1950

I’m standing near the west goals in a packed stadium watching the play unfold at the other end where our goalkeeper has been manfully defending us almost single-handedly. They are all over us and our defence is looking shaky in the extreme. It’s only a matter of time before they score and make up for the lucky breakaway goal we scored four minutes into the game, when we caught their defence asleep at the wheel.

Their fans sing and jump about with the excitement of the match, sometimes coming together in unison, other times shouting at the players or officials in a disorganized rabble. But the one time they come together is when their attack bears down on our goal in the distance and they sense the success of the impending attack, all of them rising to their feet at once in a briefly muted choir of unrehearsed movement.

I've seen that action before; in the closing of the shark’s eyes as its jaws open to peel back the teeth before it attacks; in the silent inevitability before the orgasm; in the exultant evisceration of an enemy.

GOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL