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Gone
Alistair Wilkinson
20 May 2010
And then I got ready: bought some
expensive beer and shrugged off the
morning rain – it dampens the fear. A day
like any other, a phone call to my brother:
an update with the kids and the usual bit
of footy. Hang up, Town are on the telly;
Football Focus – it must be serious.
Whatever happens there'll still be
Grimsby Town.
In a kitchen somewhere in Grimsby:
Burton haven't won in seven at home,
Town have won three in a row away.
They've got a 46-year-old in goal and an
injured front line. It all sounds fine. It all
sounds fine. It all sounds fine. It all...
Akpro hits the post and seconds later
we're torn apart. A ripped out heart slaps
down onto the kitchen floor. Life stops
for a moment. It's a nice floor. New.
Meant to look like wood. Karndean
don't you know. Time to go.
The 46-year-old Billy the Fishes his way
to half time and the clock ticks down on
our borrowed time. 2-0. And now we all
know. Time to go.
Rally after the break; tails up at the start
of the second; eyebrows up, dear beer
held close. The sun blasts the kitchen
window; the rain is gone; it's all clear
now and the sun is blasting and blinding.
3-0. Too late. Time to go.
There was to be no miracle, no rescue, no
dream. We knew that it was our turn.
There was nothing but reality, cold and
hard and unforgiving as the clock ticked.
And then we died. The few chances the
twitches of a corpse, the echoing 46-game
slide and slam of a morgue drawer. And
then darkness. Tondeur's litany of past
pride brings tears to my eyes. My heart
lies on the floor. It's still beating.
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