In a suburb of my former home town on the way to a relegation clash, I stop to get a pasty for half-time at our corner shop, waiting in a queue alongside freshly elderly people. They’re the latest versions of Mum and Dad: Damart trousers, Dannimacs and stout shoes. A diffidence is creeping over them, a new uncertainty that makes them pause at every shuffle in case they stumble. Back in the car, following old routines - ignition, lights and the rear-view mirror - I prod the grey that’s seeped through my sideburns like moisture through tissue paper. First gear, and I’m off to the match.
At the Far Post
Forget your novels, plays or films, the only remaining moment I can suspend my disbelief is an overcast Saturday in March, stood among curses, coughs and scarves on a crumbling terrace, as our winger hoists a deep cross, our striker buries his header and all of us erupt.