Honest Mistakes and… Whatever the Hell This is

So this morning, as I'm lying in bed next to my wife, blissfully recounting in my head a night of ecstasy and intimacy, it occurs to me. How amazing is my life!? My wife, in the last remnants of her sleep, must be thinking the same thing as she scoots her naked form closer to me under the covers. Some affectionate and suggestive purring ensues and morning glory is all but assured... when suddenly my bliss is interrupted by my wife's angry voice from the door.

"Who is that in bed with you!!!???" In a panic, I pull back the covers and realize it's actually Salma Hayek I've been in the throes of passion with for the last twelve hours. How on Earth could I make such a mistake!?

"BABE!!!" I plead. "I swear to you, I thought it was you this whole time!"

"It's true," Salma says, helpfully, "he said your name like a bunch of times."

"Oh!" My wife says, relieved. "Honest mistake that could happen to anyone. Carry on, you two!"

Sound ridiculous? Wait until you get a load of this.

Shades of the Chalice from Indiana Jones

This week, Thomas Frank — somewhat newly installed Tottenham manager, custodian of North London pride, and presumed adult — was photographed drinking coffee from an Arsenal mug.

Not near an Arsenal mug.
Not washing an Arsenal mug.
Not throwing an Arsenal mug into the sea like it deserved, according to any self respecting Spurs fan.

Drinking. From it.

This is not a tactical error.
This is not a questionable substitution in the 73rd minute.
This is not “we’ll sort it out in training.”

This is identity theft. This is unforgivable.

For the uninitiated — and honestly, I envy you — Spurs and Arsenal are not “neighbors.” They are not “friendly rivals.” They are not two teams who do battle to see which one might “want it more.”

They are blood enemies separated by postcodes, pubs, and deeply personal childhood trauma. The streets of North London have run red with much blood. You don’t just cross those streams. You don’t even acknowledge the other side exists unless it’s to say something legally actionable.

And yet here we are, watching the man entrusted with Tottenham’s soul casually sip caffeine out of a vessel emblazoned with the cannon.

That’s not a mug.
That’s a confession.

Now, I can already hear the defenses forming.
“It was just a mug.”
“Maybe it was a gift.”
“Maybe he didn’t notice.”

Sure. And maybe I accidentally showed up to Thanksgiving wearing my ex-girlfriend’s engagement ring and calling my wife by her name. Honest mistake. Happens all the time. Pass the gravy.

Because symbols matter. Always have. That’s the whole point of sports. Jerseys. Crests. Colors. The dumb little rituals we cling to so that the chaos of existence feels slightly more organized. The logos emblazoned across our chests, virtue signals of superiority inherited genetically or geographically.

Which brings us to the slippery slope portion of this nightmare.

Where does it end?

If Thomas Frank can drink from an Arsenal mug, what’s next?

JJ Redick affixing a Celtics lanyard to his whistle in preparation for St. Patty’s Day?

Tim Cook sending tweets at 3am from his Samsung Galaxy S25 Ultra?

Bernie Sanders being seen in the Senate cafeteria reading through The Art of the Deal with a highlighter?

Marie Kondo launching a chain of Public Storage locations, saying, “It sparks passive income.”

No. No. Absolutely not.

You don’t get to borrow the enemy’s artifacts for convenience. That’s how civilizations fall. Rome didn’t burn because of barbarians — it burned because someone somewhere said, “Eh, this goblet’s fine.”

And here’s the real issue: this didn’t happen in a vacuum. This happened at Spurs. A club already haunted by the idea that it doesn’t quite know who it is. A club perpetually accused — often unfairly, sometimes hilariously accurately — of being soft in the moments that demand cruelty.

So when your new manager shows up day one sipping from the wrong chalice, fans don’t see caffeine. They see foreshadowing.

They see the wrong substitutions.
They see dropped points in April.
They see a press conference explaining why “the performance was good, actually.”

Is any of this rational? Of course not. Neither is sports. That’s the deal. You trade logic for belonging. You trade perspective for passion. And in return, you ask one simple thing:

Don’t drink from the other guy’s mug.

We forgive losses.
We forgive rebuilds.
We forgive relegations.
We even forgive the occasional flirtation with a back three.

But this? This is personal.

Because somewhere out there is a Spurs fan who after decades of dashed optimism, believed — just for a moment — that things might finally be different this time.

And then he saw the mug.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Salma is calling.

Torsten / 120 Proof Ball

Proof that the internet was a mistake.