There’s nothing quite like it. Your side has it all, you can see the ticker tape celebrations. Open top bus parade.
You’ll tell your children, your friends, that you were here. You witnessed footballing greatness.
But now it’s gone. Snatched away in a heavy, breathless moment. Stolen by the peep of the busybody’s whistle.
You’ll shout yourself silent and wave in angry despair. You’ll demand action is taken.
You’ll call on the gods you believe and the ones that you don’t and you’ll wonder what if, how could, and how dare.
You’ll talk of injustice and you’ll call it unfair.
But the feeling will fade and the memory will waste. Because there’s always next season,
other trophies. More glory to taste.
But true injustice remains. Not in the momentary call of a ref. or a tackle that was made, or an offside that was left.
This robs in broad daylight, hides in plain sight.
It’s not the man in black or the suit looking on.
It’s the ball in the middle, it’s the football that’s wrong.
Sewn by Pakistani hands, thousands of miles from a multi million pound game.
What cut did they get? What glory did they gain?
Poverty pay and inhuman conditions. Risks without rewards. These are the terms offered to the makers, the doers.
This is their share.
Is it right? Is it natural? Is it fair?