It might be one of those days, where the mighty slip their leash and the 50s live again.
Clattering into tackles, second balls bouncing our way, wingers racing away into space, delicious balls curling into the path of onrushing players and strikers turning with arms aloft taking the roar of the crowd.
Winter fires lit, playing to the beat of the drum. A machine, parts milled to precision, one touch, two touch, giving and going. Each pass a little moment of elation, each movement an ecstasy.
It might be one of those days.
We live, for one of those days.
COME ON YOU POOL!
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