I'm not one of these hardy souls who have turned up at every home game. I've never bought a season ticket. I attend only one or two games a season. But I have watched every game on television.
My wife has begged me to not watch. She knows the pallof sullen, hollow-eyed, disappointment which will most likely descend on the household.
Sunday evening dinner has too often been a quiet affair, having hollered myself hoarse in the opening tackles, sliding through the inevitable wild, unfounded allegations of referee bias and illegal play as the Warriors stumble to inglory.
My poor, long-suffering, family.
And yet. When a season starts like 2018, there's a different mood in the Birkdale Stand. Is it elation? Jubilant cries of 'I told you this would be our year'? No. It's absolute disbelief.
Each round, the hooter goes and my default setting of enjoying the opening sets-of-six before the score line gets beyond reach is being flipped on it's head. I'm left feeling numb, rubbing my eyes, waiting for the shock injury to a key player or the sudden dose of fumbles, brain explosions and stupid penalties to resume.
Day-one. How were we to know the anguish that lay ahead? We rejoiced as Dean Bell led our sparkly new DB Bitter Warriors onto Mt Smart for the first time, then lapsed into long periods of deep bitterness. Will 2018 compensate for the 23 years of long winter? Hell yes, it already has.
My poor. Long-suffering. Family. They know what's coming.
