Happy childhood memories are a treasure that can be delved into and will never lose their facility for cheering one up.
Today is a match day. Saturday
when the team plays at home. Roker Park
was our theatre of dreams in red brick.
But today match day is cold. Bright
sun fails to draw the chill from the northern air
and today is a match day.
This is the rattling service bus. The station
a distance from our haven of sport. Marching,
short legs a blur trying to keep up. He marches
on untroubled, calm and caring in his quiet way.
A long wait for the match to start.
But today is a match day.
The crowd becomes more dense by time. Match day
fills the local terraced streets with strides and chatter.
He has picked a good spot for me to see. Northern air
has a deep, thorough chill. Ninety minutes
before the gladiators appear.
It is the match day.
We gaze in awe at the skills on display. The match
begins and the tournament is joined. No guarantees
I don’t remember them losing very often.
Younger memories positively skewed. The hushed crowd
galvanised into roaring adulation with one strike. Noise
travels the city on match day.
Today is a match day on stiff legs and cold feet. Economic
Brown bus returns us to the chara that will take us. Home
feeling warmer but remembering the crowd’s squash. People packed haphazardly as a human wall. Pushing
through. Tea at home, piping hot pies and peas. The end
of this match day.
©David L Atkinson March 2018