Thank you, Jeff Hendrick

I was 14 when I started getting depressed. My grandfather died a week after my birthday and my grandmother not long after. I started to philosophise about the inevitability of mortality... something I've done ever since... and whether or not achievement or... well, anything... was actually worthwhile given that we all die anyway. Since my grandparents, many other relatives and friends have passed on, some from natural causes and some not, and each time mortality touches my life in some way, it raises all new questions. Did they know it was coming? Did they tie up all their loose ends? Were they at peace with their family? Why does that suicide note make sense to me? Why does it seem rational that suicide was the best way out for a guy who, quite simply, didn't enjoy living?

This doesn't seem like a Toontalk post, but it is... because back in 1997 when depression first reared its ugly head, for me, I'd forget about it on the weekends because my football team was producing performances that, on at least some occasions, were euphoric. There were people with far worse problems than I had, and there still are (I must be honest... other than mental illness, I don't really HAVE any problems... my life has been WAY beyond sheltered and I think myself extremely fortunate every day) but that's irrelevant in that moment, because football was MY escape. Mine. It was only there for me, and everything that amazing side in the Keegan and Robson era Newcastle went through, was for me alone. I had a personal relationship with every one of those players, having never met or spoken to any of them. I ran into Gary Speed in a music shop once and that was enough for me to wail like a baby when he died, as if I'd lost a big brother.

That's why football is important. Yes, it's a bunch of overpaid prima donnas chasing a bag of air around a field, but in doing so they somehow affect my life in a way that makes absolutely no sense. All of that horrible, horrible shit that plagued my mind on a daily basis just melted away because some guy I don't know, put that bag of air into another bag of air with holes in, with his foot.

The thing is, I'm making this post entirely about me but, of course, it isn't. I KNOW that this resonates with so, so many people, because I'm a human being and, for one thing, I'm not self-centred enough to think that football only has, or had, this effect on me. I dare say even the majority of you have had problems that have been somewhat ameliorated just because of that bag of air and the multi-millionaires who kick it.

This, for me, is why Mike Ashley has to go. Since he has been in charge of Newcastle United, we have gone through disappointment after disappointment, ridiculous decision after ridiculous decision, bizarre appointment after unwanted sacking, and so on. It's had its moments (the 4-4 draw and the day we hammered Spurs despite already being relegated were particular highlights) but on the whole, it's been like having a close relative upon whom you could always rely to cheer you up, suddenly afflicted by a brain tumour that turns them into an unfeeling, untrusting, vindictive, soul-destroying monster.

I'm a musician, by trade, and during Newcastle's trip to Wolves on Saturday, I was driving to Scarborough to play at the fantastic Scholar's Bar on Somerset Terrace. Thing is, I'd been having a bad day already, and vehicle malfunctions meant I had 4 hours' drive to complete that evening that I hadn't previously been prepared for and, mentally, wasn't really up for. I realised I'd forgotten our band-printed t-shirts when I was almost at the Tyne Tunnel and had to go back for them as well, so I was pissed off at myself to boot... but at least I could listen to the football on the way down to the gig. We went 0-1 down, and then the bar saved us from 0-2... BBC Radio Newcastle gradually disappeared as I came past Whitby and as the roads started to get not only wigglier, but steeper, and wetter. Now, I'm not saying Jeff Hendrick saved my life... but I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I was sitting at a set of traffic lights, inching forward and reversing by the odd inch to try to save what little of the FM signal was still getting to my car without interference from the coincident local derby between York City and Whitby Town, thinking... "you know... if I went off around here, nobody would think it was suicide..." Then, just before the FM signal disappeared completely, Jeff Hendrick scored. Horrible, depressing thoughts GONE. INSTANTLY. By the time I got to the venue we were 1-2 down but that didn't matter any more, because I was surrounded by lovely, lovely people and then, a few minutes later, some of my closest friends. Crisis averted. In that moment, I thought to myself as a joke "If I ever see Jeff Hendrick, I'll have to thank him." Thing is... I went to the gym the next day to sit in the jacuzzi while my wife did a yoga session and, who do I see as I exit the swimming baths? Jeff... fucking... Hendrick. And you know what... I didn't say a word. And the reason I didn't say a word isn't because I'm older now and have more respect for people's privacy... it's not because he was with his daughter and I didn't want to bother him... it's because the connection I felt with the players when I was a lad just isn't there any more. I didn't think he'd want to know, because I don't feel that my "uncle Toon", whom I love so much and could rely upon to make me feel better, loves me back any more. It's not the players' fault though... it's not their responsibility to make me feel better. Their job is to entertain. However, whatever you think of players' attitudes towards the fans, every last one of them got into football because of the same love of the game I have and, almost certainly, the same love of their own club as I have for Newcastle United, even if that love sometimes appears unrequited.

In summary, while my mental wellbeing and that of thousands of other fans should never be placed on the shoulders of footballers (no matter how much money they make, that's way too unfair a burden to place on ANYONE), they, and Mike Ashley, both deserve in very different ways to know that what they do MATTERS. And all it would've taken would've been for me to say "Thanks for that goal, Jeff... you gave me hope.". If you know Jeff Hendrick and don't want to show him this article because I have a go at his boss, that's fair enough. I'll tell him the next time I see him. It's as good a reason as any to keep paying for my gym membership.

- Rob Waters