Testimonial

Testimonial

He turns his back on the team, at every home game, but he’ll never stop following them; it’s in his blood. Besides, he’s already seen enough to last a lifetime.

A seasoned ticket spine bent and almost bare, corners frayed from rough back and forth between the turnstiles, bearing witness to derby day up‘s and down’s, promotion pushes and relegation white-knuckle rides.

Dream-like European exploits that now only live on within grainy VHS vistas, imprisoned inside redundant worlds that gather dust, time eating them away like Alzheimer’s.

The old man stares diligently ahead, his attention swimming upstream against the current of the crowd. The compulsion to look back has long left him, settling instead to watch the action unfold across the faces of a thousand strangers.

Across this hulking, tribal monster pulsing before him; constructed from a multitude of lifestyles and experiences, attitudes and appearances; and yet, for ninety minutes (plus injury), are woven together, existing as one.

Except one, who still sits still as a statue, the game behind him out of sight; his hi-viz jacketed backed at it, watching the watchers watch the clock, watching the ref holding hope to his lips and at the back of his throat.

Chants fall and rise like deep slumbering sighs; nerves and back-lines holding fast to the half. Relief finally exhales in a slow and steady flow, synchronised to the sound of the refs whistle blow.

The crowd thins out like a famine to feast on cups of burning hot Bovril, and coat their chins in greasy films that erupt from the guts of cartoon pies.

As they rise, the mouths of flip-down plastic seats snap shut; leaving a patchwork of punters in play as we Guess Who is at the game: Have they got on a hat? Is there hair on their face? Do they wear glasses, and if so can the referee have them? Click… click, click, click…

Meanwhile, flat-capped clichés invade the pitch to stick the hallowed turf with trusty prongs, tsking as they stamp with uneven gaits, righting the damage from those two-footed wrongs.

Dints and dents now denied, the tannoy blares out its muffled messages like a Charley Brown teacher.

Half-time scores draw partisan roars as flags unfurl and chants are hurled and all along the whole while the old man stays the same, unchanged; perhaps watching a different game.

He might be fluorescent to the eye, but inside his light is fading.

He didn’t always face this way. He used to sit in that same stand and stand before they sat; and when other parts of his life stayed closed, it was Saturday afternoons that he chose to share when forming bonds with his first and only born.

A language they could both speak, with ease through native tongues, fully fluent in saying without saying as they’d thaw frozen limbs over heated debates on the long journeys home.

The years pass by, racking up like Weinstein criminal charges. Their shared stone step spot swapped to satisfy both safety needs and stiffening knees of a future they never saw coming, unaware that time had been the real opponent, the archest of rivals; the bogiest team that always left the park with all three points in its pocket.

And when the old man lets himself remember, when he allows himself to look back, every game stings like a last minute cup final defeat; his loss so bitter it could twist lips off a lemon.

No joy to be found on the pitch, no peace at the prospect of passing through those gates for good. Trapped, unable to watch or walk away as the can’t live with or without conundrum counts him down to the last fixture of his season; a life time of devotion, no testimonial in sight.

So its eyes back front as floodlight bulbs ignite, sending fleet-footed shadows dancing across the old man’s back for another forty five.

Forever hunched, this guardian of granite solemnly surveys the sea of souls before him like a warning; glaring from the limbotic side line of life where he sits stubbornly between two worlds.

Eyes cast over those hopeful faces before him, often mistaking strangers for sons.

Sometimes he wonders what they see when they look back; the fluorescent façade of duty he dons no doubt jump-starting assumptions, pigeon-holing him neatly away from any further thought. Unaware of the distance he’s travelled just to end up only a few yards away.

But in amongst the throngs, perhaps there might be one, eyes not so glued to the action played out behind this old man; wondering, why he turns his back on the team, at every home game?

Perhaps he’s already seen enough to last a lifetime…