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Up early, on a Sunday – and it wasn’t for Church. Down
To the ground, weak sunshine in the spring air. We make
Our way with trepidation….and reach the queue. From the
Turnstiles, to the car park, to the pavement, into the street.
Three deep, four deep; Panic. And there’s two hours to go.
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But it was all part of the fun to us kids. A novelty, a thing
To talk about at school next day. Dads and uncles waited
Patiently, reading papers, smoking, chewing mints. And
Slowly, we inched forward, closer. Excited anticipation
As we rounded the corner, in sight now. So near, so far…
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At last, the sacred prize in hand. One ticket, the object
Achieved. A passport to the big match, and who knows
Where it could lead. But such a thrill, just to hold. And to
Check, and check again it’s real; it’s in your pocket. It’s
Yours. The envy of many. North Bank Terrace. Inside.
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Come the day, it was packed. Fifty thousand. A Molineux
Roar, a town together for their team. A surging, steaming
Unity in the old stands. Two goals to none; Victory on the
Telly – we could do it. But we didn’t. Not that year, never
Since. But ticket stubs conjure memories, and I was there.