Stadiums of Light – a Sunderland memory
¶ 1
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I still hear the ebb and plunge
of 1980s vintage Roker Roar
¶ 2
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booming like the winter tide around my skull
as I played marbles outside, too young
¶ 3
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and too poor to get in on my own.
The names of players are far away and lost,
¶ 4
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obscured by the effervescent sheen of Quinn,
or Phillips, hammering home a goal,
¶ 5
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but watching the team play now, on TV, alone,
I remember the post-match exuberance of whole
¶ 6
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tribes of men retreating from a week of work,
careering pubwards and in full song,
¶ 7
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recession biting, but not yet drawing blood,
who’d buy me lemonades or kets and use the public phone
¶ 8
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to call their bookies if the result was right.
I’d cycle home on sugar-powered wheels,
¶ 9
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high on the stories of the day’s success,
dreaming my own version of the match
¶ 10
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and building up, with stickers, pens and paint,
my own, imaginary, stadiums of light.
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