The beckoning floodlights still work their magic, the slight cold chill, scarf wrapped round the neck. Blood pulses through arteries, moving as it should. Heart lifts with every step towards the stadium.
An old pal texts me from another game up north. The name rings a bell. He’s at a club where my job was to phone over a few pars for the Saturday Pink from a kiosk outside the ground.
Games that I didn’t give a toss about, dictated to a bored copy taker, wishing I was somewhere else, roaring my own team on to promotion. But then, I remember Larkin’s sigh it wasn’t the place’s fault I didn’t care. A goalless draw can happen anywhere.
Poem by Greg Freeman
After stepping into the field there is no way out even before you start the game you hear the fans shout
The players then sings their anthem its football…… the most beautiful game…..
And when the whistle blows the crowd starts their roar in the 90 tensed minutes the players got to score
Football is friendly only in name because friendliness is not meant for football…. the most beautiful game….
So when the hard tackles go in and injured fellow goes out the crowd becomes furious and starts to shout
Even after breaking one’s leg there seems to be no shame because its football…. the most beautiful game….
Poem by Rohan Roy
Take a look at photos of EFL away ends by clicking on the next page.
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