Descriptive Writing - Three months. Three months of boredom. Three months of optimism. Three months of tennis and golf. Three months without football.

                This is it; you think to yourself, a new year and fresh start and this will be our year…You may not believe this either, but as the sharp short whistle blows, it gives you no chance to ponder this issue. The high tempo of the match keeps your eyes guessing as the new season starts the wait you want, a fast and furious end to end game where you don’t know what’s what and who is who. A firecracker from an oppositions striker kills the atmosphere as it shoots past the near post and deep into the crowd, people diving to get of the way as it threatens to hit much more than the back of the net. Half way into the half the ground is six feet under as the opponents continue to pummel away their advantage at you, your fingernails get smaller by the minute and suddenly a breakaway attack is settling into to the cosy net before you have time to shout ‘mark him up’ to the apparently inept central defender. The first half is not suddenly a burial ground for a thousand men’s hopes and optimisms as the realization that it’s the ‘same old same old’ this year.

             With half time beckoning a gutter punch arrives as you turn around from moaning to your father to find out that a dubious penalty had been awarded to the other side and your head once more slumps into the palms of your hands. With your eyes barely open, you jump up as you see that the penalty was skied up and with it some consolidation and hope entering the mid way stage.

             A smoky glare rises as the players come out to the sound of hushed applause at the beginning of the 2nd half. The sense of disbelief echoes your feelings as the kick off signals the start of the next episode of your day. The crowd, spurred on by the missed opportunity to go down 2-0 at half time have at least something to hold on to as the tempo starts to increase as the home team look to give a reason for coming for the thousands of paying fans. The desperate heart wrenching efforts that began to show through suddenly become recognisable and the crowd begin to perk up and a tempo increases on the terraces as songs are belted out by 40 somethings who were not where to be seen when the side were low.

               As if by magic, the strikers turn full circle from lazy bags of rubbish to the best thing since sliced bread, and deep into the half, a scrappy shot deflects into the net and the anger in the hoards turn into passionate screams and cries of joy. The transformation of the team and crowd has given hope of a win on a day where nothing has gone right. Close shaves when we hit the bar are ridden through as are when the opponents are kept out by inspirational goal line stops, much to the anguish of those in the crowd with heart problems, the heat of the moment and excitement proving too much.

               As the game draws to a close, a sudden burst of energy from a stowaway defender who has contributed nothing to the game puts him one on one wit the goalkeeper, head to head and as the crowd stand to their feet, the bulging net is met by a scream of delight from the almost disbelieving crowd, who dare to believe that this bunch of no hopers as of an hour ago are suddenly leading their team to a win. The final nail biting minutes go on like hours and each pass by the opponents seems like making the time go slower. Soon, the final retribution comes in the form of a final whistle, relief pouring like out through of sieve out of a thousands souls.