To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub lad.

18 08 2015

Relief’s golden glow barely dimmed before May’s darling buds shook in the rough wind.

The supporters player of the season preferred nouveau riche surroundings, our club captain felt that the queen of Welsh resorts was more suitable and our talisman followed the player of the season. No one cursed the heroic trio as they both knew and understood the world.

The loss of our stellar defensive presence would have been cruel enough. We tried not to think about our loss; the silky ball control, the grace and poise under pressure, the personification of coolness. It was difficult to deal with but we managed, even though we knew we’d never sing “You’ll never beat Johno!!!” again.

We never thought the third loss would come to pass. He was one of us, a Bangor lad from Maesgeirchen, he was our force of nature, our ultimate poetry of poise, pace and power, our avatar of unrelenting positive attitude and inextinguishable spirit. He was our member of UEFA’s elite 32. We’d never feel those waves of excitement and expectation again, we’d never see that quaking fear in opposition again.

The internet nearly melted in our now incomprehensible existence. The more thoughtful saw a less vibrant life, the more voluable poured forth their once simmering “look at me” anger. Denizens of royal towns laughed as angry demands were issued and pale shadows danced through minds, the world was bleak.

On a Friday in August a football was near a line of white paint. We saw a confident pass and a subtle touch then a blur of brightly coloured footwear. Before people were able to compute what their eyes had seen the ball had connected with the cross bar and careered down over the line. The cheer will have been heard in the nearby royal town.

Slight optimism, our fickle old friend, was back. We knew there was nothing to fear in the coming months, how could we be wrong?



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