I’ve turned my attention to the 120 minutes and penalties of the playoff final this time, though in truth, there’s little mention of the game – it ended up not being about the performance, I think that was apparent pretty early on. Only the result mattered.
To dare to win, to fear to not,
An ever-present playoff plot,
And that’s exactly what we got,
With barely any real shots,
The best chance came to Izzy Brown,
Was in from our side of the ground,
And then that awful flatt’ning sound,
The horror wrought on those around,
It’s wide, and how the bloody hell?
Though Reading had a go as well,
And their supporters couldn’t tell,
Quite where their curling efforts fell,
And hearts were pounding out of chests,
Though each performance far from best,
They were not ready for their rest,
Before they passed this final test.
They knackered one another out,
Like boxers after one more bout,
When legs and footing come a doubt,
But still stand up, and keep their shout,
They lasted two hours just as well,
To plunge supporters into Hell,
They cheered when the tossed coin fell,
The tension rose, unparalleled.
Hefele, the dreamer, the guiding light,
Went low and to Al Habsi’s right,
A feeble shot, without much height,
And instantly, its Reading’s night.
So, many taken, most were scored,
Then Moore blazed over, hope restored,
Again, come forward Danny Ward,
Who stopped Obita, Yorkshire roared.
Schindler stepped up and time stopped dead,
“Schindler’s last” my message read,
With every footstep growing dread,
But who should take the kick instead?
A German with a clear head,
Then Schindler struck, Al Habsi read
it, but it nestled in the net!
They rose as one, they rose as all,
They rose as 26,
They rose on weary heavy legs,
They rose on walking sticks,
They rose applauding their support,
They rose for Reading, rose for sport,
They rose despite extreme fatigue,
They rose up to the Premier League.