This is where I'm described as a glory-hunter.
Me old man (sadly no longer with us), surprised me one Saturday, telling me we where going on a trip to London. The train was packed with blue and white, the carriages a fug of smoke and the smell of stale beer.
we walked to the ground in the company of thousands and squashed ourselves on to the terrace of that amazing stadium. Me da sat me on one of the barriers, the massive pitch unfolded before my young eyes. I remember seeing the hoards celebrating wildly twice. I remember thinking, I wish it was me and me Dad jumping up and down waving our flags like that. At half time someone produced a flask with some sugary sweet tea and I had a couple of corned beef butties me mam had made.
The 2nd half.......A massive roar from our side of the ground, it scared me at the time, but still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up when I think about it. Then in seemingly no time an even louder, joyous even animalistic roar combined with a joy and dancing and tears in me Dads eye....it was all square.
I watched the action relentlesly...we scored again, I went flying off the barrier, to be caught by someone who passed me back over the heads of the ecstatic crowd. I looked up the terrace and saw thousands waving, cheering, singing, crying. This continued until the final whistle. So, there we go, me the glory-hunter.