The Match

Any other day of the week it is deserted.
But not today.
As we drive past, I am in awe of its size
And its solitary existence.
But not today, as I make my way
To the match.

As I stroll along the roadside path
Upon which I come across many a trader,
I stop and look at the produce on offer
All sports related, why shouldn't it be?
But not today, as I make my way
To the match.

Going on, I hear the cries ring out
From these vendors.
I give in and buy a programme
Bursting with helpful information.
But I hold back from reading,
As I am going to the match.

Repeated cries are all I need,
And I fall upon the processed meats
Upon which the people do feed.
But I decide to steer clear and take heed,
As I am going to the match.

Upon entering the building,
The smell of urine and beer
Penetrates my nostrils.
And the people are huddled together,
Gathered around the television.
Don't they know they are at the match?

As I struggle through the crowd,
I begin to hear the roar of the fans; loud
But emotionless at first.
It is only when I step into the stands
That their passions wash over me,
And I realise I am at the match.

The game begins and at once
I am drowned in a sea of chanting and jeering.
And the cries of old are made obsolete,
By the rowdy, boisterous humour
Of the dogmatic disciples of the teams.
It feels good to be at the match.