Highbury

The flight of a spinning ball, a trail of its motion unwinding behind it,
Cutting through the air, shot with deadly accuracy, spiraling towards its target,
The top corner of a net,
A slight curve to the left,
Proceeding along its pre-ordained path.

Past the outstretched fingers of an already desperate goalkeeper,
Just inside the post, hitting the net at the tightest possible angle,
The ball continues to spin,
Following the curve of the net,
Whirling to the back of the net before dropping to the ground.

The crowd goes wild, the cheers of 60,000 fans,
Barely enough energy to heat a cup of coffee, but still deadly in its volume,
The unanimous roar,
The jubilation,
Throughout the stadium the atmosphere is intoxicating.

Heart pounding, arms raised, loud shout from my throat,
I celebrate with the goal scorer in the red-and-white jersey,
Marked with O2,
The number 8 on his back,
The elation reaching all the way from Highbury, London.

A pity I cannot be there, shouting, jumping, dancing with joy,
Partaking in the glory, the magnificence and beauty that is,
Known as soccer by some,
And football to most,
The beautiful game.

~ by anarhawk on June 17, 2009.