Alfreton Town 0, Brackley Town 1 (89’)

for Lloyd Pettiford and Adam Tocock

The pitch is white where the sun’s not been seen
on its hill-cresting flight. The tea queue is long
and shrouded in breath, as men in fat coats
grunt at each other, though the game’s going on –
but I’m on the terrace, with 64 others,
where a bloke in a tank-top and built like a tank
turns to the dug-outs and breaks the near-silence:
‘Cheynge it up, Billeh boy – we’re fukkin’ wank!’
Then he faces the game again, squinting upfield
as one of their wingers slaps a long cross
out for a throw-in. ‘C’mon lads!’ he bellows,
rub-rubbing his hands.
                                               So, this loss is his loss,
and also his triumph. He boos at the whistle,
says ‘See yer’ to others, and runs for a piss,
and doesn’t drive home, cross a ground off his list,
and know he was no-one. No. He lives for this.