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The fact my feet seem like they are no longer joined to my legs.
The fact I have more layers of clothing than ever before.
The fact that I chit chat to individuals so far away from my own society.
This should all surely mean amour…..
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45 minutes each way, a whole hour and a half plus half time.
That’s 105 minutes in the bitter, still cold air.
I fixate on you pound up and down the pitch, pound up and down the pitch at your legs I just stare!!!
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We are losing 3 nil and he’s getting more and more irrate.
Just one look from him and it would make it worthwhile.
He is punching the ground in despair aand frustration.
He is dreaming of a comeback, I’m dreaming of the aisle.
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We lose 5 nil and he tears his shirt off and slams it on the ground.
He squats covered in mud, bare chested and totally defeated.
The rest of the spectators have moved on but I stand still…
He gets up and starts to walk back to the changing room,
Next week this all gets repeated……