Lost Love


The cold was creeping into my knees, tugging my great coat over them I shuddered contently at the returning warmth. Not too long now. I washed the last mouthful of my chicken Balti pie down with the remains of the Bovril.

A pie and Bovril sat waiting in Row J seat 29, hopefully, but inevitably hopelessly. It was more a symbol of respect and remembrance of all the rowdy Saturdays that went before. In the early days cold didn’t matter, pre match no pies but piling into pints in the Garrison Tavern. The slight inconvenience of battling through the crowded Spion Kop before the match had reached half time to relieve our selves.

The crowd roared as the action began. A young boy in the  row in front was struggling to see even after swapping seats with his father. I knew J29 would not be needed today and tapped the man on the shoulder. I cleared the seat and the boy smiled gratefully as he took the place. A much better view and an unexpected pie and Bovril.


I stood hollow. Johnny, Johnny Brown I miss the spontaneous moments of unembarrassed hugs of joy we shared. For some stupid reason a small voice reminded me it would have been his turn to buy the pies.

Don Russell    07/03/2018


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