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A REALLY short story I've written, about feelings I have about '3 Lions' from 1996.
Read
***
You lied to me Baddiel. Took me down the garden path, pulled the wool over my eyes, sold me short. Sugar coat it however you want – you maliciously murder my dreams.
You and that Skinner bloke. ‘It’s coming home’, you told me, ‘Football’s coming home’. And I believed you, like the fool that I was. The stupid, 8 year old fool I was. I bet if you’d have told me that Alan shearer was really French I’d have believed you as well.
You took advantage of me. Filled my heart full of dreams, filled my head full of wishes and my feet full of football. A lot of good that did me. For all that month I was high. High on the wave of hope which you created with those lyrics you sang to me. ’30 years of hurt, Never stopped me dreaming’.
Nothing could stop me dreaming. Not the fact that I was a chubby little midget who could hardly kick a ball, nor the fact I could only name 3 of the England team. To myself I was a footballing master, I knew every tactic in the book and could finish better than Pele. Your song overpowered the rest – it hid the laughs which ensued when I tried to copy what the expert said on the telly, or tried to copy Gazza’s ‘wonder’ goal.
A, wall of noise. A wall of unstoppable noise. Millions up and down the nation chanting that song. Your song.
Southgate steps up…
Silence.
***
And yes, El Blokey, WRONG FORUM.
Please comment
Read
***
You lied to me Baddiel. Took me down the garden path, pulled the wool over my eyes, sold me short. Sugar coat it however you want – you maliciously murder my dreams.
You and that Skinner bloke. ‘It’s coming home’, you told me, ‘Football’s coming home’. And I believed you, like the fool that I was. The stupid, 8 year old fool I was. I bet if you’d have told me that Alan shearer was really French I’d have believed you as well.
You took advantage of me. Filled my heart full of dreams, filled my head full of wishes and my feet full of football. A lot of good that did me. For all that month I was high. High on the wave of hope which you created with those lyrics you sang to me. ’30 years of hurt, Never stopped me dreaming’.
Nothing could stop me dreaming. Not the fact that I was a chubby little midget who could hardly kick a ball, nor the fact I could only name 3 of the England team. To myself I was a footballing master, I knew every tactic in the book and could finish better than Pele. Your song overpowered the rest – it hid the laughs which ensued when I tried to copy what the expert said on the telly, or tried to copy Gazza’s ‘wonder’ goal.
A, wall of noise. A wall of unstoppable noise. Millions up and down the nation chanting that song. Your song.
Southgate steps up…
Silence.
***
And yes, El Blokey, WRONG FORUM.
Please comment
Mr. Tribbers wrote:
> You obviously aren't passionate about the 'beautiful game'. If you
> really loved football, you'll look back on the summer of 1996 with
> death - tinted glasses
No, you've got me wrong. I'm passionate about club football, but not international football.
> You obviously aren't passionate about the 'beautiful game'. If you
> really loved football, you'll look back on the summer of 1996 with
> death - tinted glasses
No, you've got me wrong. I'm passionate about club football, but not international football.
Black Glove wrote:
> I was gutted for about 60 seconds, and then I realized that it was
> just a game of football.
You obviously aren't passionate about the 'beautiful game'. If you really loved football, you'll look back on the summer of 1996 with death - tinted glasses
> But having said that, if you put in the emotional investment, and that
> investment comes tumbling down all around you with one penalty kick,
> then I'm not surprised that some people were shattered when it didn't
> 'come home'.
I was shattered. I was 8. I wanted to die.
> I was gutted for about 60 seconds, and then I realized that it was
> just a game of football.
You obviously aren't passionate about the 'beautiful game'. If you really loved football, you'll look back on the summer of 1996 with death - tinted glasses
> But having said that, if you put in the emotional investment, and that
> investment comes tumbling down all around you with one penalty kick,
> then I'm not surprised that some people were shattered when it didn't
> 'come home'.
I was shattered. I was 8. I wanted to die.
1996 - let it go man. It cripled us all but...Just watch rugby instead! :>
I was gutted for about 60 seconds, and then I realized that it was just a game of football.
But having said that, if you put in the emotional investment, and that investment comes tumbling down all around you with one penalty kick, then I'm not surprised that some people were shattered when it didn't 'come home'.
But having said that, if you put in the emotional investment, and that investment comes tumbling down all around you with one penalty kick, then I'm not surprised that some people were shattered when it didn't 'come home'.
Every world cup or Euro thingy, a song is made, it sells a lot of records because people get hopeful and then peoples hopes and dreams are shattered.
Good post, well written dude.
Good post, well written dude.
A REALLY short story I've written, about feelings I have about '3 Lions' from 1996.
Read
***
You lied to me Baddiel. Took me down the garden path, pulled the wool over my eyes, sold me short. Sugar coat it however you want – you maliciously murder my dreams.
You and that Skinner bloke. ‘It’s coming home’, you told me, ‘Football’s coming home’. And I believed you, like the fool that I was. The stupid, 8 year old fool I was. I bet if you’d have told me that Alan shearer was really French I’d have believed you as well.
You took advantage of me. Filled my heart full of dreams, filled my head full of wishes and my feet full of football. A lot of good that did me. For all that month I was high. High on the wave of hope which you created with those lyrics you sang to me. ’30 years of hurt, Never stopped me dreaming’.
Nothing could stop me dreaming. Not the fact that I was a chubby little midget who could hardly kick a ball, nor the fact I could only name 3 of the England team. To myself I was a footballing master, I knew every tactic in the book and could finish better than Pele. Your song overpowered the rest – it hid the laughs which ensued when I tried to copy what the expert said on the telly, or tried to copy Gazza’s ‘wonder’ goal.
A, wall of noise. A wall of unstoppable noise. Millions up and down the nation chanting that song. Your song.
Southgate steps up…
Silence.
***
And yes, El Blokey, WRONG FORUM.
Please comment
Read
***
You lied to me Baddiel. Took me down the garden path, pulled the wool over my eyes, sold me short. Sugar coat it however you want – you maliciously murder my dreams.
You and that Skinner bloke. ‘It’s coming home’, you told me, ‘Football’s coming home’. And I believed you, like the fool that I was. The stupid, 8 year old fool I was. I bet if you’d have told me that Alan shearer was really French I’d have believed you as well.
You took advantage of me. Filled my heart full of dreams, filled my head full of wishes and my feet full of football. A lot of good that did me. For all that month I was high. High on the wave of hope which you created with those lyrics you sang to me. ’30 years of hurt, Never stopped me dreaming’.
Nothing could stop me dreaming. Not the fact that I was a chubby little midget who could hardly kick a ball, nor the fact I could only name 3 of the England team. To myself I was a footballing master, I knew every tactic in the book and could finish better than Pele. Your song overpowered the rest – it hid the laughs which ensued when I tried to copy what the expert said on the telly, or tried to copy Gazza’s ‘wonder’ goal.
A, wall of noise. A wall of unstoppable noise. Millions up and down the nation chanting that song. Your song.
Southgate steps up…
Silence.
***
And yes, El Blokey, WRONG FORUM.
Please comment