The ninetieth minute winner

Nothing beats

the thriving pulsation of fans’, joyous,

at the ecstatic spectacle

of a ninetieth minute winner.

I’ve been there many a time

scarf scrunched in one hand,

tightly wielded

as a makeshift, silent rattle.

It rattles only for my fellow fans to feed off,

and to decorate a ferocious wall

of delirium,

taunting those opposition nutcases.

You feel everything come up:

your spirit,

your passion,

your blood pressure,

your lunch – it all violently ascends, Greek pillar-like.

‘You’ll never get it’,

‘You have to experience it for yourself’;

All sanctimonious;

all completely right.

Never leave a game early,

as it can all change like that.

But once you’ve seen that net ripple

with time close to it’s ripened fullness,

you’ll never walk out of a game again.

Lock me in

and bury me here.

Heaven has to be

that ninetieth minute winner.