Ian McMillan: A seat of emotions hotter than a half-time pie

The bloke in the glasses who always shakes my hand is ready. The other Mick, the one who sits across the aisle, is ready. The programme seller who always says "Hello, my friend!" is ready, with his piles of change and his cardboard boxes of printed material. The bloke who gets so

cross that the veins bulge in his neck is ready. The bloke who unfurls his flag is ready.

Get the drift? We're ready. It's only the end of July and we're straining at the bit, even though we're not under starter's orders yet. And, of course, the thing we're ready for, the shining thing glowing on the horizon like a wonderful sunrise with boots on, is the new football season.

This is the best time of year to be a fan of a team like the mighty Barnsley FC, or indeed of any of the teams in the Yorkshire Post circulation area. Fans of big teams who win lots of things only start enjoying the season once it starts; fans of teams like Barnsley are really, really happy in July because we can surf on a foaming wave of anticipation and ride the racing bike of happiness because we know,

just know, that this is going to be our season. The cup runs. The thrashing of supposedly better teams. The wonder goal that begins with the mazy dribble and ends with the net bulging and almost bursting asunder.

And at this time of year we've not lost a game yet, we've not been disappointed by our new signings, we've not had a perfectly good goal disallowed and we've not sat through a midweek 0-0 draw in the freezing cold, stamping our feet to get warm and wishing we were at home

watching an old cowboy film.

In July, we're still writing the fixtures in our diaries, we're trying to work out how to wriggle out of that wedding invitation that happens to fall on the same Saturday as the local derby and we're totting up how many points we'll have before Christmas.

Our first game is away to QPR. Our first home game is against Crystal Palace. Once, years ago, Barnsley were playing QPR in a midweek game and the driver took the one supporters' coach full of diehards to Selhurst Park, the home of Crystal Palace, by mistake. Well, it's all London, isn't it?

So maybe QPR are unlucky for us: after all, we played them away in the first game of the season a couple of years ago, and we lost. So maybe

we're due a win. Or maybe we'll lose again. Maybe it'll be lucky that we've played them in the first game twice in two seasons, and maybe it's a bad omen. That's how it gets to you, this phoney war, this

stroll round the new house before you actually move in, this empty period before the season starts. You start to see omens everywhere.

You gaze at the clouds, hoping for a representation of the Wembley arch that means you'll get to some kind of final; you look for the same socks you wore when we beat Chelsea to get to the FA Cup semi final and you get exasperated and grumpy when you can't find them.

When you think nobody is looking, you take your season ticket from the shelf. You gaze at it. It's a little booklet full of promise. It's a pile of dreams in a plastic wallet. You check the seat number again. Your favourite seat. The seat of delight. The seat of sorrow. The seat of emotions hotter than a half-time pie.

Because you think you're alone in the house, you raise the season

ticket high in the air as though it's a trophy. You brandish it as though it's a red card and you're sending the opposition's star striker off before he's had a chance to score against you. You pretend to take photographs of celebrations with it as though it is a camera. You raise it to your lips and kiss it, passionately, noisily, lips on plastic. You don't care if you look daft; there's nobody else in the house so it doesn't matter that you're snogging your season ticket.

Your wife walks in, a look of incredulity on her face. "What on earth are you doing?" she asks. You throw the season ticket down as though it's red hot. You dribble unattractively. You mumble something about trying to get some stain off the front of the ticket. You feel like you used to when your mam caught you looking at the lingerie section of her catalogue. You're as red as a red card. You feel silly and small.

Still, who cares. We're ready!