All we wanted was a goal, maybe a crunching tackle, like days of old.You know the type. A leveller. The introduction that you’re going to get a game.
But we got so much more.
We took the storm from the sky, brought it to the park, the city defence found
the swirling rain easier to mark. With no little skill, coupled with the passion
of fighting lovers, we made a mockery of money and the belittling attitudes of others.
We started to dream that we would have a Scott McDonald,a Massimo Donati or a Chris Sutton. Even a Darius Dziekanowski, winning this time, to send us home buzzing.
But we got enough to make the result an afterthought. As the stentorian support roared louder as it grew darker, a priceless 12th man, that Arab dollars can’t buy,
the spirit of fireworks exploding in box, delivered a bloody nose.
The knockout blows, as celebrated by a bronze Caeser,holding the big cup skywards, are in the past but are remembered on nights like these. When the players grow into the hoops, go eye to eye and are defiant, standing on the shoulders of historical giants.
Written by Kevin Graham. Image by Patrick McGuire