The shame of enjoying someone else’s misfortune

 You really have to feel for Paul Smith.
 
The opening goal he conceded against Swansea on Saturday is every goalkeeper’s nightmare. A magnificent lunge down to his right that was then directly responsible for conceding the very thing he was trying to stop.

The fact Leon Britton’s fizzing shot was worthy of a goal anyway before it hit the post and then the back of Smith’s head will be of no consolation to him.

To then save a dubious penalty later in the game and see the rebound fall to taker Fedde Bodde’s feet for a gift of a second bite of the cherry to score a game changing goal just added insult to injury.
 
But the rebound incident reminded me of the first time I remember seeing it happen.
 
October 1991. Title rivals Man United versus Arsenal in a battle of the titans at Old Trafford.
 
I was only eight years old and whilst I supported another team in red, my sister was an avid Gooner.
 
It was a Sunday afternoon and a time as kids when we were literally glued to the telly. If you’d told me Elton Welsby had personality I’d have believed you. 

We hung on every word and action of Alan ‘Smudger’ Smith, David ‘Rocky’ Rocastle(RIP) and anybody else in the Arsenal ranks.
 
Well that’s what my older sister would tell me I’d have to act like. I was still smaller than her at the time and there was no doubting who still won the fights if we ever had a scrap. I knew, because I had the bruises and the tears to show for it. So I was never going to shout for anyone else whilst she was in earshot.
 
The opening goal that day saw good old Rocky chip a magnificent 25 yard lob on to the crossbar, hit the back of the head of a young, aspiring goalkeeper called Peter Schmeichel-and trickle over the line.
 
And my sister and I went wild-as did around 8,000 Arsenal fans directly behind that goal who we were desperate to be part of.
 
The joyous look on their faces compared with that of the despair of the red nose Dane seemed particularly cruel. They mocked him with gestures insinuating they had uncontrollable shaking problems with their wrists.
 
It didn’t matter for United that day-they went on to grab a 91st minute equaliser courtesy of Steve Bruce’s deft header.
 
On Saturday, Paul Smith got no such justice.
 
And more is the shame for a keeper who just six days earlier pulled off a world class save to earn Forest a draw in their opening game against Reading.
 
That I suppose though is the topsy turvy territory you live in as a shot stopper.
 
But there was part of me that was ashamed when Leon Britton’s shot embarrassingly clattered off the post and into the Forest goal via Smith’s head.
 
As a very small minority of Swans fans mocked the Forest man, I felt shocked that that was me- 18 years previously. Even if I had only been watching on the telly. Even if I had only been eight years old. 

 
I’ll never forget the joyous feeling of seeing the team I was supporting that day in 1991 score a ludicrously fortunate goal over a major rival in a big game. It made it that bit sweeter that lady luck shone at such a crucial time. It felt fantastic.

 

But the gesture and the joy of feeling someone else’s misfortune was the same as the incident in South Wales on Saturday- and I couldn’t believe how much I remember enjoying it.
 
On the surface then I am ashamed simply because of the look on Paul Smith’s face as he departed the Liberty Stadium pitch on Saturday. It was one of pure anguish.

 

It was one of those times that you wished,after all, you’d put your name down to volunteer for the Samaritans when you passed their stand at Fresher’s Fair at University. Maybe then I could have offered him some condoling words.
 
But I couldn’t. And for that I am sorry to have mocked one of his fine predecessors in the game for an identical misfortune.
 
So I’m sorry to Peter Schmeichel. But I still hate Man United.