It’s Saturday.
It’s a family event, a routine, a ritual.
Scarves of support wrapped around our necks,
Scores of fans march down the street
Filling the air with harmonious chants.
We are going to a football match.
Street venders sell programs as we filter though the gates.
Tickets, Turnstiles, Mascots, Merchandise.
Mushy peas and Steak and Kidney Pie,
Scents that fill the air.
My hand runs along the concrete walls,
as we emerge into the stand.
We are at a football match.
Cold plastic seats fold down,
The fog lights come on
and it begins.
People cheer, the chants get louder.
I don’t know the rules,
I don’t know whats happening,
But I’m happy.
I’m at a football match.
The atmosphere is tense yet fun.
GOAL!
Everyone jumps up,
I follow suit, Cheering, Clapping.
I think we are winning?
It’s an improvised performance,
To bond with the man I should call, Dad.
I used to go to football matches.
I have blocked out a lot of my childhood. It was a different life but although I hate football, these weekly fortnightly trips will always hold a place in my heart. They were a rare time that my family was a normal family.
