who believes sound travels through the screen and into Mikel Arteta’s ear.

People ask, “Why do you keep doing this to yourself?” Because I believe. I always believe. That’s the Arsenal condition. Faith without reason. Pain with poetic flourishes.

I still believe in us—even when we’re losing to teams sponsored by frozen food chains. I believe while watching us dominate possession for 80 minutes only to concede from a deflected throw-in. I believe, even when Match of the Day skips our highlights entirely. That’s commitment. Or insanity. Hard to tell these days.

This year? Same story. I’ll buy the shirt. I’ll pretend to be rational. I’ll say things like “I just hope we’re competitive,” while secretly calculating how many points we need to win the league. I’ll go back to the Emirates, sit in my old seat, and feel like a kid again—only this time the TV is in 4K and the disappointment is HD too.

Because that’s what Arsenal is to me. A lifetime story told in chapters of beauty, absurdity, and emotional whiplash. A club that’s broken my heart and made it sing in the same breath.

So yes, Arsenal. I still believe in you.

Even when I absolutely shouldn’t.