Image: Adapted from Canva Pro
Turbulence. We have moved from four jackets for four goalposts to portraits of corporates, pressed against glass and neatly contained. In the 1960’s the game was framed. A local buzzed and talked about that team of 64.
I was glad to be a boy, jaded from breathing in the dark, carving skid marks in grass, and knowing when a pitch would be covered by snow. Our matches were constant, broken by occasional huddles around an old transistor radio.
Aged seven, I nearly touched George Best’s leg and now I moan the pies are getting smaller, and the Bovril’s getting weaker.