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The goal is scored, the crowd has roared,
Bewitched and entranced he takes the chance,
Grasps the offering, lets his mind dance,
Drinking in mind pictures and sounds,
To quench a thirst no pub pint can satisfy.
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The whistle blows, players leave the pitch,
The commentator’s voice winding down,
Winding in through the thin black wire that
Connects to the precious black box,
Cradled in those hands.
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One finger reaches a switch,
Game over, click.
He reluctantly takes the ear piece out,
Oblivious to the racist chanting
In the grounds, in the streets, in the parks,
And in the local leagues.