Had me up until he mentioned Stokoe - then I thought "no f**k 'em I hope they get stuffed".
Sent from my iPhone On 28 Feb 2014, at 14:07, "Rick Duniec" <ri...@ntlworld.com> wrote: > Profuse apologies that this is Sunderland but change a few details and it is > all of us. > > This blend of history, hope, yearning and passion is what football is all > about > George Caulkin in The Times > February 28 2014 07:02AM > > This is it. This. That flutter in the belly, that sprinkle of nerves, that > wondrous, aching possibility of this time, this time, for God's sake PLEASE > let it be this time. That cacophonous train ride, that lad sitting opposite > decanting booze into Ribena bottles, that motorway convoy, scarves trailing > from windows, that persistent, pissed memory from last night: your mate in a > copper's helmet, sopping and shivering in the Trafalgar Square fountains. > This is it. > > This is what football is. What it was. That walk towards Wembley, at once > familiar and new, the old chants and the remixes, scorching the air. The > fella you recognise from a few seats along at the Stadium of Light, who never > stops moaning - that miserable git - but he's strolling beside you and he's > neither miserable or moaning, because he's shepherding his kids, fussing and > smiling. They couldn't miss this. Not this. > > This is it. Not enough to obliterate all those disappointments, those bitter, > loveless relegations, but you wouldn't want that, anyway. They are part of > who you are. Part of Sunderland. And whether you stopped going or persevered, > whether you are an addict or a convert, a malcontent or a loyalist, this is > your patience through adversity, your gallows humour, those howls of anguish. > This is why you do what you always do; bear witness and sing. > > But this is how it should feel. This is less about winning - although you > wouldn't say no - than giving it a go. Trying everything and then heaving a > bit more. Not holding yourself in. Seeing a flash of silver across the > stadium and knowing that 90 minutes could mean a long journey's end and > another beginning. This adrenaline. This soppy descent into cliches about > heroes and giant-killings, those stories about Stokoe's sprint and Monty's > sorcery. About daring to dream. >> >> This is why your dad passed down that beautiful, cursed birthright. Your mam >> or your sister, brother or friends. This is why he stood at Roker Park, so >> cold and crammed that his legs were locked and leaden. This is why you shook >> together at those reserve-games, why you stayed outside when the rain >> whipped in, your mouth numb and nose running. This is why you put up with >> his stupid music on that endless away trip. This is all those feelings like >> love and loss, straining for release. > > This is Sunderland, your Sunderland. This is your city, your town, your > village, your region, forgotten sometimes and left to suffer, but prominent > now, loud and raucous. This is supporters' associations and local branches, > working men's clubs, community and togetherness, collective strength, being > part of something both greater than and intrinsically you. This is pride - > stinging tears of pride. This is raising your head and gazing at the sky, not > staring down at your navel. > > This. Not that great, grotesque lie about priorities. Not swallowing the guff > that one season of toil should be superseded by another, that having endured > the delights of Stoke City, the only ambition must be straining to get to > Stoke again. You know what Stoke's like. Christ. Aston Villa, Crystal Palace. > Tick them off. Been there, seen it and, you know what, they're not that much > different from Leicester, Queens Park Rangers and Birmingham. > > Not couldn't be arsed. Not withdrawing your best players for a one-off match > because of 38 league games which simply must take precedence in a cold, grey > world of sporting accountancy. Not fear. Not dread. Not measly, weasel-word > excuses for laying waste to tradition because of avarice or arrogance and > cowardice. Not name-changes and colour-swaps and franchises, or a stadium's > brutal nobility scarred by garish advertising hoardings for money-lenders and > tat-hawkers. > > Not the bottom-line. Not the profits or the losses, the turnover and the > revenue, the wage-bills and the relegation-clauses, because when the files > are lodged at Companies House, they will not be hailed with an open-top bus > ride, a civic reception, or a hazy, alcoholic day which stays lodged in the > brain. Not Financial Fair Play, not billionaires, not the stodge of mid-table > and totting up television revenue after one more lunchtime kick-off and a > 200-mile journey. > > Which is not to toss away the prospect of staying up. Nor to deny that it > matters for progress and development and all those other birds which have > never quite flown. But neither is it everything, because you've slumped > before and ricocheted back. Having squirmed through long, sapping sequences > in every single season since Roy Keane and Niall Quinn secured your return to > this ceaseless, daft, grasping jamboree, you reckon you can cope. > > This, though. This is something. This is different. This is booking your > London hotel en route from that draining, life-affirming semi-final, when > those caustic commentaries about the worst penalty shoot-out in the history > of awful penalty shoot-outs missed the point entirely. It was the best. This > is snaking, sluggish, twitchy queues outside the box office, 80,000 frantic > telephone calls on a single day, begging for favours, scurrying for tickets. > > This is a day out and a night away, a daubed blur of red and white. This, > like the song says, is cheesy chips on Wembley Way. And win or lose, this > will be recorded and you were there, one small figure lost amid the din, but > integral to it, which, in the final analysis, is what clubs and their > supporters should mean. What football is. This is history, hope, yearning and > passion, maybes and meaning, exquisite agony, wild abandon, love. This is > you. This is Sunderland. This is it. > _______________________________________________ > Leedslist mailing list > Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist > To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org > > John 'Grampa' Sykes > Rest In Peace old lad > 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 > MARCHING ON TOGETHER _______________________________________________ Leedslist mailing list Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist To unsubscribe, email leedslist-unsubscr...@gn.apc.org John 'Grampa' Sykes Rest In Peace old lad 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 MARCHING ON TOGETHER
