I'm Gonna Miss You

At about half three today I'm really going to miss you.  My feet will be like ice.  My fingers numb.  Nose dripping.  I'll have a fistful of damp, losing Klondike tickets wedged glumly in my pocket.  

My boots will be muddy.  My team will be splashing around aimlessly.  I won't believe how enormous Kyle Perry is in the flesh.

Friends will inadvertently forget social distancing.  Hands will accidentally be shook.  Dave Singh will want a snog.

A handful of brain-dead covid-deniers will cause an unnecessary ruckus and spout some insane conspiracy theories which tie-in stolen American elections, vaccine tracking technology and a random X-Files plot line.  One of them will sneeze down the back of my neck.  Not that I'll notice as I'll have been standing out in a sleety shower since one minutes past three.

And I'll look back fondly on my short stint as an armchair supporter.  Sure, it wasn't all good.  The two dreary mud-soaked defeats to Curzon and Southport.  The despair of Fylde.  The scary decimation at Gloucester.  Becoming uncomfortably familiar with Richard Atkinson's tissue collection as he struggled to keep the rain off of the video camera.

But there was also the encouraging wins against Bradford and Chelmsford.  Shutting up the big-boys of Hereford.  The sweet victory at Kiddy.  Having snacks and drinks on hand in my warm house.  Not having to navigate the Alumasc carpark in the dark.  Yes, I'm gonna miss you, my friend.

Probably until the roar at kick off and I'll forget you ever existed.