What a waste of a season. Full-stop.

amirite? First, we had to endure the distaste of actually supporting Spurs in the vain hope that they would find a way to take points off Man City. For almost an hour, they had us fooled. Then, for a moment, it looked like they’d equalise…but no. Well, I guess Spurs fans got what they wanted. On to this weekend, we now have to hope that Moyes’s departure will somehow inspire a West Ham side that has surely already downed tools to take those points from City while we try to defeat an in-form Everton. What’s it all add up to if we fall short? A complete waste of a season.

There are some Gooners—too many, in my opinion—who will see anything less than a Prem title as a complete waste of a season, as if we’ve not accomplished anything, Arteta’s over-rated, Edu doesn’t know what he’s doing, and on and on and on. Seriously. There may even be a smaller sliver of those who call themselves fans who harbour a feverish desire to see West Ham take points from City only for us to drop points to Everton so that they can validate their addled agenda. They may be cut from the same moth-eaten cloth as those Spurs fans cheering City on Sunday.

Still, I do have to admit that I agree with that first, larger group of Gooners who will see this season as a waste if it doesn’t end with silverware. After all, we have a chance at finishing on 89 points—one short of the Invincibles’ haul and an amount that would see us win the Prem in most seasons before Man City’s astounding period of dominance began. Over the last six years, they’ve averaged 95.33 points per season. We’ll come back to them in a moment. For now, more on us. With one match left to play, we’ve scored 89 goals. You’d have to go all the way back to 1964 to see us score more…and that was back when clubs played 42 matches. We’ve conceded just 28, two more than the Invincibles. We have a core of young, exciting, determined, likeable players. Still, it might have better if we could have somehow saved these levels for a season in which Man City don’t stand as a Thanos-like supervillain.

And yet, this season will indeed be a waste. What point is there to claiming so many points, scoring so many goals and conceding so few, if we don’t end the season with silverware? Talk about existential ennui. Look, mate—if you haven’t enjoyed the process, if you haven’t lost yourself in dizzying celebrations at delicious and dramatic goals, scintillating interplay, and determined, gritty performances; if you’ve only been looking ahead to the prize at the end, you’re doing it wrong. Trust me when I say I want to see the lads receive their medals and wiggle their fingers while Ødegaard hoists that trophy with red-and-white garlands and for the cannons to fire red-and-white glitter while the fans shout and chant and cheer.

However, to focus so obsessively on that to the exclusion of the in-the-moment enjoyment that those boys have delivered is churlish and self-defeating. We know that Man City, who stand accused of those 115 financial violations, are operating on a different level. On the pitch, of course, we would have had to have been practically perfect to overtake them. It looks like we may fall short of that. The fat lady hasn’t sung yet, but she’s warming up. Off the pitch, it remains to be seen whether City will ever be held to account for what seems a clear pattern of financial malfeasance. If the likes of Nottingham Forest and Everton should suffer points-deductions for losing too much money, surely, then, City should suffer the same for both spending too much and attempting to obscure just how much they’ve spent.

I’m not ready to throw in the towel. If West Ham can get a draw, and if we can defeat Everton, we’re champions. Our goal-difference has been whittled down to just one better than City’s, but that combination of results would see us finish with a goal-difference two (or more) better than theirs. That may not be quite to hang our hats on, but it’s something.

As it currently stands, I’m thrilled and impressed with how this season has gone to this point. Should the thoroughly improbably come to pass, I’ll be ecstatic. I hope you’ll feel the same.