What I’ve always liked, however, is a New Year Sporting Calendar. Now that 2017 has clicked over into 2018 I’ve been looking at what the world of sport has in store for us over the next 12 months.  And yes I did know about most of the events listed – but somehow, seeing them in this form makes them more tangible, almost within reach. All those sporting questions about to be asked and answered…

The BBC Sport version has 18 “unmissable events”, starting with Rugby Union’s Six Nations tournament, which will run from February 3 to March 17.

The idea that it is better to travel than to arrive doesn’t generally hold good in sporting terms. But sometimes, sometimes, it can be so. Sometimes the anticipation remains more vivid than the anticipated action itself.

During the late Sixties and early Seventies, when football – either watching it, or playing it – formed a large and very important part of my life, there was nothing to equal watching the FA Cup final kick off at Wembley Stadium. It didn’t matter if it was West Brom v Everton, Man City v Leicester, Arsenal v Leeds – the whistle blew, the ball was nudged forwards, the stands roared. The FA Cup final had begun.

I don’t remember much about those finals now. Of course, I’ve seen enough replays to have images in mind of Jeff Astle’s if-at-first-you-don’t-succeed winner from 1968, Neil Young’s blast in 1969, Allan Clarke’s guided, falling header of 1972. But it is the rising feeling of excitement as the thing begins that I can best recall.

It’s the same deal when I see the reminder of the upcoming Six Nations Championship. My wife and I went to Rome in 2007 and saw Ireland earn a victory over Italy in their final match that left them as leaders in the clubhouse until France finally took the honours on points difference thanks to a last minute try against Scotland.

The match itself, which Ireland won 51-24, was incident-packed, with six visiting players scoring one or more tries. But frankly I cannot remember any of it.

What I do recall, vividly, is what took place before the sporting event itself.

Supporters in the green of Ireland and the blue of the Azzurri gathered at a bar on the corner of the Piazza del Popolo, with its (almost) twin 17^th Century churches of Santa Maria dei Miracoli and Santa Maria in Montesanto. The sun shone. The beers went down. And eventually, as if by common consent, the blue and green congregation moved off on a leisurely stroll down the ancient route of the Via Flaminia towards the match venue of the Stadio Flaminio.

As we walked, we were told that there had been serious trouble on this same route earlier in the month as rival football fans had clashed. Same month; different world.

All was not perfect. The expensive tickets for the side stand that we had bought from a British site turned out to be for places behind the posts, and in a position where we were so close, and at such an angle, to the scoreboard that we couldn’t read it.

But the atmosphere in which we had wandered earlier accompanied us onto the terraces. Shortly before the anthems we were joined by a young Italian fan decked out in Irish colours. He explained, in pretty decent English, that he loved Ireland because he had been on holiday there. It had been a very nice holiday. So he was wearing green on the day, and of course joining in with all the Irish songs, while also rendering the Italian anthem at full volume.

Ten years before that fine day in Rome I covered a midweek Arsenal match at Highbury. I cannot remember a single thing about the match. I do remember, precisely, what took place about half an hour before it started as I was noting it with a view to writing a piece about something I and countless thousands of others had experienced countless times as we travelled in hope and expectation to a match.

“Who have they got tonight?” a passenger on the Tube asked a father and son in red-and-white colours as the carriage pulled to a halt at Arsenal station. “Coventy in the Coca-Cola” said the dad. “Nothing spectacular.”

Then it was out, with a mass of others, into night air that was one part cigarette to two parts fried onion. Either side of Gillespie Road, fanzine sellers attempted to divert those streaming towards the lights in the sky. “One-nil down, two-one up. November issue!”

A youth carrying chips cut across me, shouting to his mates across the way: “It was a chicken bone!”

An old man in a cap was shouting something repeatedly. “Nuuuurrr….sted ee nurrrr!!” His large hands clasped plump paper bags. Roasted peanuts.

There were already signs of police activity in the street – archipelagos of horse manure that caused much sidestepping, some cursing.

In binders laid on a brick wall, old programmes were for sale.  Arsenal v Chelsea, 1970-71…

And here was a T shirt stall. “Marc Overmars – Flying Dutchman.” “Dennis Bergkamp – Living Legend.” Beavis and Butthead, in Arsenal colours, bidding the supine figure of a Tottenham cockerel to kiss their arses…

Lads taking a last swig of lager before passing through the turnstiles. Booming commentary over replays of goal highlights on the big screen. Visiting fans chanting something indistinguishable, but almost certainly insulting…

An English football match on a damp autumn evening.  Quarter of an hour before kick-off. And for everyone present, the imperishable sporting question – what’s going to happen?