West Ham vs Portsmouth: Hope, Dread and the Carabao Cup

There is a distinct, absurd majesty to kicking off a football season on a muggy August afternoon with a Carabao Cup tie against Portsmouth. Normally, I am a complete sucker for a glorious, ill-fated cup run. A dramatic penalty shootout under the floodlights, preferably accompanied by a lukewarm steak pie and vague dreams of Wembley, is usually right up my street. Not this year. This season, my ambitions have narrowed to one singular, all-consuming obsession: escaping the Championship wilderness and clawing our way back to the Premier League.

Portsmouth, bless them, return to our lives after a mercifully long absence. History suggests we hold the upper hand against Pompey, although trusting history when you support West Ham is rather like navigating with a damp compass in a hurricane.

Naturally, the bookmakers have installed us as overwhelming favourites. A packed London Stadium will be full of summer optimism, convinced this should be a comfortable stroll into the second round. I expect us to win too.

Which, as any seasoned Hammer knows, is exactly when the existential dread creeps in.

The stage is set, the script appears to have been written, and the footballing gods are practically daring us to trip over our own bootlaces. Around here, optimism is a dangerous luxury. As the old hymn forever reminds us, Fortune's Always Hiding.