Old football stadiums were the strangest places. For the vast majority of the time they lay empty and silent, pigeons roosting in the roof girders or strutting about on the pitch picking at grass seed. The smallest sound creating the largest echo.
Many grounds lay in, or near, the centre of a town or city and daily life went on around them. High, barbed wire bedecked walls carried cheap, printed posters promoting local newspapers and upcoming fixtures. Turnstile doors with hand painted numbers and prices rattled on ancient, rusting hinges. The heart was barely beating.
However, on a Saturday, even before first light, the pulse would quicken, the lights flickered on, shutters slammed open and the aroma of frying onions filled the air. Match day.
Then, these colosseums became the centre of the universe for local communities across the land. Nothing else mattered. The United’s, The Towns, The Cities, The Rangers: this was their day, this was their life.
Ninety odd minutes of manic, loyal support later and the stadium returned to its dormant self, blown litter the only reminder of the brief encounter. More dreams made, more hearts broken and only one champion…but there was always the next Saturday and the support never waned.
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