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“It’s time,” she says. I gulp a little weakly.
The butterflies flap madly in their fear.
She offers me my scarf. I take it meekly.
My stomach harbours thoughts of diarrhoea.
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“What’s the worst can happen?” she asks brightly,
knowing well the answer ‘ere it comes.
“We cannot pass; we do not mark them tightly;
our keeper plays as if he’s only thumbs;
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‘the ref is poor; the football gods turn on us;
the hard work in pre-season comes undone;
our dreams are sunk; our yearly quest for honours
is gone before the season has begun.”
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She kisses me, adjusts my red hat slightly.
I promise I will text in breaks of play.
I walk on down the street, my step not spritely,
another season getting underway.”