Old Trafford, 1999

(written: 27 October 2013)

Alone in a hostile crowd. I stood, for standing was almost compulsory at that moment in time. The tension. The fear. Every tackle. Every pass. Every drop of sweat meant something. And we, standing where we were meant to sit, felt every strain of every sinew. I stood shoulder to shoulder with the enemy. My accent afford me stealth. My thumb-size badge small enough to be missed by police, stewards and opposition alike. There I waited in collective anticipation. The inane chants mere whispers. Then came the moment. The ball in the air, in the penalty area. An arm raised. A hand stretched out. Clear contact. I strangled the call ‘penalty!’ before it became a shout and betrayed me. The mass bank of magpies roared and jumped in delight. Hearts sank around me. As the pitch bound commotion subsided and Shearer stepped forward, me heart pounded the inside of my ribcage. The ball hit the net. The Geordies celebrated, and inwardly I yelled amid the stone silence of north London. The deadlock was broken. We were on our way to Wembley…

About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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