![]() It was, in fact, akin to a different code of the same sport.Īlthough no less thrilling for a lesser degree of technical excellence with possession rarely secure as the contest ricocheted wildly and physical contact undiluted by the all-seeing-eyes in the VAR bunker. This at Hillsborough was nothing like that. Only 24 hours earlier, Manchester City had filleted Real Madrid with panache and precision to spark a debate about whether Pep Guardiola’s team might be the greatest we have seen on these shores. I mean, you never know, do you? You just never know, so they came in their thousands to see it through with gallows humour at the ready.īrace for the worst and hope for the best and, every so often, comes reward like this, a night when West Ham reached a European final, Newcastle closed in on the Champions League and Jose Mourinho continued his personal renaissance and yet the only place to be was watching third tier football in Sheffield S6. They’d promised the kids or were meeting a mate or, this being South Yorkshire, they’d paid for the ticket and were determined to use the bloody thing.Īll these feelings laced in with the usual blind devotion. Surely better to stay away and sack it off.īut most of them found a reason. ![]() I mean, what was the point? Not a chance. Everyone seemed to have worked through the same inner turmoil. ![]()
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