This is Old Trafford
It is a foreign dressing room. The manager sprouts some instructions which seem blurry to me. I find myself in a daze, as sweat pulsates down my cheeks. The lights of the room are glaring, and they do nothing to straighten my thoughts. It is an atmosphere of extreme intensity, with the roar of the massive faithful piercing my ears, aiding absolutely nought in calming my nerves.
I am afraid.
The door is opened, and I am instantly paralysed by the blast of choruses raining down, carried by the wind, and echoed within the ever encapsulating four walls surrounding me. Claustrophobia, it sets in. My sweat turns cold. I try to mentally shut my ears, but all seems fultile. I see the tunnel, but an absence of light leading out of it. My nerves are crumbling me down, as I try endlessly to shake off the dreaded feeling. It does not go away. It devours me.
I am afraid.
The home team arrives, and my blue immediately bows down in shame to the red that approaches. The former pales in comparison, and my spirit has all but departed my body. The only United-ness today will not be on my side. Like gladiators of old, they are well prepared for battle. It is at this moment, with the roar of the crowd, and my adversaries in such close proximity, there is silence. Then, a sparkle of a moment with a pure clarity of thought.
"This is Old Trafford."
I am Terrified.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Familiar grounds. This is the dressing room where I had spent my teenage years, and now my adulthood in. The Gaffer delivers his instructions in precise terms. It is a routine which i have grown accustomed to and yet, his words penetrate, so much so that after the 90 minutes, it still resonates in my mind's sea. The lights help to perfect my vision, in anticipation of the approaching match, a ferocity of sharpness so intense, the world has never seen. And there i hear it. A concoction of familiarity, inspiration and joyance. The roar of the Old Trafford Faithful. It calms my nerves.
Anticipation.
The door is opened, as a full hurricane of voices lifts up the spirits of all the lads. I smile. They are beckoning us. I see the tunnel which i have so often run out from. The light is overwhelming. The deafening roar sooths my soul.
Anticipation.
The opposing team is already there. They look pale, as their armour does. I can sense the nervousness from their body movement, each ready to tumble from the dizzying pressure. I smile to one of them. He avoids my gaze like a disease. He is afraid. I lose my smile to an intense glare. He looks. I smile again. He is terrified. I know perfectly well why. The crowd roars with enormous ferocity. My team is ready for the battle.
We walk, into the tunnel, into the light, into the glory.
"This is Old Trafford."
I am afraid.
The door is opened, and I am instantly paralysed by the blast of choruses raining down, carried by the wind, and echoed within the ever encapsulating four walls surrounding me. Claustrophobia, it sets in. My sweat turns cold. I try to mentally shut my ears, but all seems fultile. I see the tunnel, but an absence of light leading out of it. My nerves are crumbling me down, as I try endlessly to shake off the dreaded feeling. It does not go away. It devours me.
I am afraid.
The home team arrives, and my blue immediately bows down in shame to the red that approaches. The former pales in comparison, and my spirit has all but departed my body. The only United-ness today will not be on my side. Like gladiators of old, they are well prepared for battle. It is at this moment, with the roar of the crowd, and my adversaries in such close proximity, there is silence. Then, a sparkle of a moment with a pure clarity of thought.
"This is Old Trafford."
I am Terrified.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Familiar grounds. This is the dressing room where I had spent my teenage years, and now my adulthood in. The Gaffer delivers his instructions in precise terms. It is a routine which i have grown accustomed to and yet, his words penetrate, so much so that after the 90 minutes, it still resonates in my mind's sea. The lights help to perfect my vision, in anticipation of the approaching match, a ferocity of sharpness so intense, the world has never seen. And there i hear it. A concoction of familiarity, inspiration and joyance. The roar of the Old Trafford Faithful. It calms my nerves.
Anticipation.
The door is opened, as a full hurricane of voices lifts up the spirits of all the lads. I smile. They are beckoning us. I see the tunnel which i have so often run out from. The light is overwhelming. The deafening roar sooths my soul.
Anticipation.
The opposing team is already there. They look pale, as their armour does. I can sense the nervousness from their body movement, each ready to tumble from the dizzying pressure. I smile to one of them. He avoids my gaze like a disease. He is afraid. I lose my smile to an intense glare. He looks. I smile again. He is terrified. I know perfectly well why. The crowd roars with enormous ferocity. My team is ready for the battle.
We walk, into the tunnel, into the light, into the glory.
"This is Old Trafford."
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home