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It’s only the local pitch
But to the players it’s the World Cup
This team has a flavour of its own.
Just thirty supporters, and I see
these die-hard fans
standing on the touchline with homemade flags.
No replica shirts here. And I hear
chanting and cheering,
The ball’s thud, the panting player’s curse
at another missed chance. And I smell
the sweat that drips down 22 faces,
The cigarette smoke of the man behind the goal,
The dry grass that someone tried to cut.
A couple of kids kick a ball around
at the edge. I taste
nasty warm water, and victory, too,
If I’m lucky.
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