Is Stokoe dead yet? Sent from my iPad
> On 1 Mar 2014, at 08:42, Leeds List <[email protected]> wrote: > > Had me up until he mentioned Stokoe - then I thought "no f**k 'em I hope they > get stuffed". > > Sent from my iPhone > >> On 28 Feb 2014, at 14:07, "Rick Duniec" <[email protected]> wrote: >> >> Profuse apologies that this is Sunderland but change a few details and it is >> all of us. >> >> This blend of history, hope, yearning and passion is what football is all >> about >> George Caulkin in The Times >> February 28 2014 07:02AM >> >> This is it. This. That flutter in the belly, that sprinkle of nerves, that >> wondrous, aching possibility of this time, this time, for God's sake PLEASE >> let it be this time. That cacophonous train ride, that lad sitting opposite >> decanting booze into Ribena bottles, that motorway convoy, scarves trailing >> from windows, that persistent, pissed memory from last night: your mate in a >> copper's helmet, sopping and shivering in the Trafalgar Square fountains. >> This is it. >> >> This is what football is. What it was. That walk towards Wembley, at once >> familiar and new, the old chants and the remixes, scorching the air. The >> fella you recognise from a few seats along at the Stadium of Light, who >> never stops moaning - that miserable git - but he's strolling beside you and >> he's neither miserable or moaning, because he's shepherding his kids, >> fussing and smiling. They couldn't miss this. Not this. >> >> This is it. Not enough to obliterate all those disappointments, those >> bitter, loveless relegations, but you wouldn't want that, anyway. They are >> part of who you are. Part of Sunderland. And whether you stopped going or >> persevered, whether you are an addict or a convert, a malcontent or a >> loyalist, this is your patience through adversity, your gallows humour, >> those howls of anguish. This is why you do what you always do; bear witness >> and sing. >> >> But this is how it should feel. This is less about winning - although you >> wouldn't say no - than giving it a go. Trying everything and then heaving a >> bit more. Not holding yourself in. Seeing a flash of silver across the >> stadium and knowing that 90 minutes could mean a long journey's end and >> another beginning. This adrenaline. This soppy descent into cliches about >> heroes and giant-killings, those stories about Stokoe's sprint and Monty's >> sorcery. About daring to dream. >>> >>> This is why your dad passed down that beautiful, cursed birthright. Your >>> mam or your sister, brother or friends. This is why he stood at Roker Park, >>> so cold and crammed that his legs were locked and leaden. This is why you >>> shook together at those reserve-games, why you stayed outside when the rain >>> whipped in, your mouth numb and nose running. This is why you put up with >>> his stupid music on that endless away trip. This is all those feelings like >>> love and loss, straining for release. >> >> This is Sunderland, your Sunderland. This is your city, your town, your >> village, your region, forgotten sometimes and left to suffer, but prominent >> now, loud and raucous. This is supporters' associations and local branches, >> working men's clubs, community and togetherness, collective strength, being >> part of something both greater than and intrinsically you. This is pride - >> stinging tears of pride. This is raising your head and gazing at the sky, >> not staring down at your navel. >> >> This. Not that great, grotesque lie about priorities. Not swallowing the >> guff that one season of toil should be superseded by another, that having >> endured the delights of Stoke City, the only ambition must be straining to >> get to Stoke again. You know what Stoke's like. Christ. Aston Villa, Crystal >> Palace. Tick them off. Been there, seen it and, you know what, they're not >> that much different from Leicester, Queens Park Rangers and Birmingham. >> >> Not couldn't be arsed. Not withdrawing your best players for a one-off match >> because of 38 league games which simply must take precedence in a cold, grey >> world of sporting accountancy. Not fear. Not dread. Not measly, weasel-word >> excuses for laying waste to tradition because of avarice or arrogance and >> cowardice. Not name-changes and colour-swaps and franchises, or a stadium's >> brutal nobility scarred by garish advertising hoardings for money-lenders >> and tat-hawkers. >> >> Not the bottom-line. Not the profits or the losses, the turnover and the >> revenue, the wage-bills and the relegation-clauses, because when the files >> are lodged at Companies House, they will not be hailed with an open-top bus >> ride, a civic reception, or a hazy, alcoholic day which stays lodged in the >> brain. Not Financial Fair Play, not billionaires, not the stodge of >> mid-table and totting up television revenue after one more lunchtime >> kick-off and a 200-mile journey. >> >> Which is not to toss away the prospect of staying up. Nor to deny that it >> matters for progress and development and all those other birds which have >> never quite flown. But neither is it everything, because you've slumped >> before and ricocheted back. Having squirmed through long, sapping sequences >> in every single season since Roy Keane and Niall Quinn secured your return >> to this ceaseless, daft, grasping jamboree, you reckon you can cope. >> >> This, though. This is something. This is different. This is booking your >> London hotel en route from that draining, life-affirming semi-final, when >> those caustic commentaries about the worst penalty shoot-out in the history >> of awful penalty shoot-outs missed the point entirely. It was the best. This >> is snaking, sluggish, twitchy queues outside the box office, 80,000 frantic >> telephone calls on a single day, begging for favours, scurrying for tickets. >> >> This is a day out and a night away, a daubed blur of red and white. This, >> like the song says, is cheesy chips on Wembley Way. And win or lose, this >> will be recorded and you were there, one small figure lost amid the din, but >> integral to it, which, in the final analysis, is what clubs and their >> supporters should mean. What football is. This is history, hope, yearning >> and passion, maybes and meaning, exquisite agony, wild abandon, love. This >> is you. This is Sunderland. This is it. >> _______________________________________________ >> Leedslist mailing list >> Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist >> To unsubscribe, email [email protected] >> >> John 'Grampa' Sykes >> Rest In Peace old lad >> 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 >> MARCHING ON TOGETHER > _______________________________________________ > Leedslist mailing list > Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist > To unsubscribe, email [email protected] > > John 'Grampa' Sykes > Rest In Peace old lad > 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 > MARCHING ON TOGETHER _______________________________________________ Leedslist mailing list Info and options: http://mailman.greennet.org.uk/mailman/listinfo/leedslist To unsubscribe, email [email protected] John 'Grampa' Sykes Rest In Peace old lad 28th Oct 1938 - 12 Nov 2013 MARCHING ON TOGETHER
