‘You did,’ Granddad says patting him hard on the back, ‘you bloody did.’ His voice is croaky from shouting. For a minute I think he might even cry.

People are jumping over railings now, invading the pitch. Hundreds of them legging it past the stewards until it’s hard to see any green.

‘Remember this moment, lad,’ Granddad says, ‘this is a piece of history.’

I look around and try to make my brain soak it in. Try to feel what he feels. The noise of it. The singing. Some of the players have been lifted into the air. The whole pitch is a sea of white. Except in the corner by the goal. I squint down, lean forward to get a better look. There’s a young lad down there on his own. He’s in a black jacket, bending over. He pulls an orange carrier bag out of his pocket and starts filling it with something. And then I realise. It’s the pitch. Strips of green plastic. He must have a knife or some scissors with him. He’s cutting and peeling. Slipping square after square into the bag to take home or sell or God knows what.

‘We’re off to Wembley, Al,’ Billy says and slaps me on the back too hard.

‘Tired, are you, lad?’

I nod, and we head towards the exit. I look back but the boy is gone.

We walk beside the other fans and everyone is laughing and shouting. I catch a glimpse of a yellow shirt. The away fans being herded onto a coach, surrounded by stewards and police. They don’t look any of us in the eye. You’re not singing anymore, someone shouts in their direction and a whole choir of voices joins in. You’re not sing-ing any-more. I walk with my head down. Granddad roughs up my hair and checks to make sure I’m ok every time we cross the road. Billy is singing again. I want to tell him to shut his bloody pie-hole, but it’s no use. The sound of all the horns beeping, people hanging white and blue scarves out their car windows and sticking their heads through sun roofs. It’ll be all anyone’s talking about at school. I try to picture the crappy green plastic being pulled up, the soil uncovered and dug over, planted with perfect grass ready for the new season but I can’t imagine being back here to see it. I can’t really imagine coming back here at all.

2:55 pm

The birds go tap, tap, tap, but I never learned Morse code. I used to know

things

Ostrich    lapwing      heron     tern.       None of them fit. These

birds. All they want to do is get inside.

There’s no green, not here, not for miles. The doors are locked. I can’t feed the birds in these shoes. These shoes are soft. They

bend too far

this seat is wet.