It doesn’t work. One of the bumblebees gets a clear shot. The look on his face as the ball goes in. Like even he can’t believe his luck. He runs into the middle of the pitch and does a roly-poly. One of the reserve squad meets him on the sidelines for a quick high-five. The away fans are the ones making all the noise now. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. A lad a few years younger than me on his dad’s shoulders, laughing and waving a giant blow-up banana.

It’s never simple. One step forward and another one back. Shot after shot missing the mark. The excitement when they get a corner. The players grabbing shirts competing for headers, the other team taking too long to throw the ball back into play. My faith is gone now. I don’t have any real power. The mountain is never going to move. And just as I think it someone kicks the ball to Moyesy and it’s in. It’s in. The noise is too much. When the half-time whistle blows the crowd are singing I can’t help falling in love with you and Granddad joins in, clapping and stamping the rhythm out with his feet.

We queue up for meat pies and everyone’s talking about it. Daring to hope.

‘If they hadn’t let that goal in,’ Granddad says but he doesn’t finish the sentence.

It’s still a long shot really. Still one more goal before we even equalise. A group of men behind us are already drunk. Swaying all over, their voices too loud, pushing forward so that we all stumble and jam into each other.

‘Calm it down, lads,’ Granddad says. He has a way about him, somehow. He never gets people’s backs up.

They stop pushing. One of them even says sorry. I can smell fried onions, hot chips and gravy. I look up at Granddad. His face. His full head of white hair, swept to the side, stuck down with so much gel that the wind doesn’t stand a chance. I put my hand into the pocket of his coat. There’s always some change jingling at the bottom. I feel for a pound coin, to test him, but he doesn’t react. He doesn’t try to stop me. I let it drop and take my hand away. He’s distracted. Something’s up with Billy. He’s facing backwards, staring at the men behind us with his gob hanging open. He doesn’t move when the queue shuffles forward.

‘Billy, lad, stop gawping will yer?’ Granddad forces him back round.

‘It’s him,’ Billy says, and he’s rocking forward and back on his heels. His face stretched out. His bottom lip trembling.

‘Who?’

He’s whispering now and Granddad pulls him close, stops him from turning round again. ‘Him – Ian. Behind us.’