The red seats were filled with bodies and an ocean of red and white lay all around me. Inevitably Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights began, and everyone rose to their feet, as though it was an order.
As the players emerged the adrenaline buzzed around the stadium as the clapping, chanting and whistling started. The sound was amazing. The sense of unity and passion was second to none.
There was a short hush as the crowd waited for the referee to start the game, the shrill sound of the whistle summoned the chants, and they never stopped. I barely knew the word but I tried to fit in with it.
Despite being one amongst thousands, I felt as though I belonged. I was on the edge of my seat whenever the red and white shirted men approached the penalty area. My fists were clenched tightly with the nerves and excitement, and passion the echoed around the stadium. Though they were soon put over my ears as Dad shouted angrily at whoever had just missed an obviously golden opportunity that even his “grandma could’ve scored”.
Even as Sunderland were defending the noise was constant, pushing the team on, willing them to win. Different chants ran loops around my ears, Dad knew all of them as did Grandpa.
The noise was so immense I was almost scared, almost terrified. As one chance whizzed narrowly wide I put my head in my hands in disbelief like everyone else around me.
My fingers were ice against my face; I’d forgotten how cold they were. I fumbled around in my pocket, scrambling for my gloves.
The noise of the supporters suddenly increased, a few of the people in front of me began to stand, I looked up quickly. I couldn’t see, I tried to find a gap between a thousand heads. I stood up, as the ball rippled idly against the back of net. The ocean of red and white erupted. Everyone was on their feet, jumping up and down, screaming. Dad hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. The noise was…unimaginable, ecstatic, amazing.
This was part of her GCSE coursework, and contributed to her A*
Reproduced with thanks from “Salut Sunderland,”
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Roker park dream
When all was still and all was dark
last night I dreamed of Roker Park,
To go to that football ground once more
and watch my glorious heroes
score
I first went down at the age of eight
and paid a Bob at the schoolboys gate.
My Dad got in for 1/9
we met inside and that was
fine.
We always stood at the Fulwell End
Where everybody was everyone's friend.
Once I was crushed and they rolled me over
onto the pitch I was really in
clover.
Most of all I remember Shack,
trapping the ball then flicking it back
Then came centre-half Charlie Hurley,
he was big and
burly
*************
Part of a poem by
Mr. M Tayler of Sunderland