'I didn't leave. But I was tempted' ... the David Rawson Rotherham United Fan Column

They wasted our time.

It took us 95 minutes to have a shot on target.

We scored from it. I suspect less than 1,000 of us saw it.

I can’t remember ever leaving a game early. I’m ridiculously invested in the concept of ‘you never know’. But this sorely tested my resolve.

Were Huddersfield Town very good? No. Did they have to be? Also, no.

They were basically adequate. We chucked them some early Christmas gifts. And that was that.

Three-nil down at half-time and we swapped two central defenders and a central defensive midfielder so it didn’t end up six. The forwards on the bench weren’t fit enough to try to chase the game.

And so to the latest in the procession of non-events that is a League One game this season. Every player is an athlete. Every team is basically competent. Every risk is calculated.

It’s not much fun.

There’s nothing to catch on to, no spark of mischief, or joy or skill. It’s a terribly serious, intense business, all furrowed brows and concentration. People used to talk about playing with a smile on your face. Not this year.

Every game boils down to – can team A execute its game-plan better than team B? If it can, and you’re team B, then you just sort of shrug and wait for the game to end.

Hence, there was no sign that Huddersfield’s first goal stung us. Or the second. Or third.

There’s a fine between not getting too high on success or too low on failure and appearing not to really care.

Football is an expensive, time-consuming thing to follow. From a purely commercial point of view, you ought to stay to the end to get your money’s worth.

But, as Huddersfield’s number 4 pretended to have a head injury for the 634th time to kill time, I found myself looking at the scoreboard, willing the time to tick down so I could go home.

Nombe’s goal was five minutes too late to provoke even the mildest hope. And, anyway, for at least 75 minutes the team had just been going through the motions, dutifully doing what it had trained to because it was being paid to do it, so what really was there to hope for?

It was a sad, limp spectacle, making those of us watching a kind of irrelevance. After all, what were the fans supposed to do? Push the team towards a slightly higher level of adequacy?

Put simply, the manager’s passion for the club isn’t showing in the performances, even the ones that see us win.

And without that, things soon become pointless.

Because without some sense of fun, of connection, of joy in playing, it’s a waste of time.