The atmosphere was saturated with a sense of unhappy acceptance. Like when you find out you won’t get the special gift you were looking for on your birthday, but accept something is better than nothing. From kickoff, the sun had glistened off the ripened glass blades of this most beautifully romantic stadium, and it had not left for a moment, like that dependable friend everyone has. Shining its light into the otherwise dark centre of us.
The anxious nervousness rustled its way around the stadium. Like an invisible wave crashing through the stadium silently, hushing all but the jubilant away fans, who were happy to accept everything their team had barely deserved. But, with less time on the clock than a superhero movie when the protagonist stops a bomb, a youthful, exuberant player lined up a long range shot. And as he lined it up, my dependable friend winked at me through the ball. I knew that instant. And as the ball headed toward goal, I found myself on my feet.
And as the ball cannoned off the inside of the post and into the net, which had been bored from the first minute, my comrades, who were seconds earlier sat in their seats, bleak looks spread thicker across their face than my friends toast when he gets his hands on Nutella, joined me on my feet. My first instincts were to cheer as loudly as I could. I felt this surge of warmth, of energy, of excitement fire through my body from my feet up. There was nothing to do but use this exhilaration all at once. My scarf followed seconds later as it swung proudly over my head, representing my team’s colours like a battleflag after the victory.
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