G. Jeffrey dicht een antwoord op de vraag waarom we er wekelijks met honderduizenden zo niet miljoenen staan. Voor wie dan ook, waar dan ook, hoe dan ook.
Men on the terraces
Rain fell sadly throughout the match;
Two goals were shared, but nobody cared,
Or seemed to care, about the match.
Why did we stay on the terraces,
Watching a game, not worth the name?
Surely there are better places?
More admirable ways of using
Saturday afternoon, than choosing
To watch men playing a game they’re paid for?
(Isn’t that what Englishmen were made for?)
But sometimes during the dullest play
Something comes back from an earlier day.
A fleeting moment, a hint of grace,
Brings back a feeling, a time, a place…
We are more than what we seem -
Men on the terraces soaking wet.
We have glimpsed part of our golden dream,
Our April glory, together, yet
Private, as though recall
The hopes and dreams of what we were,
Or wanted to be, in the far-off days.
A forward slips on the rain-soaked ground,
The goalkeeper safely gathers the ball…
Slowly the thoughts of yesteryear
Flicker and fade in the smoke and haze
Lowering over the football ground
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