Matchday One: It Begins


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I’ve been staying pretty quiet on social media about Town’s Premier League debut, it was a pretty exciting event all things considered, one of many standout moments from an already memorable weekend. I’d forgotten the away days, and how social media takes you to all the games with the snatched photos and videos from around the journeys and the grounds.

The photos start first, of the beers on the train,
Then from car and bus windows, on the M1 again,
Supporters are massing, in thousands and more,
Just like last season, and the season before.

And the sun makes things hopeful, it shines on the new,
While nobody’s certain quite what they will do,
So they hope, on their journeys, that this might be their year,
The power of possible over the fear.

Just for one day it triumphs, the summer of ‘might’,
It shone down on Burnley in travelling white,
They flew out at Chelsea and caught the champs cold,
Were three goals to the good with the year a half old.

It shone onto Watford who ran til the end,
Knowing Liverpool can attack, but can not yet defend,
They waited late into extras to score,
Mind they only got three, and they might have had four,

It shone too on Brighton, who eventually cracked,
As Manchester City possessed what they lacked,
And it shone on the return of the legend of Rooney,
And the bleached tips that sit on the top of Steve Mounié.

For he was the player and that was the game,
It was Huddersfield Town, you’ll remember the name,
It was 45 years on the road back to glory,
And a taste, just a taste, as they wrote their own story.

And the table is printed, now with Huddersfield in it,
While they top it today, they’re unlikely to win it,
But let’s just enjoy it, if just for a minute,
Because football is back, what a way to begin it.

Not Forgotten Here


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Not one player is forgotten here,
Nor single match in any year,
And always someone sat right there,
At that event who loves to share.

I hear of Statham, Lock and Laker,
And other ancient wicket takers,
Matches they played here back then,
When they were proper gentlemen.

Those soaked in sport then steeped in Kent,
If something happened, someone went,
And nothing ever goes unseen,
On pitch or track or bowling green.

And all is just a reminisce,
An echo from today of this,
Brings stories tumbling decades old,
And some are fresh and some untold.

So that is why they come to Kent,
For that is what their summers meant,
For ages ’til their laters years,
Nothing, no-one’s forgotten here.

The Morning.


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So hordes of fifty something men,
Unwrap their England shirts again,
Which last were worn some years back when,
Their balding sons were less than ten.

More smear factor thirty on,
With quarter of an hour’s sun,
West Indies now 13 for one,
And Craig Brathwaite already gone.

And always the same faces here,
Same seats same shirts for year on year,
They sip on warming Kentish beer,
And when a wicket falls they cheer.

And in the stands where corks are popped,
And glasses of Prosecco dropped,
The drinking’s only ever stopped,
To glance up when the ball is whopped.

So Kent and the West Indies play,
A slow, enthralling, hot first day,
In that familiar tour match way,
The morning slowly ebbs away.

A man resplendent in Kent tie,
Accosts his wife as she walks by,
He smiles and when she asks him why,
Its lunch.