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Slanting rain, biting wind and slate-grey skies;
A thorough soaking in the name of your team.
Of course, you don’t have to go. In fact, they
Ought to pay you to endure it – rather than the
Reverse. No hiding place from these elements,
As you huddle together and the rain falls harder.
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Half-time brings no relief. The pies have sold out,
Your programme’s a sodden rag, the local rivals
Are winning 4 – 0 somewhere else. So it’s tug up
The collar, thrust hands deeper into pockets and
Hope for the best; the match wears on – no goals,
No shelter at this far-flung outpost on a filthy day.
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The tannoy asks you to stay behind, the home fans
Slope off having seen enough. It looks like another
Fruitless trip, when the foward flops down flat on
His face and the ref points to the spot. Anguish all
Around…felled forward gets up, and promptly nets
Said penalty; eighty-ninth minute, no time to reply.
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A miserable end to a miserable match; then a long
Homeward haul to follow. But it’s been done before,
And it will be done again – no doubt. That’s the price
Of loyalty, of dedication, of committment to the cause.
It’s simple blind faith in our team – all it means and all it
Represents – the ties that bind will never be broken.